Bone Secrets 03 - Buried

closer and then stepped out of his vehicle. Mason parked beside the sedan and pulled out his ID for the trooper. He didn’t recognize the cop, but he figured Ray would have known him instantly. The trooper waved off the ID.
    “Afternoon, Detective.” He waved his wide-brimmed hat to fan his face. “I wasn’t expecting anyone today.”
    Mason shook the trooper’s hand. “Robertson,” read his name badge. “I wasn’t planning to come out. I just need to look around again. How long have they got you on guard duty?”
    Robertson snorted. “Tomorrow should be it. Haven’t had any Curious Georges to turn away since yesterday. You guys are done here, right?”
    Mason nodded. “I think they took away everything but the bunker itself. And there were a couple of guys who wanted to do that.”
    “They’re gonna have to do something with it. Fill it up with concrete or weld it shut. Don’t need any other assholes deciding to make use of it.”
    “There’s been talk of the welding idea. That’s probably what they’ll do. I’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes.”
    The trooper gave an informal salute and went back to his book.
    Mason used his own hat as a fan. The forest was giving off a dry, dusty smell that reminded him of a woodstove burning old wood. It was going to be a bad summer for wildfires if they didn’t get some rain. In Oregon, usually you could count onrain off and on until July 5th, but this year had been hot and dry since April.
    He strolled to the bunker entrance and stared at how the earth had been flattened and trampled around the hatch. So many feet over the last few days. The quiet of the forest was overwhelming. No sounds at all. Was this how it’d been for the children? During the investigation, the site had been crawling with people. Now it felt empty and lonely.
    How long had the children been in there?
    Mason looked up. The firs blocked his view of the sky. A few pieces of blue shone through here and there, but the dark-green ceiling felt ominous. Like it was smothering something, keeping something hidden from the rest of the world. Which was exactly what it’d done for twenty years. But it was still hiding one thing.
    Where was the body of Daniel Brody? The forest hadn’t revealed that secret.
    Mason stared into the dense woods. Another boy was in there somewhere; Mason imagined the trees hiding his final resting place.
Why hadn’t Daniel been buried with the other children?
    The cadaver dog and her handler had been through the immediate surrounding woods several times. Her amazing dog had found nothing. He’d had her walk the farm again, too. Daniel’s final resting place was staying buried for now.
    When Mason had a suspect in his hands, he was going to get that answer. No matter what it took. Cecilia Brody deserved to know the fate of her son before she died.
    His phone buzzed in his pocket. Ray was calling.
    “Yep.”
    “Got a minute?” Ray asked.
    “You bet.” He hadn’t decided if he was going back down in the bunker today. His previous two descents had given himemotional nightmares that he didn’t care to repeat. He moved toward the pit and stared into the abyss where five bodies had been hidden for years.
    “We’ve put together another ID on one of the bodies from the pit.”
    Mason stepped back from the yellow caution tape, slightly disturbed by the coincidence of his location. “I’m fucking staring into the thing right now. That’s freaky. What did you get?”
    “One of the females was reported missing fifteen years ago.”
    “Fifteen?” Mason pressed the phone tighter to his ear. “She was seen that recently?”
    “Yes, she was reported missing by an aunt who’d seen her the week before.”
    “So our unsub brought vics here after Chris Jacobs escaped. What’s her history?”
    “One solicitation arrest. Eight years before she vanished.”
    “Nice. Let’s hope our guy keeps sticking to the same MO. We’ll pin him down.”
    “Even better. She had a previous address in the same neighborhood as the other victim we identified.”
    “They were neighbors?” Mason wanted to rub his hands together. Would the other victims come from the same fishing pond? Enough dead fish from one area and they could start narrowing in on the common denominator. History had proved serial killers were creatures of habit. They liked routines. When something worked well for them, they had a tendency to repeat, trying to match that success.
    “Dawn Henderson. She