The room began to dim.
I stood.
The upper shelves housed a theme park of urns in bronze and marble. An eagle with outstretched wings. Tutankhamen’s death mask. A gnarled oak. A Greek god. A double crypt.
The clouds closed. Darkness claimed the basement once again.
I felt my way back to the table, climbed up, and peered out. Could I attract anyone’s attention? Did I want to? Would the dark-haired stranger return and finish me off?
My leg and face pulsated with pain. Tears burned the back of my lids. Clamping my teeth, I held them in check.
The landscape was a study in black.
Minutes passed. Hours. Millennia.
I fought feelings of helplessness. Surely someone would come. But who? What time was it?
I looked at my watch. The darkness was so thick I couldn’t see my hand.
Who knew I was here? Despair clawed my brain. No one!
Suddenly, a light appeared, flickered as it moved through the trees.
I watched the light bob toward the small patch of denseness I knew to be the shed. It disappeared, reappeared, bobbed in my direction. As it neared, I started to yell out, then stopped myself. I began to make out the form of a man. He drew close, veered out of my field of vision.
A door banged overhead.
I dropped from the table, scuttled across the room, and shrank behind the far end of the shelving. The case wobbled as I pressed against it. Reaching into my pocket, I withdrew the tent stake, wrapped my fingers around it, and dropped it to my side, point down.
Moments later I heard movement outside the basement door. A key turned. The door opened.
Barely breathing, I peered between the urns.
The man paused in the doorway, lantern held above his right shoulder. He was short and muscular, with thick black hair and Asian eyes. His sleeves were rolled, revealing a tattoo above his right wrist. SEMPER FI.
Hershey Zamzow had spoken of Asian middlemen in bear gall trafficking.
Sonny Pounder had spoken of a Korean dealer, someone with an inside line.
Ricky Don Dorton had worked his mortuary scheme with a Marine Corps buddy.
Terry Woolsey was suspicious about her lover’s death, and about his replacement as coroner.
In a heartbeat my mind forged another composite.
My attacker was the man who had hastily embalmed Murray Snow’s body. The man who had visited Wally Cagle. The man who smuggled drugs and bear galls with Ricky Don Dorton.
My attacker was the Lancaster County coroner, James Park! James Park was Korean.
Park stepped through the doorway and swept his lantern about. I heard a sharp intake of breath, saw his body stiffen.
Park moved to a point directly opposite the shelving and hefted a burlap bag in his left hand. The bag moved and changed shape like a living thing.
Adrenaline shot through every fiber in my body.
Park’s circle of light darted through the basement’s macabre assemblage, its jerky motion a barometer of its holder’s anger. I could hear Park’s breath, smell his sweat.
My grip tightened on the tent stake. Unconsciously, I tensed and pressed closer against the shelving.
The shelving wobbled, ticked the wall.
Park’s light leapt in my direction. He took a step toward me. Another. The glow lit my feet, my legs. Moving slowly, I slipped the hand with the tent stake behind my back.
I heard another gasp, then Park stopped and raised the lantern. Though not bright, the sudden illumination caused my good eye to squint. My head jerked to the side.
“So, Dr. Brennan. Finally we meet.”
The voice was flat and silky, high like a child’s. Park wasn’t bothering to disguise it now, but I knew instantly. The Grim Reaper!
My grip tightened on the stake. Every muscle in me tensed.
Park smiled a smile that was pure ice.
“My associates and I are so appreciative of your battle on behalf of wildlife, we’ve decided to give you a small token of our gratitude.”
Park raised the bag. Inside, something writhed, causing shadows to ripple and morph in the burlap.
