CHAPTER 2
I plunked down on a rock next to Wilco and sank my fingertips into his fur. After witnessing the cold cruelty of death, the warmth of my dog felt comforting. It’d hit us both—what we’d found—and we needed our time together. A unit, we were capable of doing a job few could stomach. A job that had to be done. And one I’d thought we’d left thousands of miles away.
A little ways off, Gran stood with her hand on Doogan’s slumped shoulders and spoke in consoling tones. I should’ve joined them and tried to offer some support of my own, but I couldn’t muster any words of comfort. Instead, I kept my distance, turning inward, trying to think of anything except the sight of the decaying body in the crevasse below us.
My eyes wandered over the rugged terrain. I’d come here often as a kid to be alone, to daydream, to be myself—or, more accurately, forget myself. Out here, I wasn’t a weirdo or gyspy whore. Yes, I’d been called those things by my non-Pavee, or what we called “settled,” peers. Settled kids teased me, bullied me, shunned me, as they did all us Pavees. Only I got the additional taunt of “even gypsy parents didn’t want you.” Of course, later, when I was older, I found out my mother had died, and that she’d never be coming back. I didn’t know which hurt more, knowing she didn’t want to come back, or knowing that she could never come back. My grandparents were my saving grace through it all—well, Gran anyway—but that blight of never knowing my parents, and having it thrown at me, cut the deepest. The very subject of my parents had been forbidden under Gramps’ roof. Gran had privately confided only a little: that my mother had gotten pregnant by a settled boy and then left town. Without me. I was the product of a double shame: I was an illegitimate baby and only half Pavee. I supposed later that these duel curses were what caused Gramps to be so strict as I grew up. He didn’t want the same thing for his granddaughter and could only trust half my genes anyway. If it weren’t for this place, my happy place, as my shrinks later identified it, I may have never survived my teen years.
My eyes slid back to the edge of the pit. Guess I need to find a new happy place.
I dwelled in my miseries, regrets, and uncertain future for another twenty minutes before the first officer arrived on the scene.
Seeing the officer, Gran crossed herself. “Solk us away from the taddy.” It was our Shelta language for “Deliver us from evil.” Did she mean the monster who killed the poor girl or the lawman coming our way? Travellers, my grandparents included, often distrusted police officers or any form of settled or non-Pavee authority.
I stood and straightened my shoulders. The cop was young, with a military haircut and a boyish face that showed very little emotion. He identified himself as Deputy Harris and proceeded to radio in our location. “We’re approximately one mile north of the AT. After you’ve passed over Settlers’ Creek, you’ll see a cairn marked with two white blazes; take that side trail out toward the rocks.”
He disconnected and focused on Wilco. “Whose shepherd?”
“Mine.” Most people mistook Wilco for a German shepherd, but he was a five-year-old Belgian shepherd, or Malinois. I saw no reason to correct the man now.
He squinted at Doogan. “Do I know you?”
“I was just in the sheriff’s office the other day,” Doogan said. “I filled out a missing person’s form for my sister, Sheila. Sheila Costello.”
Costello? Had Sheila been married to Dublin Costello? I looked at Gran. Her expression confirmed my suspicion. Was that even possible? As a young girl, I’d been matched to Dub—as was Traveller tradition—but as the time to wed grew closer, I’d rebelled and refused. My grandparents didn’t understand, nor could I tell them that I secretly had been seeing someone else, a settled boy, an outsider name Colm Whelan. Traveller girls weren’t allowed to date outside the clan. It was taboo, against Pavee tradition. Refusing to marry the family’s chosen groom wasn’t just taboo, it was blasphemy. Something punishable, as I’d soon found out in spades.
Harris rocked back on his heels. “That’s right. I remember now. I went out to that place where you people live and followed up with the husband.” Instantly Doogan stiffened, Gran swallowed, and I gritted my teeth as his “you people” soured the air. “Mr. Costello claimed your sister took off with another man.” He walked over to the edge of the pit. “So you think that might be her down there?”
Not only did this jerk have zero sensitivity, but a zero in the intelligence category as well. It was likely the man’s dead sister lay only a few yards from us and this officer was kissing off Doogan’s report of her missing. Or perhaps Deputy Harris was a homegrown McCreary boy and, like most settled locals, held a deep-seated prejudice against the Bone Gap Travellers. What’s a dead gypsy to him? Just another one of “those people” getting themselves killed. He probably thought she deserved it.
Doogan swiped at his brow. “I don’t know. The woman down there is . . .” He was unable to find the words to describe the grotesqueness of what might be his sister’s remains.
The deputy exhaled, pocketed his notepad, and slid off his tactical pack. “Well, then, guess I’ll have a look for myself.”
After some maneuvering, he dropped into the hole. He was down there less than a minute before we heard a retching heave. At about that time, another officer worked his way down the rock formations. He was older and about twenty pounds overweight. Pockmarks etched a mottled landscape on his face. A toothpick dangled between his lips. He didn’t say much, except to identify himself as Sheriff Frank Pusser. He gave us each a long look, and when his eyes connected to mine with piercing authority—like the commanders I’d served and sometimes suffered under—I felt the urge to look away.
But I didn’t.
He pointed out a spot where he wanted us to wait until he was ready to question us, then moved toward the edge of the pit. Gran and Kevin moved on, but I hovered a bit, pretending to fuss with Wilco’s leash.
“What are you doing down there, Harris?” He leaned over the side. “I told you to wait until I got here.” He got a whiff of vomit and stepped back, gagging. “What a dumbass.”
At least he’s a good judge of character.
The sheriff lowered himself into the pit, a move that probably would have looked more graceful twenty years and that many pounds ago. I shuffled closer to the edge and watched as he approached his deputy, who leaned against the rocky wall, pale and ashen.
The deputy’s voice broke. “It’s bad. Her face . . . something’s been eating on it.”
Pusser cursed as he sidestepped the puddle of vomit and moved toward the body. He was out of my view, but I heard him bellow, “Get over here, Harris! Did you do this? Someone’s disturbed the body.”
“No, sir. I think they moved her. The man was upset. Thinks it might be his sister.”
“Looks like the body’s been here a while. See the blisters? That’s from gasses gathering under the skin. And animals have been gnawing on her. Coons probably. See the way her left eye’s gouged out. I swear, a hungry coon will eat ’bout anything.”
I glanced over my shoulder, glad to see Gran and Doogan were out of earshot.
“You okay, boy?” I heard Pusser ask. “You’re looking a little green around the gills.”
“Yes, sir. Just fine.”
“Good. See if you can bag a few of those maggots from the face. Doc will need ’em to help formulate a timeline.”
Harris ran back to my side of the pit and hurled some more. I stepped back, shielding my nose. Behind me, Wilco whimpered.
Pusser blew out a disgusted sigh. “Hell, never mind. I’ll get it.”
A second later, Pusser reappeared, bag in hand. “Death’s never pretty, kid. You might as well get used to that now.”
Harris straightened up and swiped his sleeve over his mouth. “Yes, sir.”
“There’s no evidence of brain matter. She was probably killed somewhere else and dumped here. Start securing a perimeter. Can you handle that?”
Harris stared at the ground.
“And call the county crime scene unit and see if you can get ahold of Doc Patterson. He’ll need to look at the body before it’s moved. Tell them to bring lanterns and a ladder. We’re going to be at it for a while.”
Pusser looked up and glared at me. “Stay right there. I want to talk to you.” He clamored out of the pit and approached. Despite the chill in the autumn air, his shirt stuck to his back like plastic wrap on a hot dish. He glanced over at Kevin and Gran before scowling back my way. “Who discovered the body?”
I clenched Wilco’s leash. “My dog. His name’s Wilco.”
He looked at Wilco then back at me. “What’s your name?”
“Brynn Callahan.”
“Callahan.” He squinted. “You from over in Bone Gap?”
“I was raised there. Been away for a while. I’m back visiting my grandparents.”
“Which Callahan are you?” There was only a handful of surnames in Bone Gap, the Callahans being one of the five original families to settle the area.
“Fergus’s granddaughter.”
Pusser’s expression tightened. “I see. Tell me what happened here.”
I told him about Wilco running off and then me finding him in the pit, the discovery of the body and Kevin’s reaction. “He thinks it might be his sister.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Harris walking about, sticking wire flags into the ground, sectioning off a perimeter. Would Pusser scout the area outside the rocks for tire tracks too? If the woman wasn’t shot here, then she was transported and dumped. Nobody could carry a body this far up the trail.
“You know the guy well?”
“Never met him before today. That’s my grandmother over there with him. He’s her neighbor.”
“And what’s your story? You said you’ve been away.”
I told him my story, bits and pieces of it anyway: left Bone Gap at eighteen, joined the Marines, did three tours of duty in the Middle East with my cadaver dog. Both of us discharged on a medical after an IED a year ago. Back to Bone Gap. All he needed to know. All anyone needed to know.
He took down my information, Gran’s address and phone number, and told me to wait around until someone came who could take me and Gran back home. I waited and watched while he briefly talked to Gran and then moved on to Doogan. I could tell by their rigid expressions and short answers that both viewed the sheriff as all Travellers view settled law—with a distrust and contempt that clamped jaws and tightened fists.
Eventually, other officials arrived over the ridge like ants descending on a piece of discarded food: a few guys with coveralls stretched over their street clothing and carrying equipment bags; a lady deputy—a matching khaki brown bookend to Harris; and a stern-looking black male with short cropped hair and scowl lines that ran marionette-like from the corners of his mouth. Doc Patterson, I guessed, judging from COUNTY CORONER printed in bold white on the back of his windbreaker. The lady deputy, who introduced herself as Deputy Nan Parks, came to take Gran and me back to the trailer. She was short for a deputy, maybe five foot four, but built like a bulldog. With her round face and the pudgy hands on her wide belt, she would have given most suspects a second thought about messing with her. But her brown eyes and soft voice held nothing but comfort as she spoke to Gran.
Doogan refused to leave, unwilling to vacate the site until he had gotten some answers. Gran was hesitant to leave him alone, but she needed to get back to Gramps. Parks picked up on that and encouraged her, saying that going home was the best idea. We turned down the trail to where the deputy had parked her cruiser, and Wilco began limping. I stooped down, running my hand along his right front leg. He flinched as I reached his swollen shoulder joint. “Wilco’s been hurt.”
Gran leaned over and gingerly touched Wilco’s back.
Deputy Parks stopped and turned back. “Something wrong?”
“It’s my dog. He’s limping.”
“My cruiser’s not far down the main trail on a lumber access road. Maybe a quarter mile up this path. Think he can make it okay?”
“Yeah, he’ll make it.” He’s made it through much worse. I rubbed along either side of Wilco’s head, touching my forehead to his muzzle—a gesture used to show approval to my deaf dog. I stood and gave his leash a tug, and he obediently continued along the path. He’d been off his game since the explosion, but Wilco would still do what I asked, even if he was in pain.
“There’s a good animal doctor in town, been here a long time,” Gran said. “We’ll call him when we get back to the house. See if he can look at your dog.” I didn’t say anything, but Gran must have read my mind. “Don’t worry, hon. Doc Styles treats Travellers fair. Your cousin Meg’s new boyfriend works for him part-time, and she’s met the doc. Says he’s real nice.”
A lot had happened since I’d been gone. Meg, who’d lost her husband in a tragic car accident a year ago, had moved on to having a boyfriend, which was a good sign. And now there was a settled professional that Travellers, or at least Gran, trusted to treat us fairly. Just maybe my generation had broken down some of the barriers between settled people and Travellers, and rightly so. Still it seemed many of the older folks, like Gramps, weren’t too happy about it. They worried about the watering down of our rooted culture and traditions. “Pavees stick to their own,” he’d always said. Yet another rule I’d broken. Again, I thought about Colm and wondered if he was still in the area.
Deputy Parks stopped and held up her hand. We froze in place. She looked to the woods. “Who’s there?”
Silence.
“Deputy Parks, McCreary County Sheriff’s Department. Show yourself.” She dropped her hand to her holster.
I ran my tongue along my suddenly dry lips and strained to see what had alerted her. Other officers coming to the scene would have responded instantly. Hunters too, unless they were poachers. Travellers would be hesitant when they heard her say she was a deputy.
All around us there was nothing but trees—dense, dark, and eerily silent. My once beloved woods now loomed like a dream turned into a hellish nightmare, shadows hovering, moist air thick with threats. I tightened my hold on Wilco’s leash and stepped in front of Gran. Then I saw it, or rather heard it first: a sudden crackle of dry leaves, breaking twigs, followed by pounding footsteps. In the distance, I caught a glimpse of color darting between the trees—dark blue or maybe black—moving away from us and fading quickly into the woodland shadows. Deputy Parks drew her gun and yelled “Stop!” and took off in pursuit. The dense tree trunks swallowed her from sight, and her running footfalls faded, leaving Gran and me bewildered and alone.
A few seconds later, gunshots punctuated the air: pop, pop, pop.
I unclipped Wilco’s leash, grabbed Gran, and headed down the trail toward the deputy’s car. “Come on!” Behind us, Wilco struggled to keep up, but I didn’t slow my pace. I couldn’t take a chance with Gran.
My brain scrabbled for a quick plan of action: get to the vehicle, take cover, break the window if necessary . . .
“Just a little farther, Gran.” Small and frail though she looked, a combination of inherent stamina, and now fear, propelled her alongside me, not missing a step. A couple hundred yards ahead, the trail intercepted a dirt road. I caught a glimpse of sunlight gleaming off a chrome bumper. I looked behind me. Wilco was a ways back, his eyes glued to me as he labored along, his ears high, whether alerted to danger by my reactions or by his own senses, I couldn’t tell.
We reached the car, and I pushed Gran below the fender, opposite where the shots had rung out. I crouched next to her, pulled out my cell, and fired off a 911 call. Service was spotty, my voice ragged, but I relayed the situation and our approximate location. Gran leaned against the vehicle, her face flushed.
A harsh growl ripped the air. I disconnected and wheeled toward the sound. Wilco stood about fifty yards away with his snout raised. He wasn’t in his alert stance but was bobbing his head, sniffing first the air, then the ground. He was onto something. Unlike many military dogs, Wilco was trained as a single-purpose dog. He detected the scent of human decay. That was it. Not explosives, not drugs, not fresh human blood. He wasn’t trained for patrol, crowd control, or live search and rescue. He was single-minded, but the best at what he did. No other cadaver dog had revealed as many bodies in a single tour. But he was also something else: loyal. I’d trained with some fine dogs at Lackland AFB—where I learned to be a handler—and balked when they assigned Wilco to me on my first tour. He was green in the field. Straight out of DTS (dog training school), wily and unpredictable even then. But we quickly bonded. More than bonded. I was his world, his pack, and he was my constant companion, my friend. And despite his sometimes unpredictable behavior since the explosion, his loyalty had never wavered. Wilco would do anything to protect me. And right now, he sensed something: body odor, blood, sweat . . . a smell that didn’t belong: danger.
I looked toward Gran. “Stay down! Crawl underneath the car if you have to. But don’t show yourself for any reason. Do you understand?”
Her blue eyes grew wide and terrified against her pale face. Wilco’s growl deepened. He now bared his teeth, his fangs flashing under curled lips. He stood rigid, tail high and bristled, with his eyes boring into the woods. I scrambled toward him, picking up a piece of fallen timber on the way. The branch felt solid in my hand, heavy enough to crack a skull. I crouched low, not far from my dog at the edge of the woods, ready to spring up and take on whoever approached. I guess I was part pack dog too. I’d do anything, sacrifice anything, to protect Gran.
A rustling noise drew my attention to the trail. I clutched my impromptu weapon.
“Miss Callahan?”
Tension drained from my muscles. “Yes, we’re over here.” It was Deputy Parks making her way through the underbrush. I stood from my position and relaxed. I held up my hand and signaled for Wilco to stay put.
“I went back to the trail but didn’t see you. Where’s your grandmother?”
“Over there. Behind your vehicle.”
Parks glanced to the side. “Come on. Get her, and let’s get out of here.”
She already had her keys out. The radio on her shoulder emitted a series of unintelligible blips: “10-22,” she responded. “I’m at my vehicle. Subjects are present. I’ll meet you on the main road.” Then, breaking code protocol, she snapped, “No, dammit. I lost him. He’s heading north by northwest, blue sweatshirt, knit hat . . . no, that’s all I saw.”
I helped Gran into the back seat. She was badly shaken, but okay. Wilco climbed in with her. He sat with his tongue out, panting in her ear. I’d barely made it into the passenger side before Parks cranked the wheel of the SUV—a Tahoe, a specially equipped Police Pursuit Vehicle. “Can’t believe the SOB took a shot at me,” she said. “And that I lost him.”
“Any idea who it was?”
“No idea. Maybe they’ll intercept him.” She glanced my way. “Sheriff said you’re a cop.”
“Ex-military cop. There’s no sign of a car. Wonder if he was just a hunter and mistook you for deer.”
She reached into her front breast pocket and pulled out a bag with a spent casing. “Right. A deer that talks and tells the SOB to identify himself. I found this.”
“Looks like a .223 Remington. Probably from a semi-auto rifle.” I’d carried an M4 in the military. With its collapsible stock, it fit my smaller frame and was more portable than the M16 or an AR-15, but I’d trained on a variety of weapons and easily recognized that caliber of ammo.
“Yeah. Guys use SARs for hunting all the time, or”—she dropped the casing back into her front pocket—“he could have been our killer. Otherwise why shoot and run?” She slammed her palm against the steering wheel. “Damn! Can’t believe I lost him.”
I sank back into the seat. The road was rough. We hit a bump that knocked me against the passenger door. I glanced over my shoulder into the back seat to check on Gran. Wilco swiped his tongue alongside her face. She leaned into him. I hadn’t had the chance to officially introduce Gran to Wilco yet, but it looked like a run for their lives in the woods had bonded them. I turned back around and eased against the seat.
I kept my mouth shut, but this guy in the woods wasn’t the killer. There was no way he’d go to all the trouble to dispose of a body in such a remote location, just to hang around and get caught. Dump and get out. That’s what he’d do.
The car veered off the access road, with a final bump onto the smooth main road, and came to a stop near another police car. Deputy Parks got out to talk to the other cop waiting there, and I looked behind us. Who would shoot at an officer and why? The deep shadows of the woods held secrets, that much I knew. Doogan’s words came back to me. “No place for a woman,” he’d said. I’d have to find out what he meant by that.