Ashes and Bones

by Dana Cameron

  She giveth with one hand, and with the other, taketh away.

  “I’m saving a few to share together. I know you’re awfully busy with…whatever you’re doing this summer. I haven’t heard from you since the postcard you sent from Hawaii; lucky Mrs. Chang, she gets to see you.”

  Lucky Mrs. Chang.

  “Well, give me a call. Or you could visit. You know I live on your visits. Bye.”

  Live for my calls, my pale pink butt. Ma was never in the country long enough to sit around and pine for me. If I called, I was being needy; if I didn’t call, I was being thoughtless. And I recalled that the whole “I live on your visits” thing started just after she’d read Dorothy Parker in one of her many literature courses.

  I had to call now, though. Had to find out about the chocolates.

  But, as usual, Ma had called and gone, and who knew when she’d get back? She could be in Peru by now, which under other circumstances wouldn’t be such a bad thing, but this whole things-I-hadn’t-sent people thing was really creeping me out. I left a message: While she might hate my answering machine, she found her own invaluable.

  “Hi, Ma, it’s me. Look, I didn’t send you any chocolates, and it’s very important that you call me and tell me where they came from, what kind they are, whether you ate any. I’m sure it’s fine, but just in case…well, I’m thinking that someone is playing practical jokes on me and I wouldn’t want you to get hurt. You know, maybe they fixed them with Exlax or something. If you haven’t eaten any, well, don’t. And call me if you get anything else that says it’s from me. Call me right away anyway, okay? Talk to you soon.” I put the phone down, only to realize that my hands were shaking. The rest of me was shaking, too.

  Okay, if this is Tony, he wants me to see him, he wants me to know that he’s got an eye on the people in my life. That he’s got an eye on me. Everything so far, well, it’s been pretty benign. Flowers, chocolates, steaks. Sounds like courtship presents. Maybe that’s how his mind works. He’d been flirtatious with me, but I’d always just assumed that it was a ruse, a way of feeling me out, so to speak. Find out what kind of person I am. So maybe, in his weird take on things, this is a kind of gesture. Gifts to me, to my family…well, it could be worse. Hell, who am I kidding? It will get worse. But if he’s spiraling in, I’ve got the time now to start thinking about this, follow the leads, track him down before this gets really bad.

  I was home for the next call, the next morning. It was from my sister, Bucky.

  Someone had tried to burn down the Pollock Farms veterinary clinic.

  Chapter 5

  I WASN’T THERE,” SHE SAID. “I JUST GOT THE CALL from the old man. Excuse me, our senior partner.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “One of the older dogs died, probably from smoke. But I don’t think the racket did them any good.”

  I took a deep breath. “I mean, none of your colleagues were there?”

  “No, a car passed by and the driver saw the smoke. Thank God for cell phones.”

  I waited for her to continue, and when she didn’t, I started to get scared. “I just need an hour to get my stuff together,” I said. “I’ll be down by noon.”

  Some of the sharpness returned to her voice. “No, no. Don’t bother. I just wanted to tell you.”

  I hated when she got like this. “Wanted to tell me. Bucky, someone tried to torch your office. I know that place means more to you than—”

  “Yeah, well, what are you going to do? I’m not hurt, we were lucky that no more of the animals were hurt badly, and the fire was reported before it got too far. What can you do?”

  I didn’t say: I can comfort you, I can help you get through this. That would have had exactly the wrong effect.

  I didn’t say it, but she picked up on that anyhow. “Look, don’t bother. Joel’s down here being a big enough girl for all three of us. I just wanted to tell you, because I know you like to hear about what’s going on with me. That’s all.”

  The fact that Bucky’d called me was proof enough that she was rattled. I was glad that her sensible boyfriend Joel had moved in with her last year, and that was the only reason that I let her get away with her lame excuse. Or calling him “a big girl,” just because Joel was capable of dealing with emotions, and tried to address hers.

  “Yeah, you’re right. I’m glad you told me. And…I hope…you’ll tell me if anything else happens.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  I told her what had been going on with the phone calls, and my suspicions about Tony Markham. “I think they might be related.”

  “I think you might be high,” my sister said. “Emma, for fuck’s sake—a little evidence, please? Above and beyond the circumstantial?”

  “What more do you want? You don’t think that this suggests that Tony might be back?”

  “Sure it suggests it. Who wouldn’t think that?” Sarcasm is my sister’s oeuvre. “But let’s pull up a moment. The guy is supposed to be dead.”

  “I saw him,” I said.

  “You saw a guy at the airport, when you were half asleep and jetlagged. Okay, let’s go with that, then. Maybe he isn’t dead, but we can’t prove he isn’t dead, not conclusively. We can only say that odds are, he is. Let’s look at where there is better evidence—”

  “You sound like Brian,” I muttered. I tried to relax my clenched fist, wiped my palms on my shorts.

  “Thanks. Okay, if you’re curious, I think it’s a guy we just reported for animal cruelty, Fred Gamble. You should have seen what he was doing with that puppy farm. And we shut him down. Now, anyone who is willing to do that has got to have a few screws loose, and with Fred’s temper and talent for expressing himself forcefully, he immediately shoots up the list of my favorite possible suspects.”

  “Fine. But that would also work for me. Tony has a talent for finding someone with an axe to grind and pointing them toward the nearest tree.”

  “That doesn’t actually scan. Wouldn’t it make more sense if you said, ‘pointing him toward the nearest whetstone,’ or whatever?”

  “Bucky! Will you stay on the topic!”

  “I am, you’re the one haring after long shots and referring to a dead guy in the present tense. Fine, let’s say all of these hinky coincidences aren’t coincidences, and I’ll step out farther onto that shaky limb and say that the fire is related, too. Your Tony, from what you’ve told me, is scary smart. This looks like someone busted a window and chucked in a Molotov cocktail. Why wouldn’t this evil genius of yours have gone straight for the oxygen or nitrous canisters we have here? Would have done the job a whole lot more efficiently.”

  “Tony doesn’t work with brain trusts. He finds angry idiots and manipulates them. If he wasn’t actually there, on the scene, then it could have happened any way at all.”

  “Sounds like a stretch to me. What about fallout from the plagiarism thing from last year? Isn’t that a possibility?”

  I sighed. “Bucky, I really don’t think that has anything to do with it.”

  “Okay, if you want to get willy-nilly with the facts, the probabilities, and the possibilities, we can move closer to home. Duncan Thayer.”

  Bucky hated my ex-boyfriend. Maybe even more than I did.

  “Bucky, I think that Duncan’s got better things to do—”

  “He may well have, but remember, he’s the one who brought this up at the conference in January, right? And didn’t you tell me that he’d asked you for a reference? That you did not give? For a job that he subsequently did not get?”

  “Just because he didn’t get the job is no reason to—”

  “Since when does reason come into it, if Duncan thinks he’s been screwed over?”

  I said nothing.

  “And didn’t this whole thing start with him? He asks, you say no, he tells you hello from Billy whatshisnose.”

  “Griggs.” While Tony had tried to kill me and two of my students, he actually murdered Billy Griggs in front of me. And
tried to pass it off as a favor to me. A token, if you will.

  “He thinks about it, has someone send a postcard from Caldwell—how hard is that? Presumably he knows people in the college, right? He doesn’t even have to be there himself.”

  “I don’t know, Bucks…”

  “He doesn’t get the job. He’s pissed. Rather than blaming himself, or the search committee, he blames you. He knows Ma and Dad, hell, he knows their tastes well enough. Any suck-up in his class would. And he knows what drives you up a wall. He knows what buttons to push.”

  “I think this is dealing with ancient history, Bucky.”

  “It’s not ancient history, you moron. This has all happened within less than a year. Pull your head out of your ass and wake up and smell the coffee.”

  “Yeah, well, thanks for that charming image. I’m glad you’re not hurt. Thanks for calling—”

  “Don’t pull that frosty professorial bullshit with me, Em. If you’re pissed off at me, just say so.”

  “Well, I am. It’s like you don’t even care that I’m scared. That I’m even scared and concerned about you—”

  “I do care, Emma, but it was Fred Gamble. And I can take care of myself—”

  I ignored her, a sister’s prerogative. “—on top of that, you’re not even here, you don’t know what’s going on, and you already assume that you know better than I do.”

  “At least I’m not happier making up a fairy tale because I’m too egotistical to think some small stuff might be a small problem and not some frigging Greek tragedy. You’re taking something that happened to me, and making it about you. You ain’t the center of the universe. Get help, Em.”

  I hung up then. “Damn it!” I said to the wall.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Brian was leaning in the kitchen doorway, dressed for work. I told him what happened and how Bucky had left things. “She’ll be okay,” I concluded, more to reassure myself, I suppose. “She said there wasn’t even all that much real damage, but there’ll be a hell of a mess to clean up.”

  Brian didn’t say anything. I looked over at him. “Yes?”

  “And she’s right. This may have nothing to do with you. You may be looking for a connection where there isn’t any.”

  I hated how carefully he kept his face neutral, kept his voice so reasonable, almost to the point of condescension. “I hate how everyone thinks I’m going off the deep end. It’s not like I’m making up any of this stuff. It’s actually happening. And yet, somehow, you and Bucky both seem to be forgetting that I am one of the most eminently reasonable people in your acquaintance.”

  “If we accept that you’re an overwhelmingly reasonable person,” he said, in that hateful, measured, cautious voice, “maybe you can remember that we’re not stupid people either.”

  “I never said you were stupid.”

  “Great. So look at it from our perspective. You’ve been suffering a lot lately. Last semester took a toll on you and, frankly, things have been very stressful for you for a long time. You’re starting to strain at relationships where there is no strain, almost like you want there to be something wrong. What would this look like to you, if you were in my shoes?”

  “I’d think something was up. I’d be trying to find out what is going on.”

  “There’s something going on, yes, but I just don’t believe it’s Tony. There’s no proof of that. I want to find out what’s happening, but I won’t go looking for the bogeyman when there’s a better answer.”

  One of our two cats, Minnie, sauntered through the other doorway from the dining room, and she perked up when she saw me, her tail went up as she hastily padded over. I scooped her up, and kissed her velvety head. “At least the cat still loves me,” I muttered into her fur.

  “I still love you,” Brian said, but he left the room.

  I followed him out, still hugging Minnie, who was batting at my ear. “Do you ever stop to wonder whether your adamant determination that this isn’t Tony isn’t pure denial? That you say it can’t be, that it isn’t, because you don’t want it to be?”

  He stopped. “Sure. Do you ever consider why it is that you seem to need it to be Tony?”

  “Need it to be? Don’t make me laugh.”

  “I ain’t laughing, Em. You know, it’s kind of creepy, like some weird kind of infatuation. Obsession, even. Occam’s razor—”

  “Don’t give me that. You can’t give me philosophy and science without applying them to your own arguments. Of all the people who might have a grudge against me, Tony has the most reason. And if it isn’t him, then someone is going to a lot of trouble to make it look like it’s him, and has a lot of knowledge about him and me. A copycat? That seems more unlikely than it being Tony himself.”

  Brian’s jaw tightened. “The fingerprints weren’t his. The handwriting wasn’t his.”

  “But it was close. I’m not claiming to understand it all, but he’s in this. You know he is.”

  Brian wouldn’t look at me, kept staring at the boxes in the dining room. “He’s dead, Em,” he repeated woodenly.

  “Again, when we apply logic, we don’t have good proof of that. We never found a body. There was another way for him to have escaped. He had funds. He’s got the wits to survive and pull something like this off. None of this stuff is the work of a pissed-off freshman, and everyone else who might have a stronger reason is either in jail or dead.”

  Brian shrugged. “Look, I’m going to call the bank and credit card companies, make sure that someone isn’t ripping us off that way. Then I’m heading to work, okay?” He kissed me, left, and I was forced to confront my own thoughts in the solitude of my office.

  Whatever I did, Tony, or someone, seemed to take it into consideration, even as I flailed about ineffectually.

  I’d been retreating too long; I needed to press an attack. And while it was all very good to say that, I had absolutely no idea of what to do about it. Brian might be keeping his eyes open for identity theft, but he was purely in denial about Tony. It was up to me.

  I might be able to fight, but I couldn’t find an enemy to attack. And my fighting skills were theoretical, at best.

  I had brains, but Tony was at least my match. Probably a lot smarter, and he had an agenda, which now looked like it had been planned over the past four years.

  Hell’s bells, chica. You’re starting to make me scared. You’re acting like you’re weak, that you’re not up to the task. What would you say if someone—not you—called you weak, ineffectual?

  I’d tell them to get stuffed.

  Right. So, what else did I have?

  A mortgage. The love of a good man, even if he wasn’t on the same page as me. A more than passing familiarity with the local constabulary. A burgeoning interest in criminalistics.

  Not bad…keep going.

  A kickass collection of reference material. Degrees with honors from a couple of prestigious universities. Tenure.

  There you go. That’s a lot, right there.

  Oh, yeah, maybe for when they ask me to submit to Who’s Who. But how am I supposed to make archaeology work for me—?

  I hadn’t even finished that thought when the answer came to me so suddenly that I had to sit down.

  It’s just what I’m always telling people: I reconstruct things that happened in the past. If I can’t figure out where Tony is now, I can start from the last time I definitely saw him.

  Penitence Point.

  I had been staring at my blank computer screen when the thought first hit, and now it was like watching a movie of the events that dark afternoon so long ago. I watched, up to my waist in freezing water, body broken and bruised, as Tony fled into a storm with a bag, probably bags, of gold. Later, the wreck of that motor boat had been discovered and Tony presumed lost, but there was also a missing sailboat from a nearby marina. The authorities, rightly having no other evidence to go on, couldn’t assume that there was a connection, but I had always believed I knew better. Tony had survived the storm and
had headed for parts unknown.

  This was nothing new, my balloon-bursting internal editor reminded me. You still don’t have anything to work with.

  I do. I never thought to try and follow him from that point, so to speak. I had been too easily reassured that he was gone for good and life had taken over from there.

  I look for clues to events that happened centuries ago. Now I’m going to see how good I am at tracing a four-year-old trail.

  I dumped the cat unceremoniously onto the floor. Right, Brian says he wants evidence, wants to get some solid evidence? Me too. Time to cross some names off the list.

  I got in the car and headed for campus. Every once and a while, when my concentration slipped and I remembered what I was actually doing, the knot in my stomach tightened unbearably. It was no surprise that I’d found it difficult to eat over the summer, and I couldn’t plead the heat as an excuse, even. I’d made a bit of progress while on vacation, when everything seemed unreal and I could pretend that I wasn’t coming home to real life and anxiety. If one more person told me how great I looked, that I’d lost so much weight, I’d kill them. Weight loss sometimes seems to be the only hallmark of good looks in this society. It’s not even near the best one, not when combined with bags under eyes and short temper. I didn’t like feeling like this, and didn’t like knowing that my disturbed state of mind was starting to affect me physically.

  I found a parking space readily enough, and headed down the main path on the quad toward a group of buildings I usually had no business with. Actually took pains to avoid, truth be told, for what they represented to me, not just with that business last semester, but in general.

  A knot of young men stood outside the frat house, and seeing me, a couple of them gazed frankly, no trace of embarrassment or self-consciousness on their faces. I could have chalked it up to basic male chemistry—a tolerably fit, unmistakably well-endowed, nearly youngish woman in shorts and a T-shirt might reasonably expect a few glances—but they didn’t turn away when I looked at them.