Wild Justice (Nadia Stafford 3)

By the time Jack arrived, I'd pushed aside the leaves where the coyote had been digging. I could see its nail marks in the dirt. Dark dirt. Overturned--and not just where it'd been digging.

I heard Jack and twisted, still crouching, careful to keep my shoes on the leaf carpet so I couldn't leave prints. Jack stared down at the clearing floor.

"Fuck."

I nodded.

"You okay?" he said.

"Me? Sure. I startled a coyote in here, which is how I found it, but the coyote took right off."

"Don't mean that. This . . ."

He waved at the clearing and he didn't say "looks like where we found Sammi." He wouldn't, just in case I wasn't thinking that. I was. I wouldn't have mentioned it because this wasn't about me or my murdered teen employee.

"Yes, it looks like where we found her," I said. "But I'm okay." I glanced around the clearing. "You'll want to be sure, I suppose."

"Yeah. You can stand guard. I'll--"

"No, I'll help."

We didn't discuss what we thought we'd stumbled on, because we didn't need to. We'd seen enough shallow graves to recognize one. A hidden spot. The undergrowth cleared. The body buried. Leaves dumped on to cover the site. The coyote smelling spilled blood and digging in hopes of scavenging a meal.

The coyote would have had to work for that meal, but it could have gotten to it. Duncan was buried under only a foot of soil. We uncovered enough for Jack to identify him and see the cause of death. Duncan's throat had been slit. There was also blood on the back of his head, from a gash and a huge bump.

"Hit him from behind," Jack said. "Dazed him. Led him out here. Slit his throat. Blood on the dirt. Brought the coyote." His voice hardened. "Guy was eighty. Still need to bash him from behind? Fucking coward." He paused. "No, not a coward. Sadist. Bring Duncan here? Sees this place? He knows what's coming. Can't shoot him? Show some mercy? Slit an old man's throat. Watch him bleed out." He shook his head. "Fucking sadist."

"I'm sorry," I said.

I moved closer and leaned against Jack. He put his arm around my waist and squeezed.

"Thanks. He wasn't a nice guy. Wasn't a good guy. Still didn't deserve this."

"I know, and we'll find who did it."

A moment's pause. Then he patted my back and said, "Should go. Cover him up. Check the house."

I nodded and we set to work.

Duncan didn't have a phone in the cabin, so we couldn't see if his killer had contacted him. We'd check his regular line, but that wouldn't likely help, as the killer probably only had his messaging service. It was starting to feel like, without telephones and phone records, we didn't have an investigation at all, which was hellishly frustrating. It was as if our case existed in some invisible cyber-realm, and Jack and I were stuck here on earth, spinning our wheels, waiting for the miracle of technology to present us with an actual suspect.

Who killed Duncan? Presumably whomever we were chasing. Whoever had put a mark on my head. When two hits fail and the first middleman dies, our suspect starts severing all connections between himself and his hired killers. Why kill Duncan and not Roland? We had vague theories--Duncan knew something or our suspect knew we were closing in--but no actual good ideas. Spinning our wheels. It was better than standing still, though. Just keep spinning, and eventually we had to gain traction.

Jack was grieving. Even if he was quick to point out that he hadn't known Duncan well, he had been a well-liked colleague, which was pretty much as close to a friend as Jack got. So he grieved.

The call to Evelyn hadn't been easy. I'd tried to step away to give him privacy, but he'd kept me there, and I'd heard her, on the other end, raging and spitting fury. That, for Evelyn, was grief, and I knew that was hard on Jack, too.

I would have liked to offer more comfort. Find a place where we could be alone. Even going for a drink would have been something. But Quinn was waiting and the case was waiting and when I suggested we call and tell Quinn we'd be a while, I could see Jack considering it. I could see him wanting it. But he said, "Nah. Gotta get back," and he meant it.

I'd left Quinn my key card, so at our door I waited while Jack got his out.

"I'll tell him," I said. "You can just go work in the bedroom or whatever."

"I'm good."

I touched his wrist before he could put the card in. "You don't have to be."

He looked over. "Yeah. I know. But it's okay. Just keep moving. Feel bad. Mostly for Evelyn. And like I said, he didn't deserve that. Also . . . ?" He rolled his shoulders. "Frustrated. Feel like I'm slipping. Target's there. Right there. Can't hit it. Can't fucking see it."