Читать книгу Once Lost - Блейк Пирс - Страница 8

George Tully didn’t like the looks of one patch of ground over by the road. He didn’t exactly know why.

Nothing to worry about, he told himself. The morning light was probably just playing tricks on him.

He took a deep breath of fresh air. Then he stooped down and picked up a handful of loose soil. As always, it felt soft and luxurious. It also smelled good, rich with nutrients from past corn harvests – husks and ears plowed back into the soil.

Good old black Iowa dirt, he thought as bits of it trickled down between his fingers.

This land had been in George’s family for years, so he’d known this fine soil all his life. But he never got tired of it, and his pride in farming the richest land in the world never waned.

He looked up across fields that stretched as far as he could see. The earth had been tilled for a couple of days now. It was ready and waiting for corn kernels dusted purple with insecticide to be placed where each new cornstalk would soon appear.

He’d held off on the planting until today to make sure of the weather. Of course there was never any way to be certain that a frost wouldn’t come even this late in the year and ruin the crop. He could remember a freak April blizzard back in the ’70s that had taken his father by surprise. But as George felt a breath of warm air and looked up at some high clouds streaking across the sky, he felt as confident as he could hope to feel.

Today’s the day, he thought.

As George stood watching, his field hand Duke Russo came driving a tractor that dragged a forty-foot-long planter behind it. The planter would seed sixteen rows at a time, thirty inches apart, one kernel at a time, deposit fertilizer on top of each one, cover the seed, and roll on its way.

George’s sons, Roland and Jasper, had been standing in the field awaiting the tractor’s arrival, and they walked toward it as it rumbled along one side of the field. George smiled to himself. Duke and the boys made a good crew. There was no need for George to hang around for the actual planting. He waved at the three men, then turned to head back to his truck.

But that odd patch of earth near the road caught his attention again. What was wrong over there? Had the tiller missed that patch? He couldn’t imagine how that could have happened.

Maybe a groundhog had been digging there.

But as he walked toward the spot, he could see that no groundhog had done this. There was no opening, and the soil was patted down.

It looked like something had been buried here.

George growled under his breath. Vandals and pranksters sometimes gave him trouble. A couple of years ago, some boys from nearby Angier stole a tractor and used it to demolish a storage shed. More recently, others had spray-painted obscenities on fences and walls and even cattle.

It was infuriating – and hurtful.

George had no idea why the kids would come out of their way to give him trouble. He’d never done any harm to them that he knew of. He’d reported the incidents to Joe Sinard, Angier’s police chief, but nothing ever got done about it.

“What have those bastards done this time?” he said aloud, tapping the soil with his foot.

He figured he’d better find out. Whatever was buried here might wreck his equipment.

He turned toward his crew and waved for Duke to stop the tractor. When the engine was off, George yelled to his sons.

“Jasper, Roland – fetch me that shovel in the tractor cab.”

“What’s wrong, Pop?” Jasper called back.

“I don’t know. Just do it.”

A moment later, Duke and the boys came walking toward him. Jasper handed his father a shovel.

As the group watched curiously, George prodded the soil with his shovel. As he did, a strange, sour smell met his nostrils.

He felt a wave of instinctive dread.

What the hell’s under here?

He turned over a few shovels full of dirt until he struck something solid but soft.

He shoveled more carefully, trying to uncover whatever it was. Soon something pale came into view.

It took a few moments for George to register what it was.

“Oh, Lord!” he gasped, his stomach churning with horror.

It was a hand – a young woman’s hand.