The Devil's Bones

by Larry D. Sweazy

  “What happened after that day?”

  “Everything went back to normal. Ed never said anything else about it. When the search was going on, he was nowhere to be found. But who would expect any of the Kirschs to help out? Nobody. But over the years, he would let me know that it wasn't a good idea to say anything. We had that bond. I was tied to Ed and Ed was tied to me. The fact that you're my brother—a cop—never seemed to matter. Ed knew we lived in different worlds. He seemed to take satisfaction that he had something over on me. He'd won. Don't you get it? He kept you at bay with Ginny, and me with information. He could do anything he damn well wanted. And obviously, he did.”

  Jordan grabbed the door handle and pushed the door open. “You could have gotten me killed.”

  “You want an apology?” Spider asked. “You got the truth. Take that for what it is. I didn't have to fuckin' tell you.”

  “I got one more question for you.”

  “What's that?” Spider asked.

  “Do you still buy off Ed?”

  “I'm not answerin' that question. I don't think I have to.”

  Jordan pushed his way out of the van. He wanted to be as far away from Spider as possible. His concern for Ginny and Dylan was utmost now that Spider had told him that Ed was involved in this deeper than just cooking and dealing meth. He trembled from head to toe.

  He stalked across the parking lot. He could hear pigeons cooing, and the smell and taste of tomatoes was ranker than ever—the air smelled of roadkill; death and rot baking in the sun. Grabbing the door to enter the station, he looked up and down the empty street before ducking inside. The musty smell immediately greeted him, along with another smell that he did not immediately recognize.

  Until he stepped fully into the room and saw Louella Canberry reclined in her chair as far back as it could go, staring at the ceiling with a bullet hole set squarely between her eyes.

  CHAPTER 25

  March 9, 1995, 11:22 A. M.

  The sixteen-week course at the police academy in Indianapolis had flown by for Jordan. Day after day, his time had been regimented between classes and all the necessary physical training it was going take to become a deputy for the Dukaine Police Department. The book work had been the most difficult for him, learning search and seizure laws, basic laws of arrest, handling of evidence and report writing; while the physical side was surprisingly more interesting, more fun. Until now, Spider had always been the athlete in the family.

  Weaponless defense, the firearms range, the driving course, daily exercise and obstacle course, and uniform inspections provided Jordan with a confidence he'd never felt before. He finished sixth in his class out of thirty, and finally, graduation day had arrived.

  An auditorium the size of a football field housed the ceremony. At least a hundred and fifty people sat in wood pullout bleachers on one side, while on the other side a small stage had been erected with cadets facing it, sitting in cold metal chairs.

  Jordan looked over his shoulder and scanned the audience. Spider sat in his wheelchair, freshly shaven with the exception of a thick black goatee, and dressed in jeans and a heavy black sweater. The glint of Spider's gold earring caught Jordan's eye, and they made eye contact, each of them forcing a smile. Spider looked a little uncomfortable sitting in a room full of soon-to-be cops and their families.

  Holister, who was in full dress uniform, sat behind Spider, and Celeste sat next to him, as always, prim and proper, a pink pillbox hat atop her perfectly coifed white hair. Like most everyone else, she had on her coat, a thick dark blue wool affair that had surely come straight out of the window of one of the better woman's shops on the courthouse square in Morland.

  The wind outside howled and Jordan could feel a cold draft on his feet. There was a threat of a late winter ice storm hanging over the day, and a growing nervousness was obvious among the crowd, an underlying sense of urgency to get home before the storm hit. The threat of bad weather was evident to everyone except the captain of the cadets who was taking as long as he felt necessary handing out certificates to each graduate.

  Jordan's toes were almost numb, but he barely noticed. There was no sign of Ginny in the crowd. Not that he had expected her, but still, he'd secretly hoped she would show up, even though he doubted her new husband, Ed Kirsch, would allow it.

  He had only seen Ginny once since she'd got married, since she'd ran away one snowy night a few months ago and took the vows of matrimony in Kentucky, in the presence of two strangers and a justice of the peace. They did not speak then—just stared at each other and turned away. As far as Jordan was concerned it would be a long time, if ever, before he would speak to Ginny again—he wasn't sure if he could restrain himself, his anger, even though he knew he would have to now. He'd been heartbroken at the news of the marriage, but not nearly as much as Holister and Celeste had been.

  Ginny's absence hurt—he would've loved to have seen her bright smiling face standing out from the crowd, her eyes focused only on him, smiling, rescuing him from the drudgery of another ceremony—but it was Kitty who he really missed, who he really grieved for.

  Three days before his training started at the academy, Kitty had died quietly at home in her sleep. Just like Ginny's choice to run off with Ed, Kitty's death had not been a surprise. Jordan had seen it coming for months, even though he denied the possibility, the certainty of it. But Kitty had known she was dying, and she'd tidied up as many loose ends as possible, as if she were preparing for one last journey. Everything was in order, funeral arrangements, transfer of ownership of the house, all divided equally between Jordan and Spider, and that had made her death much easier to navigate. At least physically. Jordan could barely sit still at the funeral—he'd wanted to run from under the tent, flee the cycle of death that always ended up at the same place.

  He had seriously considered putting off going to the academy. But Holister had convinced him to go forward instead of sitting in the empty house, jobless, hopeless, doing nothing but feeling sorry for himself. And like usual, Holister had been right. The training distracted Jordan—engaged him, and after a few days, focused his thoughts on the future. There would be time enough once he had graduated, once he was back in Dukaine, to settle his grief. Kitty wouldn't have wanted it any other way. He had ventured to Indianapolis as much for her as he had for himself.

  In both instances, at Kitty's funeral, and now, at the graduation, there had not been one word from or one mention of Big Joe. It was as if he, too, was already buried in the Haven Hill cemetery.

  Jordan's certificate of completion was securely in his hands. The captain, Peter Eastman, a cross between a priest and a drill instructor with a gray handlebar mustache, was finally wrapping the ceremony up. Taps played for all of the policemen who died while on duty by a single trumpet player. A melancholy reminder that eased into his heart, and brought the realization closer to the surface that every time he put his uniform on he was putting his life at risk. The trumpet player stepped back, and almost magically, the room was filled with a high school band performing a rousing Sousa march. The glory of duty, of brotherhood, of daily victory over darkness, was evident in each powerful note, each strike of the drum. The music announced the risk was worth taking. While one life might be lost, hundreds more might be saved. A smile grew halfway across Jordan's face as he lost himself, his thoughts and fears, in the rhythm of the music.

  Once the echo quit reverberating from the rafters, the cadets were ordered to stand, to take the oath that would see them through their careers.

  Almost finished, Jordan thought. He was excited about going home, about working with Holister. But he dreaded seeing Ginny, dreaded the quietness of the house on Harrison Street, dreaded separating himself even further from Spider, especially now that he was all alone.

  “Repeat after me,” Captain Eastman's voice boomed over the PA system. “As a law enforcement officer in the state of Indiana, my fundamental duty is to serve mankind. To safeguard lives and property. To protect the innoce
nt against deception, the weak against oppression or intimidation, and the peaceful against violence or disorder; and to respect the Constitutional rights of all men to liberty, equality, and justice. I will keep my private life unsullied as an example to all; maintain courageous calm in the face of danger; develop self-restraint; and be constantly mindful of the welfare of others. Honest in thought and deed in both my personal and official life. I will be exemplary in obeying the laws of the land and the regulations of my department.”

  Jordan could hear coughs, throats clearing, along with Captain Eastman's steady tenor ringing in his head. Could he do all of these things? The commands were not far from Kitty's imposed morality—the same one that had gotten him here, gotten him to consider law enforcement as a career choice. Not that he had many choices in Dukaine—other than leaving or working at the SunRipe plant, of which he wasn't willing to do either. Dukaine was his home, he was comfortable there, couldn't imagine living anywhere else in the world. He spoke the words with enthusiasm, and a nagging feeling of doubt.

  “Whatever I see or hear of a confidential nature or that is confided to me in my official capacity will be kept forever secret,” Captain Eastman continued. “Unless revelation is necessary in the performance of my duty. I will never act officiously or permit my personal feelings, prejudices, animosities, or friendships to influence my decisions.”

  Jordan looked over his shoulder again. Spider looked away.

  “With no compromise for crime and with relentless prosecution of criminals, I will enforce the law courteously and appropriately without fear or favor, malice or ill will, never employing unnecessary force or violence, and never accepting gratuities or favors. I recognize the badge of my office as a symbol of public faith, and I accept it as public trust to be held as long as I am true to the ethics of the police department I serve. I will constantly strive to achieve these objectives and ideals, dedicating myself before God to the brotherhood of law enforcement.”

  Jordan nodded. I can do this, he thought. This is who I want to be. Thank God I have Holister to show me the way.

  A few more final words from Captain Eastman followed—the tossing of hats, applause by the audience, rain tinkling on the windows as it froze on the glass panes. The band struck up another song, a celebratory tune that he didn't know the name of but could feel in his bones. He had a new family now . . . bound by the daily risk of doing the right thing, standing for something that was more than he could grasp—but he could reach for it. And he would . . . with all his might. Being a cop was more than a job—it was a life. And, finally, he had a life of his own . . .

  The huge room erupted with noise and movement. Cadets were glad-handing each other, a slap on the back, a promise to keep in touch. Holister and Celeste pushed their way to him.

  “Congratulations, Jordan,” Holister said, clasping his hand and giving him a hearty handshake. “I'm proud of you. The Town Board's approved you now that you've completed your training. You can start Monday morning, first thing.”

  “Don't rush him,” Celeste said. “Let him celebrate.” She reached up and kissed Jordan on the cheek. “Kitty and your mother would be so proud,” she whispered, pulling back, wiping tears from her eyes.

  “I'm just happy for the boy,” Holister said, beaming.

  “You two'll have a lot of time together. He should enjoy this.”

  “Yes, we will,” Holister answered with a wink.

  Spider rolled up and stuck his right hand out to Jordan. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  They stared at each other for a moment. A vacuum of tension pushed all the noise away. Jordan wanted to ask Spider if he had told Big Joe about the ceremony, but he didn't, couldn't bring himself to. It was a miracle that Spider was there to witness the event as it was.

  Before he could say anything else, someone grabbed Jordan's shoulder and spun him around, pulling him back into the moment, away from the family divide.

  “Hey, we made it, man,” Lonnie Marovich said with a huge smile.

  “Yeah, we did.”

  Holister and Celeste stood proudly next to Jordan.

  “These your parents?”

  Before Jordan could say anything, Holister stepped forward and shook Lonnie's hand. “Marshal Holister Coggins. Jordan's gonna work with me.”

  “Glad to meet you Marshal Coggins. He's going to be a good cop. Just watch him when he drives—he damn near got me killed.”

  They all laughed. Jordan nodded at Holister, a silent thank you they both understood. He was always uncomfortable when the subject of his parents came up. “The front end on that car was out of whack,” he said.

  During the driving course, they had practiced a controlled slide on wet roads. Jordan lost control and stopped the cruiser inches from the crowd of cadets waiting to drive next.

  “Whatever you say, Jordan.” Lonnie laughed again. The bond between them had been quick. Lonnie's strength had been the books, while his weakness was the physical side of things. They'd helped each other through the daily grind of the academy, and Jordan was happy for the friendship, but he felt bad that he had never told Lonnie about his family—he avoided that topic as much as possible, and Lonnie didn't push it. Lonnie's enthusiasm for police work was contagious, made his life in Dukaine seem distant, less painful.

  “Hey, I want you to meet someone,” Lonnie said. He put a little pressure on Jordan's shoulder and pushed him forward through the crowd, and stopped in front of a good-looking brunette who looked similar to Lonnie. “This is my sister, Monica, the one I've been telling you about.”

  Monica Marovich shook Jordan's hand softly. She had a beautiful smile and deep brown eyes—the kind you could get lost in if you let yourself. “Lonnie, you're such a jerk. Don't believe a word he says, Jordan.”

  “I don't.”

  “Hey,” Lonnie said. “We're having a little party at my house. You should stop by if you can. I know the weather's supposed to be bad, but I'd really like it if you did.”

  “I don't know . . .” Jordan turned away from Lonnie and Monica. Spider was rolling toward the exit. Holister and Celeste had promised to take him out to dinner, but beyond that he had nothing to go home to but an empty house. Spider disappeared in the crowd. “Sure. That would be great,” Jordan said.

  Lonnie grinned and stepped back. Monica leaned up and kissed Jordan on the cheek. “Congratulations, Jordan McManus. Lonnie's told me a lot about you, too.”

  “Well, I think you better believe every word of it, then.”

  They all laughed again. Lonnie and Monica disappeared into the crowd, and Jordan watched them walk away, watched her walk away. She really was beautiful. He felt the same thing he had when he was taking the oath: excitement and doubt.

  March 9, 1995, 5:25 P. M., Monterrey, Mexico

  Chavez was standing at the door, trying to flag in customers. The galería was just inside a callejón, an alley, two blocks from the Museo de Arte Contemporaneo. It was a busy, bustling time in Monterrey. Turistas were thick, escaping the winters up north, delighting in Mexico's cheap goods and the warmth of the everbright sun. Most people walked right by Chavez without giving him any notice.

  Tito could barely remember winter. Snow. The feel of biting cold on his skin. He tried not to remember on most days, because when he did, he saw the man that grabbed him, beat him, saw the other one sitting in the car, a spider drawn on his arm. And then blackness, the smell of gasoline . . . until finally when he awoke to a soft Mexican voice that promised he was safe. Memories came in flashes. He could never remember whether it was a male voice or a female voice, and he'd finally decided that it was the voice of a nun. Blackness bordered in white, surrounding a caring face. At least he had awoke—had escaped death, but to this day he no idea how or why.

  Aidia hurried him along, past the muchachos, the street boys begging for food money, past the tamale stands that made his stomach growl. The air was filled with celebration and sadness, the smell of wonderful food and hunge
r was everywhere—it was, as Tito learned, the way of life in Mexico, especially in Monterrey. “Chavez will not be in his shop forever, Tito,” Aidia said, scolding him.

  The festival-like atmosphere entranced Tito. The last few months had been filled with a sense of desperation as they waited for Aidia's paintings to sell, for the burden of poverty to be lifted from them. He was getting tired of eating brooth del pollo for dinner, but he could not bring himself to leave—to run away in the middle of the night one more time. Aidia needed him.

  Chavez was a portly man with a severe face pocked with tiny scars and shiny, moist skin. He was always dressed in a white suit that seemed much too tight for his body. Tito did not like Chavez, did not trust him, but Aidia refused to ask for money from her family, and Chavez owned the only galería in town that would sell her paintings.

  “Senorita Marquez, how nice to see you,” Chavez said, stepping aside to allow Aidia and Tito inside the galería. “I fear I do not have much good news for you. A pittance, really.”

  Aidia stopped in the middle of the small room and scanned the walls, the floor, for her paintings. Tito stood next to her—waiting for a sign to show on her face, a sign that said whether or not she believed Chavez. They had been to the galería many times since Aidia had taken Tito in, and each time was a mix of haggling and deciphering Chavez's lies. A frown was frozen on Aidia's lips, as if she was trying to think of something to say, to think of a different tack to take with Chavez.

  The galería was a jumble of colors and familiar smells—it was very much like Aidia's estudio. The walls were packed with paintings of every kind. Sculptures and vases littered the floor with more paintings leaning against anything that would keep them erect. There were a lot of Frida Kahlo imitations—an artist that Aidia held in high regard, but she could not stomach those who tried to feast off the artist's dead bones—and more landscapes and peasant pictures than Tito could count. He had followed Aidia's eyes and saw, too, that none of her pictures were displayed anywhere in the room.