the air and soared behind the more distant trees. A raven, perhaps. Taylor watched the slow, easy movement of the water reflecting the green of the trees on either bank. He wanted to look at anything, simply anything, but this burnt-out shack.
The building had been constructed, it seemed, with little or no planning. It was less than ten feet high and about the size and shape of a single car garage. The thin beams of the flat roof had begun to sag some time ago under the weight of at least a half dozen layers of asphalt shingles. Composed of mostly red brick, shorter brown bricks appeared near the top of the south and east walls, where someone had evidently run out of supplies. Several fieldstones and rough mortar had been used above the doorframe, giving it a rustic look. These would have been used out of convenience or necessity rather than for esthetics. Most probably, the builders had run out of bricks. Fieldstones, a farmer’s curse, which worked their way up through the soil with every spring thaw, were always in plentiful supply.
Taylor noticed the frame around the single broken window was black and charred, as were the edges of the shed’s only door. The red bricks near the window and door were blackened as well. The door itself, however, was quite intact. Looking closer, he saw about half of the sagging roof had now completely collapsed. He focused on the ground and now saw the shards of glass that littered the gravel. There was another odour here too, just below the surface of wet ashes and human flesh. He should have recognized it before. Gasoline.
“What is it?” asked Juan.
“Just step back for a minute.”
Juan did as he was told at first, but as Taylor approached the doorway, the youth was soon crowding him. His hands were on Taylor’s back, peering at the doorway from behind Taylor’s arm.
“Maybe a raccoon died in there?” said Juan.
Taylor said nothing, motioning to Juan to step back. Dead raccoons and squirrels the teenager was used to, but not this smell.
“Or maybe a stray cat?” Juan offered.
“We’ll see soon enough.” Taylor pulled the ball cap from his head and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
They approached the small brick shed. Fallen shingles, fallen metal shelves and several wooden crates filled with rusted tools were blocking the window, preventing him from getting a good look inside. The door was padlocked shut.
“Do you know anything about this lock?” Taylor asked. “Or who has the key?”
“No,” said Juan. “But I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be locked.
The Mexicans used to sneak in here to sleep when no one was watching.”
“Hand me a wrecking bar.”
Juan hurried over with a crowbar. Taylor wedged the end of the bar under the rusty latch. After a couple of quick tugs, the latch came free from the door. As he opened the door, the hinges squealed like nails being pulled from green wood, making Juan wince. A dozen or so steel irrigation pipes, each six inches thick and eight to twelve feet long, had fallen from their racks on the wall and were now blocking their way inside.
Warm, moist air wafted from the open doorway. The stench was now much worse. The smell of gasoline was stronger too. Because of the pipes blocking the doorway, Taylor could not get his head far enough into the doorway to see what exactly awaited them inside.
“This can’t be good,” said Taylor. “But let’s get at it.”
They made short work of the pipes, moving them onto the trailer quickly, silently. Juan tried his best to keep the collar of his t-shirt over his mouth and nose, handling the far end of each pipe to keep as far from the doorway as he could. Inside, beyond the pipes, flecks of gold buzzed and swarmed, illuminated by the large hole in the roof of the shed. Taylor had only to take a couple of steps inside before he could see what awaited him in the far corner of the shack, behind a stack of charred crates, covered by fallen shingles. Blow flies, with sheens of silver and gold, buzzed frantically, creating a morbid halo above the charred remains of Anna Wagner.
Taylor motioned Juan away. Flies swarmed around Taylor’s face as he stepped further into the shed. His skin crawled.
“Gawd, it reeks,” Juan whispered behind him. “What is it?”
Taylor gave the youth a sharp look. “Get to a phone. Call the police.”
Juan’s eyes widened as he pressed forward. “Let me see.”
“You don’t need to see this.”
“Why? What is it?”
“Juan.” Taylor leaned forward. “Juan. Call. The. Police.”
The boy tried to crane his neck over Taylor’s shoulder. Whatever sense of fear and revulsion Juan had been feeling a moment ago was now eclipsed by an intense curiosity.
“You go call the police,” Juan snapped. “You’re not the boss of me. I wanna see.”
Taylor was an inch over six feet tall, with a solid, muscular build.
The boy was not going to move him. Eagerly, Juan moved towards the doorway. With one hand, Taylor grasped the teenager’s shoulder and held him back from the doorway.
“You can’t go inside. Call the police. Tell them we’ve found Anna.”
Juan’s shoulder slumped in Taylor’s grasp, and he stopped pressing forward. He looked up at Taylor with shock, like he had just been punched in the stomach.
“It’s her, Juan. Now please call the police.”
Juan nodded, but his feet were not moving. His arms were limp at his sides, and his gaze was fixed on the darkened doorway ahead of him.
“But she ran away to Mexico,” Juan whispered. “Everyone said she ran away.”
“I know what they said. But she’s not in Mexico, Juan. You have to call the police.”
Juan took a deep breath, as if preparing himself to go back to the tractor, but lurched forward instead with a speed that caught Taylor by surprise. By the time Taylor had his hands on the boy again, Juan had already gained entry to the shack. He did not take more than a step or two inside before he stopped on his own, gasping at the sight inside.
Quickly, Taylor slipped his arm around Juan’s waist to prevent him from advancing any farther. His aim for the moment was not to drag the boy out, but to just hold him in place. Juan would leave easily enough in a few seconds, and Taylor could not let a scuffle disturb this crime scene more than they already had by trying to clear the doorway a few minutes ago.
“You’ve seen her,” Taylor said calmly. “Now give her some respect, and let’s go back outside.”
He gently pulled Juan back into the sunlight and, positioning himself between Juan and the doorway, he loosened his grip on the boy.
Juan gasped once more and began to run towards the tractor, bent forward, one hand on his mouth, the other on his stomach.
His legs bent like rubber in his long strides before he fell forward onto his hands and knees. In the tall weeds alongside the shed, he began to spasm and vomit.
Taylor
