“Message appears to have been typed on an IBM Selectric. Pica 10 Pitch font.”
“What's it say?”
“We start with a name. Centered and underlined: ‘Delilah.’
“Another name from the Bible,” I say.
“10-4. Beneath the name is recorded a date: ‘Tuesday. 8-1-79.’”
The creep marked down the harvest date-just like some people do on freezer bags full of summer corn.
“Under the date there is a typed quote. It too appears biblical in nature: ‘Thus will I make thy lewdness to cease.’”
I figure it's the “thus” and “thy” that peg it as coming from Scripture.
He offers no interpretations. Not yet. Not about the mention of lewdness. Not about the date, 1979-which sort of puts the skull back in the disco days with the ears and nose we already found. Ceepak never conjectures right away. First he examines all the evidence. That means tweezering and unfolding the other piece of paper tucked into the baggie because it's only halfway visible behind the index card.
“Map,” he says. “Hand-drawn. Permanent black marker on foolscap paper.”
It looks like a treasure map drawn on that old-fashioned parchment stuff you always see in souvenir shops with the Declaration of Independence printed on it.
I see there is a big X on the map.
And a dotted line-like footprints.
And, in the corner, one of those orientating compass deals: N, E, S, W.
“Ten paces due north,” says Ceepak as he studies the map.
Then he turns to me.
“Danny, I believe we're going to need the field shovel.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
We keep an Army-issue field shovel stowed in the back of our cop car with the flares and rolls of POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape.
The sun glints off the tinted glass and I can already tell: this day's going to be a scorcher. Probably hit 90, maybe 95 degrees. And the wind has shifted. It's blowing across the island from the bay to the ocean. West to east. That means the greenhead flies will be blowing this way, too.
The greenheads are vicious little devils, our local locusts, the shore's summertime plague. Their heads aren't really green. They take their name from their big buggy eyes. Huge green peepers popping out of humongous black bodies. These suckers fly slow-maybe because their eyeballs are so huge. They sort of lumber through the air like one of those C-130 military cargo planes that shouldn't even be able to fly. You swat at a greenhead, it'll stare at you, ask if you've got some kind of problem, then loop back to take a snap at your ankles.
Ouch. All this, and greenheads, too.
• • •
Ceepak is waiting for me-standing on a clump of sea grass ten feet north of the first hole.
I hand him the shovel. He looks like he's ready to play some serious Whack-A-Mole. Like he's there to bop anything that dares pop up out of a hole in the sand.
“I radioed the chief,” he says.
“And? Is he calling the FBI?”
“Not yet.”
“I think we should.”
“As do I. However, the chief reminded me that we retain primary jurisdiction in the case for investigative purposes unless and until we determine that these individuals were killed elsewhere and transported across state lines.”
Chief Baines never does like the FBI dropping by Sea Haven. They scare away more cash-carrying tourists than all the sharks in
“Record my location,” says Ceepak, ready to shoulder the grim responsibility of moving forward.
I pull out the digital camera and snap a frame. I check the viewfinder. The shot looks like one of those groundbreaking ceremonies for a new bank.
“Got it.”
Ceepak nods.
Digs.
Shovels up several buckets of sand, making a tidy pile to the left of his hole.
“Approximate depth: one foot.”
He keeps digging. The sand is soft.
“Two feet.”
The pile of powder next to his hole grows taller. Sugary sand slides off the peak, trickles down along the sides.
“Three feet.”
I hear steel tap plastic. Ceepak stops. Steps away from the hole. Lays down his shovel and drops to his knees.
“Danny? Will you please bring me a paintbrush?”
“On it.”
I slap one into his open palm and say, “Paintbrush.”
“Thank you.”
I crouch down and watch Ceepak start to dust off what we both know is going to be the lid to another Tupperware bowl. Ceepak whisks away the sand with his brush, an umpire cleaning off home plate for the next batter up.
I see a translucent top with the raised ridge of a lip. The famous, vacuum-sealed lid designed to keep the bowl's contents fresh and crisp. Even if you store your head of lettuce-make that a
Of course, it's another skull.
A small oblong ball, really. Maybe five inches wide, eight inches tall, six inches deep. Wrapped in another newspaper.
“Again, a Friday edition of the
There's another baggie in the bottom of the bowl. Inside the baggie, another note card and another little folded map.
“‘Miriam,’” Ceepak says, reading the index card. “‘Monday. 7-8-80.’”
“Oh, man,” I whisper, even though I feel like screaming. “Miriam.”
Ceepak just nods.
We have to assume it's the same Miriam whose nose we found with the local souvenirs back at The Treasure Chest.
Ceepak holds up the card and reads what's typed along the bottom: “‘Thus will I make thy lewdness to cease.’”
“He's repeating himself.”
“They usually do.”
Ceepak puts the index card into an evidence bag, and then uses his tweezers to unfold the little map. I study it over his shoulder: it's dotted with dashes of footprints leading to another X. Ten feet due west this time.
“Of course!” says Ceepak. He's having one of his eureka moments. “It was near the pirate chests.”
“Pirate chests?” I'm a little behind him, somewhere south of
