At the desk, Mackenzie stacked the six boxes of Winchester PDX-1 shells she’d purchased earlier at a Walmart, then loaded three magazines for each pistol. That done, she opened the safe hidden behind a panel in the built-in shelves in her bedroom and carefully placed the guns in the interior, along with the extra shells. She started to close the door, then stopped, retrieving the small Rohrbaugh, its holster and magazines. Sliding one of the magazines into the pistol, she put it in a drawer next to the bed, along with a flashlight.

Ken Lee had overcome Mackenzie’s ambivalence, stressing that her skill at close-in fighting could be worthless against an armed and determined assailant. Although she had misgivings about the guns, she looked at them as necessary equipment to carry out her current mission.

Slipping back into the chair, she decided she felt much better about her plan. The two-part mission statement at the top of planning draft read:

Find the boys responsible for Terry’s death,

Facilitate convictions and life sentences for: Richard Sabotny, Zed Piontowski, Jim Moarse, and Chris Brewler.

She looked at the list. Then with her finger she highlighted Richard Sabotny’s name and chose the bold option from the toolbox. There. Richard Sabotny. That’s the man she wanted, the bully and ringleader, the one most or wholly responsible for her brother’s death. Not the brother of Mackenzie Mason’s for that was pure fiction. Terry was Caitlyn Hallen’s brother. Her brother.

11

Sue Lawrence responded to the call first. Ray reached the scene 15 or 20 minutes after her. A Cedar County Road Commission truck, flashers blinking in the misting rain, was blocking off the road to northbound traffic. The driver, Hank Pullen, stood in the center of the road behind the truck, a reflective vest over his jacket, turning cars around.

Ray waved as he guided his patrol car around the truck and parked on the far shoulder behind Sue’s Jeep. He could see a second county employee standing at the intersection 50 yards up, keeping traffic from entering the road.

Sue looked up at Ray as he approached. Camera in hand, she was crouched on the shoulder of the road. The ditch below was swampy and filled with water. A partially submerged body lay just below the embankment. “The ME is on his way,” she said.

“Did you tell him to bring waders?” asked Ray, referring to Dr. Dyskin, the semiretired pathologist, who contracted as the county medical examiner.

“No, but I told the EMTs to bring their hip boots. No point getting Dr. Dyskin mired in the mud.”

“Who spotted the body?”

“Hank Pullen called it in. He and Dan Beeson were riding around patching chuckholes. I need to talk to them again, but I think it was Dan who saw the body. He was riding shotgun.”

“They didn’t see who dumped it?” asked Ray.

“No such luck. And given the body’s location, you could probably only spot it from the height of a truck cab. It might not have been found for days or even weeks.”

Ray stepped as far as he dared to the edge of the bank and peered down at the corpse. “Not much doubt about who it is, or was. Looks like he was just thrown out.”

“That was my thought,” said Sue. “The poor old guy tossed along the road like a beer can or a fast food bag.”

“And he’s missing a boot.”

“I noticed that. Brett is on his way. After the body is removed, we’ll do our best to look for other possible evidence. Perhaps the missing boot is submerged in the water.”

Their attention was pulled from the ditch by the arrival of an EMT unit and Dr. Dyskin. “Where’s the body?” he asked.

Sue pointed over the embankment. Dyskin walked to the edge, gazed at the body for a long moment. “Well let’s get him up here and see what we can see.”

Sue directed the actions of the EMTs, two young men. After pulling hip boots over their orange coveralls, they carefully approached the corpse, gently scooping it into a metal rescue litter that they carried back to the surface of the road.

Dyskin knelt at the side of the litter and started his examination, working from the head down, running his hands along the skull, then the neck, continuing all the way to the feet. He moved extremely slowly, taking everything in with his eyes and hands. Dyskin asked one of the EMTs to help him rotate the body. Then he continued his investigation. He studied the bottom of the bare right foot for a long moment. Next he removed the boot and sock from the other foot, pitching them on the pavement. He held both feet, one hand under each heel, lifted them gently, and carefully studied their appearance. “Bring your camera over here,” he said, gesturing with his head to Sue. “I want a picture of this.”

She knelt at his side and shot a series of photos, the strobe throwing an eerie glow in the drizzle.

Dyskin gently laid the feet back on the litter and stood. He brushed his hands, one against the other. “I think we’re done here,” he said.

“What did you learn?” asked Ray.

“Is this the man they’ve been talking about on TV, the one that went missing?”

“ Yes, his name is Vincent Fox.”

“And where did he disappear from?”

“He lived a couple of miles outside of Cedar Bay, probably about 20 miles from here.”

“Well, you know that happens with old people, especially when they have some sort of dementia. They just go wandering away, and sometimes they get pretty far before they are found. That said, I don’t think that’s what happened here. When did you say he was last seen?”

“Saturday, but he wasn’t reported missing until Monday,” answered Ray.

“He’s been dead for several days,” said Dyskin. “I can’t find any injuries to the body, no wounds or fractures. Nothing of that nature. But there’s something really curious about the bottom of his right foot. It’s been burned. It looks like it was held against something hot, like a wood stove. And I can’t imagine that it’s self-inflicted or accidental. After you have the body identified, it should be sent to Grand Rapids for an autopsy. We’ll know a lot more when we get the results. Something’s not right.”

Ray raised his eyebrows at Dyskin who was reaching for his fleece jacket, noting that instead of the usual rumpled suit, he was wearing a nylon workout outfit and looked fifty pounds lighter. “On your way to the gym?” Ray asked.

“Looks that way, doesn’t it,” said Dyskin. “Had a little wakeup call just after the holidays. My wife, in collusion with a cardiologist, has put me on a strict diet and a regular exercise program. Sonja even hired a personal trainer. Me with a personal trainer! The planet is spinning off its axis.”

“How about the cigars?” asked Sue, laughing.

“Verboten.”

“Going through withdrawal?”

“I did for a bit. Now I can’t believe I ever used those things. Think I was just trying to kill the smell of my workplace.” Dyskin smiled, and Sue and Ray laughed again, more quietly.

Watching Dyskin pull a three-point and head back to town, Ray asked, “Are you going to be more tolerant of the good doctor now?”

“He’s still into Old Spice,” Sue shrugged, “but without the tobacco it’s not so bad.” Ray squatted and leaned over to look at Fox’s feet again. Sue knelt beside him. “What are you thinking?

“Piñatas. Like when we capture the bastards that did this, we pull them up by their heels and beat them with baseball bats, the aluminum kind they use in Little League, the ones that make that satisfying pinging sound every time you get a good skull whack in. That would offer a certain satisfaction.”

“Is that all?” Sue gasped at her boss’s rich fantasy life.

“We could meet this evening,” said Ray, grasping Sue’s elbow and pulling her up to face him. “We could go over the events and think through who might have done this, our resident bad guys, someone who has just been paroled….”