Buried: A Bone Secrets Novel Part 1

Buried.

A Bone Secrets Novel.

Kendra Elliot.

Eighteen Years Ago.

He crouched behind the woodpile, carefully watching the little girl through an opening in the stack. She looked about ten years old but exuded the confidence of an older child. She carried a striped kitten into the little playhouse near the woodpile, chatting to the animal about tea and cookies. She was dressed for play in cutoff shorts and a lunch-stained T-shirt.

The plastic playhouse had to be stuffy. The weather was hot and dry, but that was good. It meant he'd been comfortable while sleeping the last few nights in the woods, but during the day the heat could be deadly. He'd spotted the big white farmhouse this morning. His first sighting of civilization in...years. He'd slowly crawled to his current hiding spot, moving between shaded spots, watching every movement about the property. An hour ago he'd seen a couple of older teenage boys leave in a beat-up farm truck and a woman let two gray cats out the back door. She looked kind.

He ached to experience some kindness.

He nestled in closer to the wood, resting his head, blinking hard as his vision blurred. He was days past feeling hunger; food barely interested him. He just wanted water. There was a hose near the back door, but it was a good hundred feet away. Maybe he should just approach the woman and ask for help. But he wasn't going anywhere until he felt safe. He'd wait until dark. By then- "Tabby! Come back!"

He grasped at the woodpile with both hands as the kitten shot by his feet.

Uh-oh.

The little girl burst around the corner of the woodpile and slammed to a stop as she spotted him, her mouth falling open and her eyes widening. She took two cautious steps in his direction, studying him intently.

He couldn't move.

He knew he looked bad. His filthy clothes blended with the brown of the wood and dirt. Under the layer of grime on his skin, he suspected he was lily-white from lack of sunshine.

Curiosity filled her bright blue eyes, and she moved closer, looking him over. Her gaze slowly traveled from his blistered bare feet to the old, b.l.o.o.d.y shirt he'd wrapped around his head. She stopped five feet away. A healthy distance if she needed to make a fast exit, but she'd obviously judged him to not be a danger. She was right. He was about as threatening as a baby seal.

"Do you speak English?" she asked loudly.

He bit his cheek. That was her first question?

"Do you live in the woods? How old are you?" Her gaze narrowed.

He slowly stood, bracing himself against the wood, feeling his head swell with the movement. Her eyes grew wide. He was thin, stork-thin. She could see his bruises and abrasions, and he knew many more were hiding. "Yes, I speak English. No, I don't live in the woods. And I'm thirteen," he croaked.

She stood straighter, concerned. "Are you alright?"

He touched a gentle finger to his makeshift turban and winced. "Do you have any water?"

She nodded and raced into the playhouse. She reappeared, carefully carrying a blue floral cup and saucer. His hand shook as he lifted the cup to cracked lips. The warm water was heavenly, but he winced as his muscles went through the foreign motion of swallowing. The simple act of her help made him want to cry.

"How did you get those pink circles on your face?"

The cup rattled as he set it back on the saucer. The scars. Cigarettes. The bunker. Stories he could never share without endangering lives. "May I have some more, please?" This time she brought out a little pot and refilled his cup. He drank and then slid back down into his crouch before his legs gave out on him. Nausea gripped him. Did he drink too fast? "Is your mom home?"

She nodded. "Do you want me to get her?"

"Please. Don't tell anyone else I'm here, okay? Just get your mom." He leaned his head back against the wood and closed his eyes. Bright colors shifted on the back of his eyelids as the world began to gently spin. Speaking had sapped his energy, but he'd escaped the forest and this family would help him. Now he just had to keep his wits about him and his mouth shut.

"What's your name?" she whispered.

He opened his eyes a crack. Her expression was one of simple curiosity. "Chris. Chris Jacobs." His dry lips twisted. "Could you get your mom? Please?"

She turned and ran, tan legs pumping hard.

Present Day.

"No press." Suspicious cop eyes squinted at Michael.

The Oregon farm smelled strongly of manure, but there wasn't a cow in sight. His research had told him the old dairy farm had been out of operation for over twenty years. Wood and wire fencing traced the edges of the fields in crooked, drunken lines. A hundred yards away stood a barn that Michael wouldn't step foot into for a million dollars. He didn't mind taking risks, but this building looked ready to collapse if a bird landed on the sagging roofline. "I'm not here as press. I'm meeting up with Dr. Campbell," Michael lied.

"The medical examiner left an hour ago." The cop tilted up the brim of his hat, doubt in his gaze, knowing Michael was name-dropping to get into the recovery site. How many reporters had he chased off today? The discovery of multiple hidden remains tended to draw out the vultures. One brow rose and challenged him to create a more original ruse.

Luckily, Michael had one. "Not that Dr. Campbell. His daughter. Dr. Lacey Campbell."

The cop ran a hand across his sweating forehead and checked his clipboard. His instant lascivious grin made Michael's jaw clench.

"Oh, her. Yeah, she's still here."

Jacka.s.s.

"Can you let her know-"

"What's your business with her? She's in the middle of an excavation and a murder investigation. I don't think she'll appreciate me bugging her 'cause some stalker is looking for her."

"Oh, Jesus Christ." Michael took half a step forward and lowered his voice. "Pick up your radio and get someone back there to tell Dr. Campbell that Brody's finally here. She'll want to talk to me." He glanced at the fleet of police cars and obvious unmarked American sedans. "Callahan here yet?"

The cop's eyes narrowed at the detective's name, and his hand moved to his radio. "Not yet." He deliberately turned his back and spoke into his radio.

About time. Michael rubbed at the skin of his baking neck and wished for an icy bottle of water. Or beer. Would Lacey drag herself away to talk to him? When she was deep in a case, she had a tendency to forget about the outside world. Her cell was turned off; he'd tried to call a dozen times.

The cop half turned his head and watched Michael from the corner of his eye as he spoke quietly into his radio. Michael ignored him, studying the recovery scene in the ninety-degree heat. It was hot, dry, and dusty. Every time he inhaled, his lungs were coated with fine dirt.

Cops in navy-blue uniforms dotted the brown fields. G.o.d, they had to be dying in this summer heat. Small white tents hid private procedures from prying eyes and the news helicopters' cameras. Too many tents. More tents meant more bodies. A tall figure in a Tyvek protective suit strode from tent to tent.

Aw, s.h.i.t.

Victoria Peres. Identifiable at any range. The rangy forensic anthropologist probably wouldn't let him on the site even if Lacey held his hand. Michael blew out a hot breath and felt sweat trickle down the center of his back. He slipped his sungla.s.ses back on and turned away. Might as well start making some more calls instead of wasting his time trying to get into Fort Knox. He needed to know what they'd found buried beneath the dirt; he wasn't here for a story. This was personal.

"Hey!"

At the cop's bark, Michael looked over his shoulder. He'd finished with his radio and had crossed his arms over his chest, biceps bulging below the short sleeves of his summer uniform. His name badge read "Ruxton."

"You're the d.a.m.ned newspaper reporter who raised a stink about our overtime pay," Ruxton sneered. "Had every suit on the city council p.i.s.sed off about the overtime we get paid."

Not again. Michael briefly closed his eyes.

Ruxton wasn't nearly done. "If the city would loosen its a.s.s to gives us some cash to hire more police, then we wouldn't have to work overtime."

"I didn't-"

"You reporters just write headlines when someone decides to sue us because they dinged their head while running away during an arrest. Or because they broke a rib fighting against being cuffed. You don't know-"

With two rapid steps, Michael closed the distance between them, eyes hot. "I'm also the reporter who helped hunt down that sick son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h cop killer last winter."

The cop's mouth slammed shut.

"Some of my closest friends are cops, and I've got nothing but respect for the job you do, but don't judge me by what you read in the paper, and I'll do the same for you."

Unflinching, the men stared at each other.

"Michael?"

Michael turned at the female voice, his day instantly brighter and the cop completely forgotten. Lacey looked fantastic but tired. The pet.i.te forensic odontologist had just stepped out of a micro-thin, crispy jumpsuit and was holding it between one finger and thumb. Her nose wrinkled.

"In this heat, no deodorant can win against these d.a.m.ned plastic bags they make us wear."

Her warm brown eyes looked Michael up and down. Lacey frowned and glanced at the glowering cop. Instant understanding crossed her face. She gave the cop her brightest smile, and Ruxton's spine visibly relaxed. He lazily dragged his gaze from her hiking boots up those shapely tanned legs to her shorts and snug tank top. Wavy blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail and stuck out the back of her Seahawks' cap.

Michael's strongest ally. A woman who wasn't tall enough to come up to his shoulders. Gorgeous, blonde, hot, kind, s.e.xy, and smart. The whole package. Every man's dream girl.

The cop didn't have a chance. She'd wrap him around her finger just like that new gold band on her left hand. The band with the big-a.s.s diamond.

Not Michael's diamond.

d.a.m.n you, Jack Harper.

Lacey flashed perfect teeth at Ruxton. "Mind if I bring him in? Dr. Peres has been waiting for him."

Michael coughed. Victoria Peres? Not f.u.c.king likely.

Ruxton blinked and looked at Michael like he'd appeared out of a genie lamp. Michael smirked. Lacey had that effect on men. "He needs to sign the log. Here." Ruxton thrust the clipboard at Michael, a wry tilt to his mouth. He'd spotted the ring.

Lacey winked at Ruxton and pushed Michael toward the listing barn. Her steps slowed considerably after twenty feet. Michael pulled her to a stop and lifted her chin with a finger, taking a closer look at what the cop hadn't noticed. Dark shadows hung below her eyes, and her lids were red and swollen.

"Is it bad?" He crushed his lips into a hard line. It took something truly horrid to upset this woman.

She briefly closed her eyes, all flirty pretense evaporating. "They're all children, Michael. One after the other." She sucked in a ragged breath. "At first, only one skeleton had been reported, but the cadaver dog keeps finding more."

His stomach swirled, a deep dread emerging. No, not now. "How long ago?"

Lacey shook her head. "I don't know when they died. Long enough. They've been underground long enough to leave nothing but brown bones." Her chocolate eyes filled, and she wiped a dusty wrist under her nose. "So far we've found seven. They're so small..." Her voice faded.

His hands were on her shoulders, squeezing. "Any boys?" he asked hoa.r.s.ely. He could feel his marrow quake. Several children...something in his gut told him this was the place. This was the place.

"Well, yes. Two, for certain. It's hard to tell on some of the youngest. For now we're sort of going by what's left of the hair and their shoes..." She grabbed at his arms as her eyes widened. "Oh G.o.d, Michael. I'm sorry. I didn't even think...you don't think..."

"I always think about it, Lace. Every time I hear about child remains, I think about it."

She stepped forward and pressed her cheek against his chest, her arms wrapping tightly around his waist. Michael bent his head and wished her cap wasn't in the way. Right now he'd like to sink his nose into her hair, get lost in her female scent, and simply forget. She had the power to do that for him, but he no longer had the right to take it.

Daniel. His brain screamed with his brother's name, images of the boy ricocheting through his skull. Images that had slowly faded over twenty years. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, willing the images to sharpen, come alive.

"The ME's office already has Daniel's dental records, right?" Lacey sniffed as she stepped back to look him in the eye.

He could only nod.

"I'll check them first thing, Michael." She slipped her phone out of her pocket and turned it on. "I'll have Sara scan them and send them to me right now. That way I can at least try to rule them out against what we've found." She froze mid-dial. "I don't know how many bodies there will be...my gut tells me there are more children out there."

"There'll be eight," he whispered.

Michael couldn't relax. Sitting still while others were working their b.u.t.ts off was making him antsy. He wanted to jump in and help. But he had no role in the excavation.

"Why don't you go home?" Lacey asked Michael for the tenth time. "I'll call you if something comes up. There's no point for you to be sitting here waiting and waiting. It's not going to speed things up." Hands on her hips, she glared at Michael as he petted the German shepherd in the shade of one of the little tents.

He shook his head, avoided her eyes, and buried his hand in Queenie's soft fur. The dog's tongue lolled in joy. Rule one in an argument with Lacey: Keep your mouth shut. Drove her crazy.

He'd watched her fiance slowly learn the trick over the last few months. At first the poor sap had actually tried to win arguments with the woman. Impossible.

She huffed at him and turned her attention back to the tiny mandible a tech had placed in her hands moments before. "Too young," she muttered, and Michael's spine relaxed. Barely.

But the happy cadaver dog under his fingers had hit on another spot thirty minutes ago, and that Amazon of a woman, Dr. Peres, was supervising the beginning of the unearthing. f.u.c.king amazing dog. Michael had witnessed a lot of things in his life, but watching the dog scent death below the dirt had blown his mind.

The handler, a graying, earthy woman who talked a mile a minute, had been working a grid pattern when the dog abruptly sat and refused to move. A hit. Sherrine had rubbed the dog's head and given her a hug, gently backing her away from the place of the hit. Sherrine had nodded at a uniform, and he drove a pole a foot into the dirt at the spot three times, leaving small openings over the area.

Michael wondered how many times Sherrine and the cop had gone through the morbid routine. She'd led Queenie by the holes again, where the dog took one sniff, promptly sat, and wouldn't budge.

No question.

"The holes let out more of the scent," Lacey had whispered at his side. The cop had promptly whipped out stakes and tape and cordoned off another sad square. Crime scene techs covered the dusty farm like ants. Oregon State Police had thrown everything they had at the site. Skeletons of multiple children motivated everyone.

Now Michael restlessly patted Queenie and waited for the results of the current find. Sherrine returned with three bottled waters. "Thirsty?"

Michael took one of the bottles with a nod. Lacey took the other and ground her heel into his shoe. "Wha-thanks for the water, Sherrine," he muttered.

The woman chortled and winked at Lacey. Sherrine pulled a collapsible dish out of her backpack and poured half her bottle into the dish for the dog.

"You don't work for the state police, do you?" Michael asked.

Sherrine shook her head. "Private contractor. Queenie and I have helped out dozens of times. State police, counties all over the state, and at least ten other states." The talkative woman paused to count silently on her fingers. "Thirteen other states, actually. We had a fascinating case last month in Washington. I'd never officially tried Queenie over water. We'd trained for it, but never had needed to use the skill. She found a missing boater trapped between rocks below twenty feet of water." The woman frowned. "Too late, of course. He'd been missing for three days. We've done searches in Idaho, Nevada-"