The Colour of Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

He pointed down at the three corpses lying in the dirt and Fox experienced a sudden pang.  Not because of the smell or decomposition but because they appeared so forlorn and abandoned.  He found it perversely comforting that the bodies had each other for company and he remembered some lines of poetry his mother used to recite:
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none I fear do there embrace.
    Jordache glanced at Linnet.  “Gotcha, you bastard.  At least we can now identify the victims and inform the families.”
    Glancing back to the lodge Fox thought he caught the ghost of a smile on Linnet’s lips.  “You only found three, Karl?”
    “ Only? ”  The detective frowned.  “You think there’s more, Nathan?”  Keeping his eyes locked on Linnet’s, Fox considered the man’s hunting lodge:  the immaculate kitchen, the books, the DVDs, guns and stuffed animals.  The insight, when it came to him, made Fox groan.  “What is it?” said Jordache.
    Fox stayed focused on Linnet.  “You need to control your immediate environment, don’t you, George?  Everything must be ‘just so’.  You like to keep everything you value close to you.  There’s only one reason you’d bury your hunting trophies out here.”  Linnet paled but said nothing.
    “What reason’s that?” Jordache demanded.
    “The house is full,” said Fox.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Check the basement, Karl.  It’s smaller internally than the kitchen above.  I bet it’s got false walls.”  He took some satisfaction from Linnet’s fading smile.  “You should find the rest of the bodies in the walls.”
    As his team ran off to investigate, Jordache studied Fox for a moment.  “Christ, Nathan, your mind’s an interesting place to visit but I’d sure as hell hate to live there.”  Both men had known each other for years, ever since Jordache, as a young rookie cop, had escorted a ten-year-old orphaned boy out of a blood-spattered Chevron garage.  Over the years the cop had kept in constant touch.  When Fox had qualified top of his class from Stanford University’s Department of Psychiatry and Behavioral Sciences, a newly promoted Detective Jordache had taken him out for a congratulatory beer and sought the younger man’s psychiatric advice on interviewing a particularly difficult suspect.  Since then, Jordache had become chief of detectives and Fox the youngest member of the psychiatry and neurology faculty at Oregon University Research Hospital.  In many ways the older man was Fox’s opposite.  Fox was a commitment-phobe who jumped ship before relationships became too serious and lived for his work.  Jordache was a committed family man who put his wife and two daughters before everything — including his work.  “How many bodies are they going to find, Nathan?” the detective asked, turning back to the lodge.
    “My guess, given the space, would be about half a dozen.”
    The sound of drilling, sawing and splitting wood filled the still air.  Followed by silence and a muffled exclamation:  “JEEZUS.”  A shout:  “Hey, Chief, the doc’s right on the money.  You better come see this.  We got five more bodies in here.  Maybe six.”
    “I’m coming,” said Jordache.
    Fox checked his watch.  “Look, Karl, you don’t need any more help from me with Linnet’s little house of horrors.  You mind if I get going?”
    Jordache stopped outside the doorway and shook his hand.  “No problem, Nathan.  We’ve got it from here.  Thanks for your help, as always, I owe you a brew the next time we’re at O’Malley’s.”  He glanced into the lodge.  “Before you go, though, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
    “What?”
    Jordache stepped through the doorway and reached for a pile of magazines and newspapers on a small table by the window.  He picked up the Oregonian and pointed at the unsettlingly beautiful face staring out from the front page.  “It’s about the Jane Doe