Into the silo.
The world blurred into gray and black, rushing past her like a midnight wind.
She hit the ground before her fear transformed into a scream, landing on her back atop a carpet of moist soil and damp leaves.
She lay motionless, staring skyward. A brilliant beam of sunlight pierced the gloom from a missing panel in the silo’s domed roof, and she squinted her eyes against it, realizing she was unhurt.
No broken bones. No twisted limbs.
Groaning, she pushed herself to a sitting position.
The stench of death still polluted the air, and she slapped a hand over her mouth and nose to block it out.
She glanced up, searching for the chute opening, praying it wasn’t too high to reach, when she spotted something swinging in the shadows overhead.
Looking closer, she spotted a taut rope hanging from the highest reaches of the dome. Following the line with her gaze, she began to make out shapes in the murky chamber overhead: a pair of brown work boots hovering thirty feet off the floor; two legs dangling in the darkness; a hand sleeved in shadow.
Mallory’s hand dropped away from her mouth. Her body stiffened.
She saw where the rope ended in a noose, the frayed tether partially concealed behind a white face that gazed down with empty eyes.
A scream exploded from her throat. It bounced off the cold walls encircling her, amplified by the concrete. A flock of birds burst into flight, rushing from a hidden roost within the silo’s upper structure. The beat of their wings overpowered Mallory’s cry, and transient shadows darted across the dead man’s body as they flew out of the dome.
Mallory wailed again, pulling her knees up to her chest, miserably realizing no one could hear her.
She inhaled to scream again when she spotted tufts of cloth and grass protruding from the corpse’s clothing. Her eyes adjusted to the light as she stared, and now she noticed wire secured around the dead man’s wrists and ankles, holding his boots and gloves in place. Duct tape bound a long and rusty kitchen knife in his right hand.
“It’s not real,” she whispered to herself. “It’s just some dumb prank.”
She stood up and took a second, longer look at the slack white face above. This time she saw a rubber mask instead of someone’s head, a stupid Halloween prop probably purchased for under ten bucks at any WalMart or Target store.
Shifting her gaze from the hanging dummy, she searched the floor and found the remains of a small animal —maybe a raccoon or a woodchuck—not far away, which had to be the source of the stench in the air. More importantly, she also discovered a small access hatch in the silo’s wall, outlined by glorious yellow sunlight.
“Thank God,” she whispered.
Wiping tears from her cheeks, she walked toward the door.
Overhead, a strong wind pushed through the hole in the silo’s rooftop and swirled down the concrete walls, turning the dummy just enough so that its hollow eye sockets seemed to track Mallory’s movements across the room.
The sight of it caused her bravery to vanish like a ghost.
She spun away, pushed the hatch open, and squeezed out into the warm daylight.
She didn’t stop running until she’d traveled beyond sight of the silo.
CHAPTER 10
Detective Melissa Humble pulled her car into the Pattersons’ driveway for the second time that day, arriving even as the coroner’s van departed with the homeowners’ bodies. She got out of the car and started toward the house in search of Dr. Otto Rictor, a former medical examiner and the senior CSI officer on the scene.
She opened the farmhouse door and stepped inside. The odor of decay had diminished, but the grisly display of dry blood on the far wall left the lingering impression of death, even without Mrs. Patterson’s body present.
Melissa found Dr. Rictor stooped over the kitchen counter, studying various Polaroid photos of the bodies and jotting notes into a ledger. Earlier, he’d led the photographers throughout the house and garage, making certain every detail of the crime scene got captured on film.
Rictor glanced up and smiled when the door springs announced her entry, an act that caused the lines sprouting from the corners of his eyes to triple in number. He pushed his half-lens reading glasses higher up on the bridge of his pudgy nose and said, “That was quick. You weren’t even gone an hour.”
After contacting and questioning the victims’ remaining family—two sons, both living out of state—Melissa had gone out to check the surrounding farms, searching for anyone who had either seen or heard from the Pattersons prior to their deaths. “Feels more like three hours,” she said. “How about you, having fun yet?”
He frowned but it didn’t change the amicability in his eyes. “Just the other day I was telling my wife it’s been a while since I’ve had a real challenge. I should’ve kept my damn mouth shut. Coffee?”
Melissa laughed and leaned against the counter beside him.
He handed her a paper cup from Starbucks. “One of Cocoran’s finest did a java run. I figured you could use it. Soy mocha latte.”
“You know me too well,” she said. “So, what’s the challenge?”
Rictor marked his page in the ledger and motioned her toward the blood-streaked wall. “Take a look at this first.”
She followed, sipping the coffee while he indicated specific areas of the scene. His pointing fingers darted from one detail to the next like long-necked birds pecking at breadcrumbs.
Various pins and labels now marked the rust-colored bloodstains smeared over yellow and white wallpaper, blotting out intricate little pictures of barns and hay bales. The labeled pins, Rictor explained, identified which holes had been made by each of the items that pierced the victim’s body and embedded in the plaster wall.
“We found thirty-two knives out of the total amount of utensils lodged in the corpse,” he said, “but only six of those were long and sturdy enough to penetrate the body and hold it in place. Now, look at where those knives were located.” He placed himself in a stance similar to the one in which Mrs. Patterson had been found. The reconstruction wasn’t perfect; unlike the victim, his feet remained on the floor.
“We have two blades in each arm, one through her left trapezium muscle in the neck, and the other in her right shoulder. None of those stabs would be instantly fatal, and you can see how much blood there is on the floor and wall.”
“So, you’re saying that she was alive when it happened, that her heart was still pumping?”
“Correct.”
“What about the other utensils?”
“Superficial anterior musculature damage. That many wounds would’ve killed her in time, no doubt, but the true mortal blow came from one of the cooking spoons in the eye sockets, which happened last, as indicated by the blood loss.”
“And there were no other traces of blood throughout the house?”
“None that we could find. We’ve used Luminal and ultraviolet light on some of the rooms, but nothing’s turned up. We’ll have to wait until nightfall to do the property, of course, but I’m not expecting to discover any new areas of interest.”
“Then this wasn’t just set up as a display.”
“No. I’d say this is where she died.”
Melissa stared at the blood on the wall, appalled by the brutality implied by Rictor’s findings. “Shit.”
“We still need to wait for the M.E.’s toxicology report to see if there were any chemicals or drugs in her
