She listened for the telltale hum of a swarm, but heard nothing out of the ordinary. A breeze blew in off the river. No body parts, she decided, trying not to feel disappointed. Sam was muttering. “Eight, twenty-six, four. Eight, twenty-six, four. Eight—” “Why don’t you write it on the palm of your hand.” “Hush.” The door on the shed was bowed in so that Sonora could see the particleboard flooring—beige with an overlay of grime. Red rust flaked on the door hinges. Sam worked the combination lock, fingers thick and graceless. The lock clicked open. He glanced at Sonora over his shoulder. “Drumroll right about now.” “Ta da, Sam.” The door stuck when he shoved it, but he put his shoulder into it and it slid out of the way, a metallic squeal heralding progress. It was dark inside. Sonora smelled oil, dust, with lake water and mud overtones. No odor of sweat putridity, no swarm of flies or maggots, tattletales of gore. Sam had the large black Maglite, cop issue, and he held it high over his shoulder, as they’d been taught to do years ago.
