She had to take several more because her hands were shaking.
CHAPTER 47
Pine Mills, Minnesota
Something’s going to break.
Klassen County deputy Cal Meckler held on to that belief. He had to, because this case had been troubling him ever since he’d first responded to the scene in Lost River.
The images of the victim—her hands rising from the earth—haunted him. But he didn’t tell his girlfriend that when she’d returned.
“Is it true, Cal? Was she buried alive? Did you see her?”
Some of the TV stations in the Twin Cities had called it one of the most gruesome crimes in Northern Minnesota. The Bureau of Criminal Apprehension had taken the lead with support from the FBI. They’d also pulled in more resources and detectives from Rennerton, Tall Wolf River and Haldersly.
It was a big investigation and Meckler had taken pride in how the BCA and FBI agents had commended him for his “solid, by-the-book protection of the scene.” But after that he was assigned to canvass designated rural areas with the other deputies.
Meckler wanted to do more to help.
But that was all BCA had asked of the county.
For the past few days he’d visited the homes of people who lived on the southwestern edge of Lost River State Forest. One by one he tried to find out if anyone had seen anything that could help—any strange vehicles, anything that seemed out of place or out of the ordinary.
He knew these people. They were the kind of people who’d drive into a snowstorm looking to help stranded travelers; they were the kind of people who turned off their cell phones in church. If you visited them, they walked you to your car when they said goodbye and insisted you take something home with you, a slice of homemade pie or at least the recipe.
That something so hideous had happened so near shook them.
When Meckler told them, some of the moms and dads shouted for their kids in the yard to stay closer to the house. “A murder in the woods, there? No kidding? Hope you catch the guy.” Others tried hard to be helpful, scratching their heads. “No, I didn’t see or hear anything, Cal, but if I think of something, I’ll let you know.” Most would look to the forest pensively in a way that told him that if they said they didn’t see anything, it was the truth.
And always, before he left, they’d shift the subject, almost in a respectful, funereal fashion. “How do you think the Vikes are going to do, Cal?” or “How’s your car running, there, Cal?”
That’s how it had gone.
He’d pretty much visited everybody on the list attached to his clipboard. The addresses and Meckler’s responses for them would be collected into a digital map the BCA analysts had created as part of the investigation. For now, he decided to go to Bishop’s General Store and Gas, get a coffee and say hi. Meckler hadn’t been by since the murder. He’d expected that Bishop’s would be on his list of places to canvass but was told that Rennerton detectives would canvass all businesses in the area.
But what do those guys know about the folks out here around Pine Mills? They don’t know how to talk to Fergus Tibble.
Ferg hadn’t been quite the same since a car he was working under five years ago slipped off the jack and nearly crushed him.
Sure, he could still do his job, and eighty-year-old Agnes Bishop had been letting him run the store since her husband Wilson died. But sometimes Ferg was slow remembering stuff and you had to prompt him.
Maybe those Rennerton guys did that. They were detectives, after all, Meckler thought after parking his car at the side of the store.
Transom bells jingled when he entered, taking in the smells of motor oil, coffee, butter tarts and fresh bread. Agnes let the local churches sell baked goods at the store.
The place looked empty. He glanced down the small aisles stocked with cereals, canned beans, soups and condiments. The floorboards creaked as he walked by the chip racks and the coolers filled with milk and soft drinks.
“Ferg!”
A door in a back room closed and a man appeared wiping his hands on a towel. He wore a khaki work shirt with “Ferg” on his name patch and dirty jeans. He had a salt-and-pepper stubble, and Meckler figured he was in his early fifties. He knew Ferg had no kids and lived alone.
“Hey there, Cal, haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Been busy, got any coffee left?”
“You bet.” Ferg went behind the counter to the coffeemaker and started pouring some into a take-out cup. “So, are they getting anywhere with this murder, Cal? Are they gonna find who did it?”
“They’re working on it.”
Ferg set the coffee on the counter. Meckler blew softly on the surface before sipping it.
“Got any sugar?’
Ferg reached into a box by the coffeemaker, tossed a couple of small packets on the counter.
“Two Rennerton cops talked to me yesterday, asked me if I saw or remembered anything unusual, or ‘out of character for the community’ was how they put it.”
“And?”
Ferg shook his head.
“I didn’t see anything. You know how it is. Same old, same old here, the same old regular customers, a few travelers and the bird-watchers come through.”
“So nothing at all?”
Meckler shook the sugar packets as Ferg shook his head.
“Not even a little thing that you might remember? Think hard, Ferg.”
Ferg scratched his whiskers.
“How little are we talking, Cal?”
“Small enough to make a memory. Don’t think it has to be some foaming-at-the-mouth crazy with a sign that says I’m a Killer, Ferg, but any little thing that you might remember that stands out. It could help.”
Ferg folded his arms, lowered his head and thought.
“Well come to think of it there was this one guy, out-of-state plate. He had a van, nice-looking van and he was a big tipper.”
“Okay, is that all?”
“Well, when I was filling him I heard a noise in the back.”
Meckler stared hard at Ferg.
“You heard
