Page 42 of Rage

“Tracks?”

“No.”

“What were you doing down there?”

“Cow went missing. Didn’t show up for feed this morning. Boys walked the pasture looking for her, and found her down in the ravine with her calf.”

I go to the edge of the ravine and look down. The steep sides are torn up, probably by the cow as she was being pulled out. The bottom of the ravine is thick with bramble and blackberry and weeds as tall as a man’s shoulders. Ten yards away, a blue plastic barrel lies on its side. I can’t see inside it from where I’m standing, but I discern the stench of death.

Shit.

Tilting my head, I speak into my radio. “Margaret, get the coroner out here.”

CHAPTER 11

I’m in relatively good physical condition—or so I like to tell myself. Getting to the bottom of the ravine is no easy task. The sides are steep, more crumbling dirt than rock, and inhabited by every thorny bush known to mankind. Ivan set me up with the rope he used to extract the cow and I utilize it to inexpertly rappel down, narrowly avoiding busting my ass.

Humidity presses down as I disentangle myself from the rope. The back of my shirt is already damp with sweat. From where I’m standing, I can just make out a patch of blue from the drum twenty feet away. A barely there path cuts through a tangle of raspberry, probably from the cow or the boys when they came down to retrieve her.

The incessant buzz of flies seems inordinately loud as I start toward the barrel. There’s no way around the profusion of brush so I fight my way through, trying not to tear my shirt or get pricked by thorns. The smell of decaying flesh intensifies as I close in. The barrel is lying on its side, the open end facing away from me. Twice I stop to snap photos. Not for evidence—photos from cell phones aren’t good enough quality—but for my own reference. All the while, I hope these men are wrong about what’s inside the barrel. I’m holding on to the hope that someone disposed of a dead animal or butchering renderings. Those hopes are dashed when I get my first look inside.

I see the top of a head first. Red hair, matted and wet-looking. The shoulders are visible. The blue plaid of a shirt, horribly stained with what looks like blood. An arm and hand spilling over the side …

Son of a bitch.

My stomach does a quick seesaw, but I ignore it, swallow the spit at the back of my throat. I move closer, stop at about four feet away from the open end of the drum, and I snap six photos in quick succession. While my stomach threatens to rebel, my mind tries to process the horror of what I’m seeing. The body inside is that of a Caucasian male. Red hair. Blunt-cut bangs. Blue shirt. I look at the hand. No wedding ring. No visible tattoos.

Shaken, I take an involuntary step back, catch my breath, and I hail Dispatch. “Margaret, tell the coroner to expedite,” I say. “Get the sheriff’s office out here. I need both ends of the township road blocked ASAP. We’re going to need the fire department, too.”

“Roger that.”

Cognizant that I’m standing in the midst of a crime scene, I back away from the drum and retrace my path back to the rope that will take me topside.

It’s still early when Tomasetti’s Tahoe rolls up behind my Explorer. I’m standing at the rear of the hay wagon, talking with Ivan and Perry, trying in vain not to sweat, when I see him get out and start toward us, three bottles of water in hand. He looks unduly fresh considering we didn’t get much sleep last night and the thermometer is a hair away from ninety.

He hands me and the two Amish men water bottles. “Any idea who our vic is?”

“I couldn’t see his face. Didn’t want to search for an ID. But the victim has red hair.”

His eyes sharpen on mine. “Shetler’s a redhead.”

I give him the details on what was found at Aaron Shetler’s place. “His car’s there, too. He’s missing.” I sigh. “I hope I’m wrong.”

“If this is Shetler, I think it’s safe to assume these two homicides are related.”

“First a dismembered body and now a body in a barrel.” I shake my head. “What the hell?”

“They were into something,” he says.

“We’ve found no evidence of drugs.” I find myself thinking about the mysterious Cassidy and her purported connection to Yutzy. The tales of Shetler’s recklessness with cash. “Whatever it is, they made some bad decisions. Got in over their heads.”

“Pissed off the wrong person.”

“Or persons.” I look past him, see the coroner’s van pull up. “If it’s drugs, we’ll find them,” I say. “There’s always a trail.”

“And contrary to popular belief, there’s no honor among thieves,” he says nastily. “You put a dealer in an interrogation room facing hard time and he’ll sell out his mother for a deal.”

I’m anxious to confirm the ID of the body. Of course, nothing ever happens quickly when it comes to the processing of a crime scene. It takes nearly an hour for the fire department’s rescue team to equip Doc Coblentz with a rappelling harness so that he can be safely lowered into the ravine. The gully isn’t unduly deep—just twenty feet or so—but the sides are steep and crumbling, with copious overgrowth rife with stickers as prickly as cactus spines.