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  "Yes, sir."

  Last, he handed Ray a set of keys. Pointing, he said, "Side door. Lock up. Taurus out yonder. Office next door. Most of the men drive here in their own vehicles. That way we have some flexibility. You can take yours home or leave it here since no one else is likely to use it."

  "Today I need it to get home. Then we'll see." He picked up the badge, slipped it into his pocket, and took the Glock. "Do I have an assigned desk?"

  "You have the office next door." He pointed to the Glock. You can leave that on the desk in there until we're finished."

  "Let's get to it, then." Ray went next door, deposited the gun on his desk chair, and glanced around at the spartan office, noting a computer and a couple of stacks of files. He locked the office and joined Mullins and Johnson in the conference room. He selected a chair next to Johnson and across the table from Mullins, who was rubbing the top of his balding head and messing the few black and gray strands of hair in the process. Through the glass, Ray saw a middle-aged woman wearing a headset sitting at a computer station in the far corner. He motioned in her direction.

  "Dispatch. Our 9-1-1 service is integrated with County. Communication is online."

  Ray nodded. "Let me bring you up to date on what happened today and what we found." He took a few minutes doing that. "Jim, do you have anything to add?"

  "No, sir."

  Mullins leaned back. "During your interview, we discussed the meth issues in Middle Tennessee. A large part of our theft and crime relates to drugs, either their manufacture or their acquisition. I put a pile of reports on the credenza in your office to bring you up to date. When something strange happens, our first thought is meth."

  Ray said, "Have you had incidents with stray body parts flying around before?"

  "Not quite the way it happened today, but when a lab blows, sometimes people are burned and killed. It takes a while to gather all the related parts."

  "Any lab explosions in the last couple of days?"

  "A huge one out on Dripping Springs Drive at LeRoy Vast's place, beyond the west side of the park. Happened Friday night around nine. Two burn victims were taken to the hospital in Crestville, then airlifted to Vanderbilt. Two were taken to the morgue. One of them in pieces. He was scattered across the yard. Those at the scene said they didn't have a chance. They were in the kitchen doing the cooking. Too far away from the park to be the source of the hand, however."

  "Did they find all the pieces of the scattered victim?"

  "They were out there all night with search lights and again on Saturday. It's a county case because you weren't here yet. Krantz responded to the scene. He said there were still a couple of pieces missing. Figures the critters got them. Maybe that hand of yours is one of them. Give the medical examiner in Nashville a call tomorrow. We'll run your evidence and the hand to Nashville by courier tonight."

  ***

  Ray took his time driving home. He put the Taurus through its paces, getting the feel of the vehicle and leading him to the conclusion it was well maintained. He'd already checked the tires, looked under the hood, and into the trunk—which was stocked with a box of evidence-gathering supplies, protective gear, body armor—in his size—a shovel, flares, two flashlights, a first aid kit, bolt cutters, crow bar, Taser, three pairs of handcuffs, and various other pieces of equipment. What he found satisfied him. It also spoke to a rather broad definition of detective duties.

  He turned into the golf course property on the eastern edge of the Cove, where he and Sophia rented a small furnished cabin—the lease called it a villa, but she called it a hut—and followed a bumpy gravel road past the driving range to the row of six buildings. They were of similar design, dark wood with a bit of stone trim, open front and rear decks, and wood-burning fireplaces. Theirs was the second in line and the only one with thick foliage around the front entrance. Good for privacy, but of questionable value for safety. He elected to park next to the storage bin across the gravel drive—his Ram and her MINI were lined up in their assigned space.

  The door on cabin five opened. An older man with an unkempt beard stepped onto his porch. "Can I help you?"

  "No, sir. I live here." Ray pointed to his place.

  The man grunted. "Taking more than your fair share of parking spaces."

  "Just for tonight." Guess that decision is made, Ray thought.

  "Good."

  Ray walked over to the man and extended his hand. "Ray Stone."

  "Chester Clap. You the new detective?"

  "Yes, sir. We moved in a few days ago."

  "Know that."

  "Well, I'm pleased to meet you."

  Clap nodded, turned, and went inside.

  "So much for southern hospitality," Ray muttered under his breath while walking the short distance across the yard to his cabin. As he passed their immediate neighbor, he heard yelling. It seemed the couple fought most of the day and half the night.

  Inside, he found Sophia asleep on the ugly rust-colored futon, computer in her lap, and Mischief snuggled against her thigh. Mischief stirred, shook her little round head, then hopped down.

  He squatted to pet her. The seventeen-pound brown—really brindle—and white Boston Terrier was a recent addition to their family. Sunshine, Sophia's King Charles Cavalier, had died a few months earlier of mitral valve disease. Sophia said Mischief filled the hole in her heart.

  He bent to awaken Sophia and kiss her hello. When he jarred the computer, it awakened from sleep mode. He noticed it displayed an article declaring Tennessee was the center of the meth belt, which ran from Oklahoma to the Carolinas.

  He touched her shoulder. When she opened her eyes, he said, "We need to talk."

  "Why? What happened?"

  "Nothing out of the ordinary, given we found a hand, I started work a day early, the neighbor down in cabin five borders on rude, and you're already poking around where you don't belong." He pointed to her computer screen.

  Sophia closed the lid on her Mac, placed it on the battered coffee table, and stood. Facing him, she said, "Seems I have every right to look up whatever I want on my own computer. And, I'm not poking into your case, but the thought does occur to me I need to be versed on the subject. I am working in the ED in the drug-infested area you moved me to."

  "This area is probably less drug-infested than where we lived in Florida, however, here meth is a major issue."

  She rolled her brown eyes.

  "I hate it when you do that. How can I argue with an eye roll?"

  "I don't want to argue. What I want is some faith and trust on your part."

  "Sophia, you promised you'd not get involved in my cases again. Does that promise still hold? Because if it doesn't, I need to know now." Sophia had a history of poking into Ray's cases, leading to suspects threatening her life on two separate occasions.

  "Or what?"

  "Don't push it. I want to be able to discuss cases with you when I need to talk something out, but I don't want you in danger. I don't want you interfering. I just want a normal, rational, somewhat quiet existence here in the hills."

  "Bully, bully. You're acting like one, and I don't like it."

  He watched as she raked her fingers through her short dark hair, picked up Mischief, and stormed out of the house.

  Rather than follow, he headed into the small master bedroom, then into the bathroom to shower. Though he could turn around in the room, he thought he'd never been in a smaller bathroom, not even in his college dorm in Virginia.

  By the time he finished, he decided that he jumped the gun. Of course, she'd be interested in the topic. He found her in the kitchen starting dinner.

  "Sophie, listen—"

  "I . . . Don't . . . Want . . . To discuss it."

  "Fine by me." Ray helped himself to a beer and went out onto the deck overlooking the lake—pond in Sophia's vernacular.

  A few minutes later she joined him, glass of red wine—he assumed Chianti—in hand.

  "Sorry. Let's move on."

  "Oka
y. It's been a stressful day."

  "Yes, it has. How'd it go after I left?"

  "Well, I'm officially sworn in starting today."

  "I figured."

  "We didn't find any more litter."

  "Cute. Very cute. I'm sure the victim—if he's alive—will appreciate having his body parts called litter."

  "Interesting thought. Why would someone's hand be tossed if he was alive?"

  "Um. Maybe it's a gang thing. Is there a mob here? Maybe he was being punished, like I read about with the Chinese triads. Or maybe he's a thief and stole from someone from the mid-east, who then applied old-fashioned justice."

  Ray laughed. "Making it up on the fly, I see. But like I said, interesting thought. There is an organization surrounding the local meth industry." Ray paused. "In any event, Jim and I did the crime scene investigation bit, then went into town and met with the chief. Lots of questions at this point, but no answers."

  "What kind of support is he giving you for your first case? I assume it is your case."

  "Until and unless the sheriff or the state comes in and declares it drug related—which it is—and takes over. They have the authority. Anyway, the only manpower available is Jim, and then only when the patrol shifts are covered."

  "Means you'll be out and about alone in most cases."

  "Yup. I'll be able to get backup when necessary. I'm impressed with Jim so far. He talks easily about the department and the area and doesn't seem angry that I got the job and he didn't."

  "Did he apply?"

  "He told me he did. There were three applicants after the initial screening was finished, him, me, and Deputy Krantz—who bordered on rude when I met him."

  Sophia laughed. "I noticed Krantz had an itch somewhere personal when I pointed him to the path. Wanted to know where Officer Johnson and the hotshot new detective were."

  "Did he say anything more?"

  "No, the good ol' boy told me to be a good little woman and go home." Sophia laughed. "He even asked if I could drive the Ram."

  "Hey, I warned you, and you said you'd be able to put up with the southern male shit—I think that was how you put it—which, by the way, is a sign of caring and respect."

  She rolled her eyes in an exaggerated manner. "I'll tell you a couple of things. First, I've been living with the southern male shit for a while. Second, it's easier to think about being treated like that than it is to actually swallow the condescending manner."

  "I mean it with respect. And I am not condescending."

  "So, you say."

  Chapter 4

  Sophia

  At six-fifteen Monday morning, Sophia drove west towards Crestville. The sun rose from behind the Upper Cumberland Plateau as she made her way down the mountain. Tree-covered hills framed I-40, providing a view she couldn't have imagined when she grew up in North Dakota or during her years in Florida. The varying shades of green highlighted individual trees, which then disappeared into the woods.

  She felt unsettled. The whole falling-body-parts thing unnerved her, as did the prospect of being involved, even peripherally, in another murder. However, she reasoned, an amputated hand wasn't definitely a murder. "Who am I kidding?" she said to the car. Her mind drifted to the day of her kidnapping in Florida, the day she couldn't fight off her attacker. She doubted her ability to withstand an assault. "Woman up," she said, continuing her conversation with the car.

  Ray was emphatic she not poke into his cases again, and she understood his reasoning. In a small town and a small county, anything she became involved in could endanger Ray's position on the police force or carry over, at least politically, to her workplace. She'd gotten a good recommendation from her last job, even though her boss had suggested she move on. The reference letter didn't mention her involvement with the dethroning of a powerful board member and the backlash that resulted or Sophia's refusal to follow orders.

  Sophia's one-month orientation period was complete, and it was the first day she was part of the patient-care schedule. She liked the hospital and employees, though they tended to treat her as an outsider. However, the Emergency Department was state-of-the-art and staffed for the needs of the county, which included surrounding rural areas, small towns, and state parks. She looked forward to the variety of clinical challenges the ED and the geographic area would provide.

  She opted for the first Crestville exit, zoomed down Spring Street, turned north, and arrived in the employee parking lot with time to spare. Emerging from her car, she took a moment to enjoy the cool morning. It would be hot later, but not as hot as Florida. By the time she finished the twelve-hour shift, it would be cool again.

  After arriving in the ED's lounge, she grabbed a cup of coffee and sat at a table with two other nurses, Ricardo Tondo and Katina Cassia.

  Ricky, as he preferred to be called, was a short, thin, light-skinned black Cuban American from Miami, who, according to several co-workers, tended to misunderstand and misstate things on purpose. Katina was a thirty-something, Texas-born Mexican American with long black hair and a medium-height, slender build. She had moved to Crestville with her Italian American husband, then divorced him.

  "So, this is your first day off orientation," Katina said. "You'll be assigned to the trauma rooms with me."

  "Sara is sticking her right in the fire, I see." Ricky's smile rose higher on the left and looked more like a sneer.

  Sophia shifted to face him. "Do you see that as a problem?"

  "Do you see it as a problem? Seems like you do or you wouldn't ask."

  Sophia smiled. "No. I've got trauma experience."

  "And you believe it prepares you for what you'll see here?"

  "Listen, Ricky." Sophia's voice was firm. "Not that you give a damn, but I was a police officer before becoming a nurse. I can handle lots of things. Nursing is a more predictable life—even here."

  Ricky's wide-eyed stare and dropped jaw showed his surprise.

  "I'll get by, and I'm sure Katina will show me the ropes."

  "I will," Katina said. She picked up her coffee cup, stood, and dumped it in the trash. "Let's go get report. I just heard the crackle of the radio in our area."

  "Good luck." Ricky didn't move. He raised one bushy brow and delivered his sneer-smile. The fact that the brow and the smile both elevated on the same side turned an expression, probably meant to convey a challenge, into a somewhat comical look.

  While thinking asshole, Sophia followed Katina into the empty trauma section.

  Sara Gudgeon, the Director of the Emergency Department, came down the hall toward them. She was a short, plump redhead who walked with a sway of her hips, which, perhaps, signaled her body image. "Katina, Sophia, two units are en route with burn victims from another meth lab explosion."

  "From where?" Katina asked.

  "Crestville Station, but a ways out."

  Facing Sophia, Katina said, "EMS has three stations, one in Crestville, one in Baxter, and one in Plateauville. Crestville is the biggest and covers the most area." She looked at Sara. "Details?"

  "Sketchy at the moment. Dr. Gold said they're stable at present."

  "Sophia, get into your protective gear. Hold off on the mask until we see what comes in the door. Set out basins since we need to bathe the patients as soon as possible to get rid of the chemical residue. Have you handled meth lab explosion patients before?"

  "No. Lots of vehicular trauma, knife and gun club stuff, fire, cardiac incidents, drownings—lots of those in my part of Florida. They did cover it in orientation, though."

  "Two things. One, the victims may be contaminated with the chemicals they use. I like to wash the non-burned spots as soon as I can to protect myself and others. If there is a strong odor, we wear masks. At the scene, the paramedics wear respirators. The second thing is that a lot of the meth lab workers—if you will—are also users. Their behavior can be erratic and often violent. Because of that, the police officers or sheriff's deputies stick around—oh, and they want to arrest them, too."

/>   "Alright, then." Sophia tied her gown. "Bring 'em on."

  Sophia, Katina, and Dr. Gold, a clean-shaven, nice-looking man of about forty, met the ambulances under the canopy.

  When the vehicle doors opened, one of the victims, a scrubby-looking huge man—maybe six-four and three hundred pounds—reclined on the gurney with his head elevated. He'd pulled his oxygen mask to the side and was bantering with the medics. "Pepper, my friend, why don't you just let me out of this here bus, and I'll be on my way?"

  Pepper, an almost as large woman in a paramedic uniform, said, "That's what the deputy is afraid of."

  "But, Pepper, sweetie, you might as well just kill me and tell the Lord I died."

  "Why is that?" Pepper said.

  "'Cause if they lock me up, my mama will kill me, sure."

  Pepper nodded to her coworker and unloaded the stretcher.

  Katina said, "Sophia, Bubba is yours. I'll take the other one."

  ***

  Sophia helped guide Bubba Flocker's stretcher into Trauma Room One, where he moved to the hospital stretcher under his own power.

  A deputy sheriff followed them into the room and stationed himself near the door. "I'll be staying here."

  "Is that necessary?" Sophia said.

  "It is, ma'am. Bubba is agile for a man his size. Last time he was here, he escaped, and it took us three weeks to bring him in."

  Sophia grinned. "I'll keep that in mind." She went through her admission routine, taking his vital signs, performing a physical assessment, and asking basic health status questions. In the process, she noted a chemical odor and identified several minor burns on his face, hands, and forearms. "Do you have any headache or nausea?"

  "A bit of a headache. Not much."

  "Any dizziness?"

  "No, ma'am." Sophia decided that Flocker's exposure to the chemicals was not excessive. "I'm going to bathe you to get rid of the residue. Meanwhile, you can tell me what happened."

  "I like this part of coming in here. Make sure you get all of me clean, now."

  "Looks to me like your hands function just fine, sir." As she worked, she asked him, "What happened?"

  "My barbecue blew up." Flocker coughed, then put a hand on his chest.