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“I think I know who the second sculpture is, and … well, I learned even more. I’ll tell you on the way home.”
“Any clues as to who’s been doing it?”
“No.”
“Come on, let’s get home.” He held up his phone. “Black Vulture’s made the news.”
“That’s never good.”
He was surprised and impressed by the news story.
“What’s Going On in Black Vulture, Arizona? Bone Sculptures, That’s What.”
When it came to the sculptures, no one knew much of anything, but someone had obtained a picture of the first skeleton. The reporter mentioned the two poses, but the media hadn’t tied any of it to taxidermy positions and mounts.
It was like they weren’t paying attention.
No one had talked about his trickery either. He’d heard the investigators had figured out that the first sculpture was Silas, but the reporter didn’t mention the ID. The whole story was speculation and mystery, which wasn’t terrible. But he would like more credit, even anonymously.
How could they not mention how the poses looked like taxidermy? Was it not all as obvious as he’d intended it to be?
Was it all just random?
He’d spent so long preparing, and they just weren’t “getting” it. Or they weren’t fully talking about it. They would. Soon enough.
He knew it would all be so much more difficult to ignore when he was done. He knew he shouldn’t have waited so long, but damn it, he liked her. He’d let himself get to know her just enough that she wasn’t the same ghost she’d been.
“Keep Hazel out of this,” Wilmot had said. “I’d do anything to protect her. Don’t test me.”
You out there, Wilmot?
Where did you go? Are you seeing this? I don’t care. Either you’re dead or you’re watching, and you’ll see what you deserve to see.
He considered calling a news outlet and giving them some better clues, just so the stories could beef up some. Maybe he could tell them about Wilmot Dylan and the day the taxidermist killed the boy.
That would be something.
Not yet. He’d finish tonight, and then maybe Wilmot would reappear so he could face the man who’d ruined his life all those years ago.
They were destined to ruin each other’s.
CHAPTER
28
THE HOSPITAL PERSONNEL were not thrilled we were there. With Calloway in his uniform, we appeared to be official, but our visit to Jerry Smoot was mostly personal. Maybe twenty percent business.
He was in a regular room, receiving fluids and being watched over for a day or so more, but they didn’t want him agitated. We told them we wouldn’t agitate him, but it was possible that we would. Jerry’s normal was a state of agitation.
“Damn it, Hazel, Calloway, bust me out of this place,” Jerry said as we walked into his room.
He looked great, back to his normal scruffy self. He didn’t even appear to be as skinny as I thought he’d seemed when we found him. His color was good—that same old leather tan he’d built up over the years was back. It was no longer red and burned, white around the mouth. He’d recovered well.
“They said probably tomorrow,” I said.
“Damn, one day early wouldn’t hurt. Ask ’em.”
“We will.” Calloway put his hand on Jerry’s calf. “We’re glad you’re okay.”
