Bone

by George C. Chesbro

  He recalled how his mission, God's purpose, had almost been thwarted near the beginning. He had chosen his second gill to send on to God, and had brought the head back here for propel burial. He had unbuttoned his raincoat, but had not removed his hat. Eager to get on with the service, his penis painfully erect and throbbing, he had removed the old man's head from the plastic bag with trembling hands, placed the still-dripping object on the smooth, stone altar. Startled by a sound, he had looked up to find a tall, lean and muscular man, dressed in leather shorts, a T-shirt and heavy hiking boots, standing in the mouth of the middle channel, staring. The man had a knapsack draped over his left shoulder, wore a miner's lamp strapped to his forehead and carried a large, powerful flashlight; both the miner's lamp and the flashlight had been turned off. He had not heard the man approach, and Prindle had assumed that the man had seen, then cautiously approached, the glow from his own Coleman lamps.

  "What the hell?!" the man had shouted, his features twisted with shock and horror.

  And then he had panicked. He'd had no permission to execute anyone who was not in need of God's final solace, but this sudden and totally unexpected appearance of a stranger out of nowhere had made him fear for the loss of his cathedral and the termination of his mission; once again he would be thwarted in his desire to serve God, just as he had been at the seminary. He could not let everything be taken from him once again. He had reached into the plastic bag and grabbed the straight razor he had sanctified and used for the executions, then raced around the quicksand pit toward the other man. The man, still numb with shock, had simply stared at him for a few seconds, then, at the last moment, had snatched one of the bones protruding from the earthen wall to his left and used it to defend himself.

  Prindle had lunged at the man, slashing at his body with the razor. Displaying great speed and agility, the man had jumped back, at the same time striking him a glancing blow on the left shoulder. Then the man had swung at his head, narrowly missing, brushing the rim of his rain hat and causing him to stumble and slip on the loose bones, which had clattered away into the darkness.

  Prindle recalled how the man had kept coming at him, swinging the rock-hard bone. He had ducked and scrambled to his feet, slashing at the man's midsection, at the same time trying to shield his eyes from the beam of the powerful flashlight which the man had turned on and was using to blind him. In frustration he had picked up one of the heavy bones and hurled it at the man; there had been a solid thud of bone against flesh, and the flashlight had fallen from the man's hand to shatter on the rock floor. Then he had attacked again with his razor, forcing the man, now obviously dazed and disoriented, to stagger back into the narrow confines of the third channel on the man's left.

  Unwilling to follow the man into the darkness, he had hesitated at the entrance to the channel. Suddenly he had heard a shout of dismay—a sound which abruptly became muffled and distant, as if the man were falling. There was a sound of a body hitting against rock, and then a faint splash. Then there was nothing but silence and the sound of his own heavy breathing.

  He'd gotten down on his hands and knees and crawled slowly into the third channel, which he had never explored. Ten feet in he reached out with his hand and touched nothing but air; he was at the edge of a chasm of uncertain width and depth. The man had fallen into an underground stream, and he'd been certain that the man would soon be dead—if not from drowning or being buried alive, then from the injuries he had sustained in the fight and during his fall.

  He'd taken what he'd presumed to be the stranger's death as a good omen; it had been God Himself who had taken the man's life in order to keep him from interfering with the mission.

  He'd been thoroughly astounded when, weeks later while riding in the van with Anne, he had seen the man, still clutching the bone he had wielded, on the streets. He'd had no idea how the man had survived, but he obviously had—and Anne had insisted that they stop and investigate this "newcomer." In that moment he had envisioned all his plans—God's plans—coming to naught. But the man had turned out to be mute. Prindle recalled how readily the man had accepted the sandwich, apple and carton of juice Anne had offered, but would not speak. Nor had his glacial blue eyes betrayed any sign of recognition when they had passed over his own face. It was then that he'd realized that the man with the bone was obviously brain-damaged as a result of his fall.

  God's will, he had thought.

  Or perhaps the man was God's messenger; the stranger had appeared out of the darkness, in a place he had assumed no one else even knew about, much less could find a way into. Also, the man's life had been spared in some unfathomable way, perhaps by a miracle of divine intervention; and now the man had shown up on the streets and was living in a way that, because of Anne's strong interest and determination, caused them to frequently be in close contact. Prindle recalled how puzzling it had all been to him, and still was. If the man with the bone was a messenger from God, what was the message?

  He'd fallen in love with Anne soon after he'd met her, but had not known how to proceed. Up to that time, his sexual desires had always been directed toward other men; he'd loathed the desires, and himself. With Anne, finally, he had come to desire a woman. He'd been sure Anne would be able to help him change his life, and he'd been convinced that she was God's gift to him. She was there for him, and so he'd decided that he did not have to be in any hurry to draw her to him. God would make everything turn out all right.

  But the continued presence of the homeless man with the bone, the man who had come upon him in his stone cathedral, had continued to disturb him, even as he continued to ponder the question of what message God was sending him.

  What had become unmistakably clear was that Anne, from the first time they confronted him, was strongly attracted to the man with the bone. Frequently, Anne had asked him to drive out of their way so that they could go past St. Thomas Church, where the man could often be found listening to the madman Zulu as he sat with other homeless people and pedestrians who had paused to rest. Anne was always giving the man sandwiches. When the man was not sitting on the steps, Anne would ask Zulu about him—but Zulu had never had much to say to her. When they drove around the city, Anne had always been turning in her seat, her gaze restlessly wandering over the crowds on the sidewalks, and he'd known that she was searching for the man with the bone.

  Helplessly and with growing resentment, he had watched as Anne's obsession toward the man with the bone had increased. When she had known where he was, Anne had often spent her lunch hours with him, talking, trying in vain to get some response from a man who would listen with apparent attention and even interest, but who would never reply. Still, he had been certain that the obsession would pass, God's will would be done and Anne would be his. And in the weeks, months, the seasons that passed, he had found fulfillment in his role as God's bringer of lasting peace to those who, it could be said, were of no further use to themselves or anyone else on earth.

  But then he had suddenly been faced with a new crisis and dilemma, Prindle thought: the morning after he had committed his first double execution, the man with the bone had suddenly and mysteriously appeared in Central Park.

  It had been nine in the morning when a call had come into the Project Helping Hand office from a patrolman who was concerned about an apparently homeless man, motionless and mute, who was squatting in the mud in the Sheep Meadow, grasping a bone. Anne and he had gone there, and he had immediately seen that something had happened to, or changed in, the man with the bone. His blue eyes seemed haunted, out of focus, and he would not look at Anne when she spoke, or even give any indication that he heard her voice. At one moment his features were twisted in anguish, but then his expression would change to one of fierce concentration—as if he were trying to remember something. Anne had stayed with him for almost two hours that first morning, talking constantly, pleading, but getting no response, and had finally left behind three sandwiches for him. Anne had been constantly distracted all through the day,
and when she insisted that they go back in late afternoon, the man with the bone was where they had left him, in the same position, the sandwiches in front of him shredded by birds and squirrels, or by the huge Norway rats which migrated each spring from the tunnels beneath the city to Central Park.

  Anne had been beside herself, and had again begun talking to the man, begging, cajoling, even tugging at his coat sleeve. The man had remained mute and immobile, the changing expressions on his face the only indication of the tempest that was going on inside his mind.

  He had not known what it meant, Prindle thought, and he remembered his increasing uneasiness.

  As night fell and the man had still not moved, Anne had begun calling various city agencies, asking for help—but, despite the incessant rain, the temperature had been relatively mild, and Anne had been told there was nothing that could legally be done; if a man wanted to squat in Central Park, and refuse to talk, eat or drink, that was his business.

  They had returned early the next morning—to find the man with the bone exactly where they had left him. Again Anne had pleaded with the man, and again there had been no response. It had taken most of that day to enlist Ali Hakim's assistance, and then Ali had said that they should wait until the next morning in order to make a better case for forced removal to a city agency.

  And it was on the morning of the third day that the man with the bone, to everyone's astonishment, had spoken.

  Prindle recalled how, in those first moments, he was certain that the man would recognize him, and that his mission would be ended. But it had not happened; the man with the bone not only failed to recognize him, but did not remember the incident in the cathedral. The man with the bone did not remember anything.

  He had not understood it then, Prindle thought, and he still did not understand it. God seemed to be playing with him.

  Then had come the days, stretching into weeks, of anxiously waiting to see if the man would regain his memory and condemn him; finally there had been the torment of Anne's rejection, and then making the terrible hurt even worse by sending him away and taking Bone in to live with her. To make love to her . . .

  A man could only take so much, Prindle thought. That much God had certainly taught him. He'd had to do what he did to Ali Hakim, for Ali too had rejected him. God had given him a mission to end the suffering of the wretched, but God obviously expected him to take care of himself.

  Prindle sighed, then shook his head violently, as if to banish all the memories of Anne, Bone and his own seemingly endless torment. Then, without even going through the customary ritual, he removed the three heads from the bag and tossed them out into the middle of the quicksand pit, where they landed with a soft splush-splush-splush, floated for a few seconds, then slowly sank beneath the dark surface.

  The message, Prindle thought as he stared at the flickering lights reflected in the dead eyes of the sinking heads, was that God enjoyed playing tricks on him.

  Now it was his turn.

  (ii)

  Each day on her way to work Anne had to pass the building where Ali Hakim had worked. In the ten days that had passed since the neuropsychiatrist had been murdered, Anne had avoided looking at the building, since it stirred so many nightmarish thoughts, memories and fears. Now, according to the news bulletin she had heard on the radio, the horror had started again. There had been three homeless people decapitated during the night. The killer was following the same pattern of cutting off the heads, and sometimes the genitals, but he was obviously picking up the pace.

  But was Bone really the killer?

  On this morning Anne stopped on the sidewalk, deliberately looked up at the floor where Ali had had his offices, and she frowned.

  The serial killer was back to killing the homeless, but he had broken that pattern once, with Ali. Why?

  "The killings have something to do with me."

  For the first few days, while the shock of Ali's death was still fresh and numbing, she had believed that Bone was indeed the killer; the evidence had seemed incontrovertible.

  Then why was there still this gnawing uncertainty? she wondered.

  Why did she still love him?

  She remembered the year she had spent trying to make contact with him, trying to get him to respond to her; she remembered how, from the first time she had gone up to him, she had sensed such a feeling of decency in him.

  But there could have been another, murderous, personality in him. Ali had said so; Bone had said so.

  With Ali's severed head, Bone's femur and razor found in the same bag, how could she still believe he might be innocent?

  Precisely because, she thought, the evidence seemed almost too incontrovertible, and precisely because Ali's murder did not fit into the pattern. Bone was certainly not stupid—and, if there was a killer inside him, the killer would not be stupid either. Killing Ali, and then allowing himself to be trapped, would be very stupid. And she had been with Bone when they had gone back to his campsite in the park and found his belongings missing. Had that just been a show put on for her benefit? Had the killer in Bone, the secret self in his "stranger," taken those belongings to another place?

  Possible—but she didn't believe it, not now. She hadn't really believed it even in the first days of her initial shock.

  "The killings have something to do with me."

  Someone had framed Bone, and Anne felt ashamed of herself for reacting the way she had, for not thinking clearly after Ali had been murdered. Now Bone was staying away to protect her, she thought; but if he had contacted her in the first few days, she would not have been available to him. She would have been terrified of him.

  But not now, she thought as she turned away from the building and hurried on down the sidewalk. Now she must once again begin searching for him, for he certainly needed her help.

  Ten minutes after she sat down at her desk to clean up some paperwork before going out in the van, the phone on her desk rang.

  "Project Helping Hand," Anne said as she picked up the receiver and cradled it between her neck and shoulder.

  "Anne," the voice on the other end of the line said softly.

  "Bone!"

  "Shhh!"

  Anne wrapped her fingers tightly around the receiver, breathed a deep sigh. "It's all right, Bone. There's nobody else in the office right now. Are you all right?"

  "I didn't kill Ali, Anne. He was dead when I walked into his office; his head, my razor and the bone were in a bag by the desk. It was a setup. And I didn't kill the three people who died last night, either. But the latest killings meant that I had to call you."

  "Bone . . . why didn't you call me at home?"

  "I thought your phone might be tapped. Also, I thought it might be less . . . frightening . . . if I called you here."

  "I'm not frightened of you, Bone."

  There was a long pause on the other end, then: "You wouldn't be human if you weren't frightened of me after what happened to Dr. Hakim. I was frightened of me before I walked into that office, because it wasn't until that moment that I was absolutely certain I wasn't the killer. But then, of course, I knew that everyone else would be convinced beyond a doubt that I was the killer."

  "Bone, where are you? I'll come to you."

  "No."

  "Trust me, Bone. Let me help you."

  "I do trust you, Anne, but that's not the point. If I tell you where I am, and you don't inform the police, then you'll be aiding a fugitive. But you can help me; I need you to help me."

  "Just tell me how."

  "Anne, listen to me; I wouldn't be calling you unless I had to. I didn't want you involved in any way, because I sense there's great danger here. Whoever killed Dr. Hakim knew that I was going to see him Sunday mornings. If he knew about Dr. Hakim, then he probably knows about you. You must be very careful, Anne."

  "I'll be careful, Bone," Anne said evenly. "Just tell me what you want me to do."

  "I had to leave Dr. Hakim's office, because I didn't have any choice. Since then, I
've made some progress."

  "Bone—!"

  "Just listen. I can't give you details, because I want you to immediately report this conversation to Lieutenant Lightning after we finish talking, and I don't want you in a position of having to lie. There's something I must do, but there are certain reasons why I can't do it yet. But I knew, after I was told of the latest killings, that I had to act; that's the reason for this call. I'm convinced that the killer knows me, or is connected to me in some way, and I'm also convinced that the killings would have stopped if I'd been caught. That was the point of killing Dr. Hakim; the killer wanted to retire, and he wanted to make sure I'd take full blame for everything he'd done. That means that every moment I'm free, more homeless people are in danger of being murdered. I believe the killings will stop if I turn myself in, but then I'll never be able to clear myself, and I'll never be free again."

  "Oh, Bone," Anne breathed, "how you must be suffering."

  "I have to catch the killer myself, Anne—or at least be able to prove who it is. I have a witness who'll testify that I couldn't have committed the murders last night, but if I turn myself in the police will still want to charge me with all the other killings."

  "Bone, who's the witness?" She paused, listening to the silence on the other end of the line, then added: "You're right; I don't want to know."

  "All of the murder victims that I know of seem to have been—with the single exception of Ali Hakim—the most helpless of the homeless, people who have fallen right off the ladder; they were absolutely wretched people who couldn't help themselves, and who refused help. Am I right?"

  "I hadn't thought about it," Anne said after a pause. "Now that I do, I think you may be right. Really, I'm not sure."

  "I'd like you to try to check it out for me—every victim. What I think you'll find is that every single victim, except Ali Hakim, was hopelessly mentally ill or alcoholic, and had consistently refused to accept any kind of help. Find out how many had walked away from mental institutions, or drug treatment facilities; see if you can get agency and hospital records on them, if there are any. And see if they might have anything else in common. I'm not sure what it would mean if I am right, or if the information will do me any good, but it's a start. Can you do that for me?"