They were at his side in seconds. He didn’t say a word. He just pointed.
“Jesus,” Flagler said. “No one contaminates that bank. We do this by the book. The FBI book. I need to go in and see if she’s alive.”
Buddy nodded, even though he wanted to argue. The FBI rules often sucked. But this time, he had no choice. He’d brought Flagler out here, and this was his case. His jurisdiction. And Buddy wasn’t a fool. “I’ll mark the channel and rope off the reeds in front of the scene,” Buddy said, because doing something was how he remembered how to breathe.
Flagler hopped on Dawson’s boat, and they moved just past idle. But no matter how careful they were, the swamp would destroy evidence faster than gravitational waves.
“Fallon and Cullen, I want both of you to get checked out by the paramedics.” He waved a hand toward the water. “EMT boat just pulled up.” Fallon opened her mouth. “Don’t argue with me. I know you want to help, but let’s make sure that the only thing that got burned is the hair on your arms or legs.”
“What about Harley?” Cullen asked, wide eyed. “Anyone see her? She’s in this area.”
“I’ll ask Keaton to make sure someone has eyes on her,” Buddy said. “I’ll let you know as soon as we find her.”
“Thanks.” Cullen stepped away, Fallon following.
Buddy signaled to Sterling. They climbed aboard his boat and went to work. Systematically and quietly, they stuck poles in the water. He took a coil of line and two bright bumpers from Sterling’s hull, waded to his knees where the muck gave reluctant permission, and set the floats wide so the water units wouldn’t chew up the evidence with their prop wash.
Sterling handed him a roll of yellow tape. Crime scene tape.
His pulse had long since returned to normal. Adrenaline no longer controlled his movements. Now, it was a simple action based on years of experience. Years of too many dead bodies.
He shifted his gaze toward Dawson. He shook his head.
Shit.
Flager held his cell phone, taking pictures and mapping the scene. The body hung in a way that didn’t make sense if the person who’d put her there had a soul. The letters on the shirt were almost neat. That pissed him off more than the fire.
Dawson waded toward him, shoulders square, head held high. It was the sign of a man who knew how to keep the demons at bay, but behind that heavy armor—if someone cared enough to look deep into his eyes—they’d find a man who carried the burden of his town. Not because it was the honorable thing to do. Or even the right thing to do. But because he didn’t know how to do anything else.
Buddy understood that better than most.
“She was still warm,” Dawson said his voice tight. “Don’t need to be a medical examiner to know she died on those roots, and it wasn’t that long ago.”
“Somehow, I was supposed to see her, and that fire at the same time.” Buddy couldn’t take his eyes off the young girl. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Had her entire life ahead of her. “But she’s hidden pretty well. I can only assume that whoever did this was hoping she’d last a little longer and scream her lungs out, so I’d hear her. Fallon and Cullen heard something.”
“That’s fucked up,” Dawson said.
Buddy’s phone vibrated against his hip. He pulled it out and stared at the screen.
Unknown Caller: You can’t save them all.
His teeth met hard. He held up his cell phone, showing it to Dawson, then tried to send a message back.
Who are you and what do you want?
“It fucking went undelivered again.”
He put a hand on the side of the boat and breathed once, twice, three times—slow in, slower out. He made a list in his head because lists were the only prayer he knew how to say.
—Track origin of the text to Fallon.
—Track this burner.
—Blue Heron Boat Tours—touch every shell company, every captain, every fuel slip.
—Marine epoxy supplier list from Sterling by nightfall. Cross-ref with purchases in Broward, Monroe, Miami-Dade.
—Every shack marked on old charts—find the ones not on maps.
