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Turn around, he thinks. You don’t want to go there and nobody’s making you, so just turn around and go home.
Except he can’t. His curiosity is too strong. Also, there’s the dog. If it’s there it will eventually disinter the body, visiting further violation on a girl or woman who has already suffered the ultimate violation of being murdered. Letting that happen would haunt him worse—and longer—than the dream itself.
Does he know for a fact that the hand belongs to a female? Yes, because of the charm bracelet. Does he know for a fact that she was murdered? Why else would someone have buried her behind a deserted gas station somewhere north of hoot and south of holler?
He drives on. The gas station is there. The rusty tin signs out front read $1.99 for regular, $2.19 for mid-grade, and $2.49 for high octane, just as they did in his dream. There’s a light breeze here at the top of the rise, and the signs go tinka-tinka-tinka against the steel pole on which they are mounted.
Danny pulls onto the cracked and weed-sprouting tarmac, careful to stay clear of the busted glass. His tires aren’t new, and the spare is so bald it’s showing cord in a couple of places. The last thing he wants—the last thing in the world—is to be stranded out here.
He gets out of his truck, slams the door, and jumps at the sound it makes. Stupid, but he can’t help it. He’s pretty well scared to death. Somewhere in the distance, a tractor is blatting. It might as well be on another planet, as far as Danny’s concerned. He can’t remember ever feeling this utterly alone.
Walking around the station is like re-entering his dream; his legs seem to be moving on their own, with no directions from the control room. He kicks aside a deserted oil can. Havoline, of course. He wants to pause at the corner of the cinderblock building long enough to visualize seeing nothing, nothing at all, but his legs carry him around without a pause. They are relentless. The rusty trash barrel is there, overturned and spilling its crap. The dog is there, too. It’s standing at the edge of the corn, looking at him.
Damn mutt was waiting for me, Danny thinks. It knew I was coming.
This should be a stupid idea, but it’s not. Standing here, miles from the nearest human being (living human being, that is), he knows it’s not. He dreamed of the dog, and the dog dreamed of him. Simple.
“Fuck off!” Danny yells, and claps his hands. The dog gives him a baleful look and limps away into the corn.
Danny turns to his left and sees the hand, or what’s left of it. And more. The stray has been busy. It has exhumed part of a forearm. Bone glimmers through the flesh, and there are bugs, but there’s enough left for him to see that the person buried here is white, and there’s a tattoo above the charm bracelet. It looks like either rope or a circlet of barbed wire. He could tell which if he went closer, but he has no urge to go closer. What he wants is to get the hell out of here.
But if he leaves, the dog will come back. Danny can’t see it, but he knows it’s close. Watching. Waiting to be left alone with its early lunch.
He goes back to his truck, gets his phone out of the glove compartment, and just looks at it. If he uses it, he’s going to look guilty as shit. But that goddam dog!
An idea comes to him. The trash barrel is on its side. He tips it all the way over, sliding out a pile of crap (but no rats, thank God). Under the rust it’s solid steel, has to go thirty, thirty-five pounds. He clasps it against his midsection, sweat rolling down his cheeks, and walks it to the hand and forearm. He lowers it and steps back, brushing rust off his shirt. Will that be enough, or will the dog be able to tip it over? Hard to say.
Danny goes around to the front of the station and pries up two good-sized chunks of the crumbling concrete. He takes them around back and stacks them on top of the overturned barrel. Good enough? He thinks so. For awhile, anyway. If the dog decides to batter at the barrel to get what’s beneath, one of those chunks is apt to fall off and bonk it on the head.
Good so far. Now what?
7
By the time he gets to his truck, his head is a little clearer and he has an idea of how he should go. He starts the engine and backs around to head south, once more being careful not to roll over any of the broken glass. A farm truck goes by headed north. It’s hauling a small open trailer filled with lumber. The driver, gimme cap yanked down to the tops of his ears, stares grimly ahead, taking no notice of Danny. Which is good. When the farm truck is over the rise, Danny pulls out and heads back the way he came.
On the outskirts of Thompson he stops in at a Dollar General and asks if they sell prepaid cell phones—what are called burners in some of the TV programs he watches. He’s never bought such an item, and thinks the clerk will probably direct him elsewhere, maybe to the Walmart in Belleville, but the clerk points him to aisle five. There are lots of them, but the Tracfone seems to be the cheapest, there’s no activation fee, and it comes with instructions.
Danny takes his wallet out of his hip pocket, ready to pay with his Visa, and then asks himself if he was born dumb or just grew that way. He puts it back and takes his folding money out of his left front pocket instead. He pays with that.
The clerk is a young guy with acne and a scruffy soul patch. He gives Danny a grin and asks him if he’s going to kick some dickens on Tinder. He calls Danny “bro.”
Danny has no idea what he’s talking about, so just tells the clerk he doesn’t need a bag.
The young guy says no more, only rings Danny up and gives him his receipt. Outside the door, Danny drops the receipt in a handy trashcan. He wants no record of this transaction. All he wants is to report the body. The rest is up to people who investigate things for a living. The sooner he can get this business behind him, the better. The idea of letting it go entirely never crosses his mind. Sooner or later that dog—maybe with others—will tip the barrel over to get at the meat beneath. He can’t let that happen. Someone’s wife or daughter is buried behind that abandoned station.
8
Two miles down the road he parks in a little rest area. There are two picnic tables and a Porta-John. That’s the whole deal. Danny pulls in, opens the blister pack the Tracfone came in, and scans the instructions. They are simple enough, and the phone comes with a fifty per cent charge. Three minutes later it’s live and ready to go. Danny considers writing down what he wants to say and decides there’s no need. He’s going to keep this brief so nobody can trace the call.
His first thought was the Belleville PD, but that’s in a different county, and he knows the emergency number for the Kansas Highway Patrol—it’s posted in the Wilder High School office and in the halls of both the old and the new wing. In schools all across the state, Danny supposes. Nobody says it’s in case of an active shooter because no one has to.
He touches *47. It rings just a single time.
“Kansas Highway Patrol. Do you have an emergency?”
“I want to report a buried body. I think it must be a murder victim.”
“What is your name, sir?”
