A Rumor of Bones: A Lindsay Chamberlain Mystery

by Beverly Connor

  "Yes," Lindsay added. "the kind a magician might pull out of a hat."

  "I'm afraid you're going to have to spell it out for me," Sally said.

  "That's what the killer might have used to lure the children. A pet rabbit. The children would know and would not be afraid of a magician who works at school fairs and Fourth-of-July picnics. It fits "

  "He wears that big false mustache and has a round face. He could be mistaken for Ned by a small child," Derrick said.

  "I guess we'd better see the sheriff," Lindsay said.

  "What? A magician?" the sheriff exclaimed to Lindsay, who sat on the other side of his desk.

  "Jacob Tyler," said Lindsay. "Think about it. The mustache Jenna Venable saw. It was a better disguise than he had hoped. She thought it was Ned because Ned's mustache looks particularly large the way it wraps around his face and connects with his sideburns"

  "At the same time," Derrick prodded, "most of the kids would recognize the magician they had seen at their school. Parents usually tell their kids not to talk to strangers. He had the same access to the children and the tripod that Mickey had"

  "Can't you give me anything more than that?"

  "No"

  "Then all you have is a guess that because Jenna described a man in mustache and Jacob Tyler sometimes wears a large mustache and sometimes entertains children, that he is the killer. I'm sorry, Lindsay, but that is nothing. Look, people are sleeping more easily now. Many think we have the right man. I don't want to go saying it may be another man without more proof."

  "Can we look at the crime scene evidence again?" Lindsay smiled sweetly at the sheriff.

  "Why? What have you discovered?"

  Derrick grinned at him. "Can we take a look?"

  In the evidence room Lindsay spread the rabbit bones from the crime scene out on the table next to the wild rabbit bones she brought from the Indian site. The sheriff and Derrick looked over her shoulder.

  "Look how much larger they are," she said. "These are not the bones of an American wild rabbit."

  "You mean this could be the rabbit in the picture of Jacob Tyler in his magician's getup?" the sheriff asked.

  "Maybe, but I doubt it. I'm sure he has used lots of rabbits."

  "I'll admit this is a good clue. But it might be like the dog. The killer grabbed a little girl with her pet rabbit."

  "I hadn't thought of that," Lindsay said, a little dismayed. "But the girls' mothers can tell you if any one of them had a pet rabbit. Don't you have enough reason to talk to Jacob Tyler now?"

  "I can talk to him, and I will. But he doesn't even need a lawyer to know that what we have is nothing."

  "But maybe if he knows he is being watched, he will stop," Lindsay suggested.

  "Maybe for a while," the sheriff responded. "What we need are the pictures the killer took at the crime scene. They weren't in Micky Lawson's files or at his house. They've got to be somewhere if they haven't been destroyed. I'm afraid any first-year law student could get either Ned or Mickey off. And both of them are sticking to their innocence."

  "The Tyler mansion. That's where the tripod was found. That's where the pictures are," Derrick said. "Can you get a warrant for it?"

  "I don't know."

  "Then you think this is credible," said Lindsay.

  "What you said makes sense. That pet rabbit got itself buried at the crime scene somehow."

  -Theodore Roethke

  The Marrow

  Chapter 12

  LINDSAY AWOKE EARLY, as usual. The sounds and smells of night were still in the air. After today's digging, Derrick and she would be going to Atlanta, and she was surprised at how much she was looking forward to it. She stretched, then jumped out of bed. It was a cool morning, so she put on jeans and a longsleeved, white cotton shirt. She could change later when the site started to heat up. No one else seemed to be stirring, so Lindsay decided to take a walk by the river in the cool morning air before the site crew arrived.

  The sun was just below the horizon, and the sky was a faint orange. The deer trail she followed through the woods was barely visible. As the silvery glitter of the river came into view, Lindsay caught the smell of something out of place, but vaguely familiar. Suddenly, someone grabbed her and put a rag across her face. It was chloroform, someone was- She tried to scream and almost choked. She couldn't breathe, couldn't move her arms. She tried to kick, but her effort had no effect. The grip tightened around her, and she grew weaker as she struggled to get a breath. She couldn't fight. She couldn't think. Everything went black.

  Lindsay awoke sick to her stomach. Her head was pounding, and the taste and smell of chloroform was in her mouth. She was in a moving vehicle, bouncing mercilessly on its ridged floorboard. Her mouth was taped shut, and she tried to move, but her hands were tied behind her back and her feet bound with duct tape. She attempted to raise her aching head but only succeeded in banging it against the hard floor. She managed to roll onto her back and could see the tops of trees rushing by the windows. She was in a Jeep being driven deep into the woods. Each bounce of the Jeep seemed to add tenfold to her misery, and she strained to turn her head to see who was driving. It was Patrick Tyler.

  How dare he? she thought. Anger surged through her, partially reviving her, and she struggled at the bindings that held her. Patrick looked back, as if sensing her consciousness, and she saw madness in his eyes and hatred in the twist of his mouth.

  "You're awake. I want you to be awake," he snarled before turning around again.

  Lindsay continued trying to loosen her bindings, but the tape was too strong and tight. She looked around for something that might cut them. One of the site shovels lay a couple of feet from her. She saw the large black letters of the site number written on the wooden handle. Derrick kept all the site shovels razor-sharp. She tried to scoot toward it, but the ride was too rough.

  As the Jeep drove deeper into the woods, Lindsay wondered if anyone had seen what had happened to her. How would anyone possibly know where to look for her? Her aching head and sluggish thoughts prevented her from forming any reasonable escape plan. Suddenly the Jeep stopped, banging her against the front seat.

  Patrick came around back, opened the tailgate, and pulled her out. He had a gun tucked in his pants and a knife hanging in a scabbard on his belt.

  "How did you like that ride, bitch?" he yelled, pushing her to the ground and kicking her in the side. "Do you know what she did to me because of you? She screamed at me, called me a stupid moron in front of everybody. And she beat me with that cane of hers. Even after what I did for her. They all stood around, watching and grinning. Even Mother stood there with that stupid grin of hers, afraid to do anything to help me."

  Lindsay tried to talk, to answer him through the tape covering her mouth. Her nose was running, and she was sick to her stomach. It was hard to breathe. Patrick laughed at her distress.

  "Not such a prima donna now, are we, bitch!" He reached his big hand to her face and ripped off the tape.

  Lindsay gasped at the pain, and she choked on the fresh air as she inhaled. "What are you talking about?" she protested, coughing and trying to breathe slowly so she would not throw up.

  "Don't pretend you don't know. I know you went to the sheriff and gave him the gifts I left for you, showed him the panties. Why did you do that? Those were intimate things between a man and a woman. You had no right to show them to the sheriff."

  "You had no right to steal my underwear. What was I supposed to think about you?"

  "I just wanted something of yours. I loved you. I would've been nice to you. Now I'm going to treat you like what you are, just another bitch. I'm not going to be nice to you. I'm going to take what I want, then bury you out here in the woods where no one will ever find your body. Then I'm going back and shoot that boyfriend of yours in the head. He shouldn't have done that to me. No, he shouldn't have. Maybe before I kill him, I'll tell him what I did to you. Yeah, I'll do that" Patrick nodded his head up and down, grinning.
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br />   Lindsay's fear, along with the lingering effects of the chloroform, were making her sicker. God, she thought, he wants to kill Derrick, too. She had to stop him. Lindsay tried to move, but her side hurt and waves of nausea surged through her continuously. Think, she thought, think. You have to get out of this.

  "You have nothing to say, bitch? I'll bet you wish you had been nice to me now. It was me that followed you in the car that night. You almost wrecked turning onto the dirt road." He grinned wickedly. "I came out to the site with the mayor and sheriff when you all first got here, but you didn't notice me, did you, bitch? But I noticed you. Even all covered with mud, I could see you were for me" He scowled. "Say something, bitch!"

  "Do you have any water?" she asked.

  "Sure." He grinned. "Anything you need. You're going to need all your strength to dig your grave." He knelt and shoved a canteen at her, and she took a couple of small sips before he pulled it back, but that was all she wanted. Any more than a sip or two would further agitate her queasy stomach.

  Patrick reached into the Jeep, brought out the shovel, and stood it against the side of the vehicle. He slid the knife from its scabbard in a slow menacing motion and waved it in front of Lindsay's face before cutting the tape that bound her legs. When he pulled her to a standing position, she staggered and fell against him. He stood there with his arms around her and began to rub his hands all over her.

  "I'd wait until the effects of the chloroform wear off, or I'm likely to vomit all over you. I don't think that is what you have in mind."

  He pushed her away. "I can wait. Nobody knows you're here. I have all the time in the world. There's a clearing at the end of the trail. That's where I'm going to bury you. A little digging will work the chloroform out of you. You should be good at digging graves." He laughed as if he had said something clever. "Besides, I haven't decided everything I want to do to you yet. I'll tell you what I'm planning while you dig. You ought to enjoy that"

  "You don't want to do this." Lindsay tried to think of something persuasive to say, but everything that went through her mind sounded like begging. She didn't think that begging would work.

  "You don't know what I want to do. You don't know what I can do. She thinks she's in charge of everything. She doesn't know the things she made me do make me stronger than her. I'll show her. I'll show you. I'll show them all. Then I'll see them stand there, scared shitless of me °"

  As Lindsay walked along the narrow path, her hands still bound behind her, she only half listened to Patrick's babbling. She concentrated on finding an escape route. A clearing was visible just ahead, and beyond it the woods grew thick. If she could reach the dense undergrowth before he caught or shot her, she might get away.

  "I can't wait to see your Derrick's face when I tell him what I did to you."

  Lindsay blinked back the tears. Escape, she thought. Concentrate on escape, not fear. Not nausea, not pain. Escape.

  They reached the clearing, and he cut the tape that bound her hands, then pushed the shovel at her. "Now dig," he ordered, taking his gun from his pants.

  Lindsay didn't even think. She turned and swung the sharpened shovel, hitting him as hard as she could, and ran. She heard gun shots and felt a burning pain in her thigh that knocked her to the ground. She rolled over and managed to get back on her feet. The pain in her leg was intense, but she struggled to run faster. She tripped over a root and fell again.

  Risking a backward glance, she saw Patrick running toward her with the gun. His left arm dangled at his side bleeding profusely where the shovel had cut into it. She tried to scramble to her feet as he aimed the gun. He was screaming at her, and his right arm was shaking. She prayed for him to miss.

  As if by magic, the point of a spear emerged from Patrick's stomach. He fell to his knees, dropping the gun. Bright, red blood dripped from the shiny obsidian point, but only a little blood seeped around the wooden shaft. Patrick put a hand around the thick shaft protruding from his abdomen and looked at Lindsay, bewildered. She was bewildered, too. Then she saw Derrick running toward them. He was carrying his atlatl.

  Derrick reached Lindsay and knelt down beside her.

  "He shot me, Derrick." Lindsay's voice was weak and pitiful.

  "I know" Derrick cut her jeans with his knife and exposed the wound in her thigh. He tore a strip of cloth from his shirt and placed it over the wound.

  "It hurts really bad," Lindsay said, starting to cry.

  "I know, baby. I'm going to get you help real soon." He tore another piece from his shirt and placed it around the back of her thigh at the entry wound. Then he tied his bandanna around her leg.

  "Is he dead?"

  "I don't know."

  As if answering, Patrick groaned.

  "Why is he still on his knees like that?" she asked.

  "I don't know. Don't look at him, sweetheart"

  "We should do something."

  "I'm going to get you out of here first."

  Derrick picked her up and carried her through the woods to his Jeep, just as the sheriff's car came charging up the old roadbed and stopped beside them. The sheriff, a deputy, and Frank jumped out.

  "Patrick is down that trail. He shot Lindsay. I have to get her to the hospital."

  The sheriff waved them on. "I'll talk to you at the hospital."

  "I'll drive," Frank said. "You hold Lindsay in the back." They climbed into Derrick's Jeep, and Frank started the engine and headed out of the woods. Is it too rough?"

  "Just get her to the hospital," Derrick begged. "She's losing a lot of blood." Frank drove faster.

  "How did you know where to find me?" Lindsay asked.

  "Marsha. She arrived at the site early and saw Patrick's Jeep heading into the woods like a bat out of hell. She thought something was wrong," Derrick answered.

  "Marsha," whispered Lindsay. "That woman is everywhere"

  "Hush," Derrick said.

  "My leg hurts. Would you get me an aspirin?"

  "It will be all right. The doctors will give you something when we get to the hospital," he whispered.

  Frank arrived at the dirt road, drove a mile, and turned onto the paved road leading to town.

  Derrick held her closer. "Hurry," Lindsay heard him say before she lost consciousness.

  Lindsay awakened in a hospital room. Her head was throbbing, and her leg ached. When she tried to move, her side hurt. She turned her head and saw Derrick asleep in a chair. He opened his eyes, sensing her movement.

  "Welcome back," he said, coming over to her.

  "I feel so ..."

  "They had to do a little repair on your leg, but you'll be fine, dancing in no time," he said, taking her hand.

  "Dancing ... I'm sorry about this weekend ..."

  Derrick shook his head. "There'll be plenty of weekends. Try to get some sleep." He stroked her hair.

  "What happened to ... to ... Patrick?" she asked.

  "Patrick is in intensive care. He had surgery. I don't know how he is."

  "Thank you for rescuing me."

  He took her hand and kissed it. He was all out of smart replies, and his eyes misted over.

  "I'm all right," Lindsay said.

  "I know."

  Lindsay tried to sit up

  "Try to rest," he told her.

  "No, I need to be awake. Please help me"

  Derrick helped Lindsay into a sitting position and put extra pillows behind her. "How's that?"

  "Better. What did the doctors say?" she asked.

  Derrick moved the chair closer, sat, and held her hand. "The bullet went clean through. It didn't hit an artery or bone or anything. You didn't lose as much blood as it looked when I brought you in. You have a slight concussion, and the doctor wants to keep you for a couple of days. You also have some bruised ribs. What happened? How did he get you?"

  "I went for a walk by the river before daylight. He caught me from behind and held chloroform over my face. The next thing I knew, I was bound in the back of his jeep, riding
through the woods."

  "What else? Tell me about it if you can."

  "He wanted me to dig my grave, and he wanted to kill you."

  11 God, Lindsay. I'm sorry I let him hurt you."

  "It wasn't your fault."

  "I told you I'd keep you safe."

  "Aren't we getting rather traditional all of a sudden'? I thought that was my job. Everything is all right now. Did you call my parents'?"

  "Yes. I talked to your father. I told him you were going to be fine."

  "What time is it? How long have I been here?"

  "It's about 2:00 in the afternoon"

  "Have you been here the whole time?"

  "Yes, of course"

  "Why don't you get Frank and Marsha to take you out to eat, and I'll call my father?"

  "All right. I'll be back in about an hour." Derrick kissed her and left.

  Lindsay called home, and her father answered the phone. He must have been sitting beside it, she thought.

  "Lindsay," he said and hesitated. "How are you? Tell me the truth" Lindsay tried to tell him she was fine, but he interrupted. "Derrick said you'd been shot."

  "In the leg. It didn't hit anything. I'm fine. Just a little sore."

  "He said you have a concussion."

  "Just a slight one"

  "Anything else? Tell me exactly what happened, Lindsay. Don't soften it. Your mother and I want to know what happened to you."

  "It all happened so fast. I got hold of a shovel, hit him with it, and ran. He shot me in the leg and was about to shoot me again when Derrick caught up with us and stopped him."

  "I'm relieved to hear you're all right, Lindsay. Here, your mother wants to talk to you"

  Lindsay talked to her mother. Her practical nononsense conversation was comforting. Her mother didn't dwell on what might have happened. She made everything seem normal again.

  Lindsay hung up the phone just as Michelle walked into the room with some flowers. She set them on the night stand and sat down in the chair beside Lindsay's bed.

  "Thank you" Lindsay eyed her suspiciously.

  "Don't worry. They aren't poisonous." Michelle smiled. "Well, Lindsay, you do have a knack for getting everyone's sympathy, including mine. Of all the things I might have wished on you, this sure wasn't one of them."