Quiet in Her Bones

by Singh, Nalini

  Paige’s terrified face flashed into my mind, bloodless, eyes stark. “You need help, Aarav. The rage you have inside ­you … it’s poisonous and it scares me.”

  “Are you like your mum?” My sister’s high voice merged with the memory of Paige’s trembling one. “I want to be like my mum.”

  I swallowed to wet a dry throat. “Yes, I’m like my mum.” Full of secrets and lies and a broken ability to love. “Go on. You don’t want to be late.”

  I watched after her until she disappeared safely behind the school gates. Then I drove out, heading back to my mother’s grave through a misty rain. But I didn’t go along the main ­road—­I turned off into a rough parking area in front of a sign advising that I was at the start of an open walking track. Beside it stood a large sign warning trampers about kauri dieback disease and stating the attendant rules.

  Flipping up the hood of the sweatshirt I’d put on before I left the house, I got out into the cold, cane in hand.

  The outside world ceased to exist within minutes, the forest closing its wet green arms around me. Moss crawled up the mass of tangled branches. Those branches created bushland that would shred me if I tried to blunder through. Above me hung the fronds of a huge tree fern dotted with beads of water.

  Hard to believe I remained in the heart of the country’s biggest city.

  The farther I walked, the bigger the trees, their canopies touching the bruised sky.

  People got lost in this dark and cool landscape even with the signs dotted around. Then there were those who came to the “Waitaks” to bury their secrets. I’d been nineteen, twenty, when a visiting speaker at the university made the dry comment that more bodies were buried in the Waitākere Ranges than in most cemeteries.

  I’d been far more intrigued by that comment than by the criminal investigation techniques she’d been describing as part of her open-­to-­all guest lecture. My ensuing questions had made her raise an eyebrow and joke that she might have to report me to the police for suspicious behavior.

  I’d sent her a copy of Blood Sacrifice after it first came out.

  My debut novel began with body parts found in a city forest.

  16

  I wondered if the cops were analyzing every word I’d ever written. What were the chances I’d randomly write about a mother killed by a serial predator who gets away with it in the end?

  Could be I was just screwed up in the head because of my own mother’s disappearance, could be I was a ­psychopath—­that’s what they’d say. I stopped, resting my back against the rough bark of a tree I couldn’t name. My leg pulsed with heat, and my lungs wheezed far more than they should. I’d have to tell Dr. Binchy about that, too.

  It took me three more minutes to get going ­again … but I only had a short distance to go. There, hidden off the side of the track, stood a rugged quad bike.

  “Thien, you resourceful bastard.”

  Grunting, I used the cane for balance as I retrieved the key hidden in the ground exactly one foot from the back tire, under a small fallen branch.

  Uninjured, I could’ve hiked to the site in under an hour, but with one leg currently out of commission, I’d have to break the rules and use the vehicle. It wouldn’t be easy going even on that; the trail was made for walkers, not quad bikes.

  Rain fell on me in a strange damp kiss as I veered off the path, an act that was never advised unless you knew what you were doing. Search and Rescue couldn’t find you in the dark green if they had no fucking idea where you’d gone.

  I wasn’t worried; I’d always possessed an infallible internal compass, and this was my native soil, the playground of my childhood. I went as far as possible on the ­four-­wheeler—­until the forest grew too tangled for the vehicle to get through. Getting off at that point, I grabbed my cane from where I’d hooked it on the handlebar.

  The ground would be uneven under my feet from here on out.

  I took care as I walked under the canopy and through leaf litter in a silence so pure it hurt the ear. Even the birds were quiet, the insects still. Which was why I sucked in a breath when I stepped out near the site and saw the back of a police anorak, the hood up. The person wearing it turned before I could merge back into the trees.

  Constable Neri took in my cane, my hoodie, and said, “You shouldn’t be here.” Her face no longer looked so soft, her eyes edgy and cold.

  “Your people are gone.”

  “Scene’s still closed off.”

  Yellow caution tape fluttered behind her, the ends drooping in the rain. “What’s the point? The rain will destroy anything that used to be under the car if you haven’t already gathered it up.”

  Not responding, she turned back to whatever it was that held her attention. Walking to stand beside her, I found myself looking at a mess of broken branches, disturbed soil, and scarred undergrowth.

  As if the Jaguar had grown into the forest, just another slumbering ­giant—­only to leave the landscape bleeding when it was extracted by the roots.

  The silence here was marred by the faint whoosh of the cars on the wet road high above, but all I saw when I looked up was dark green with just a hint of gray. It took my brain several seconds to process that the gray was the gap in the canopy through which the police had lifted my mother’s car.

  “It’s the perfect burial spot,” I murmured. “No one to see, no one to know.”

  Constable Neri didn’t turn, didn’t look at me. We stood there as the rain fell, insulated from the outside world.

  A rustle as Neri lowered her hood. Tiny droplets immediately formed on her hair. “She was in the passenger seat.”

  The words were drops of water falling onto a still pond. Even though I’d already worked it out, I said, “You’re sure?” It was a critical factor, this piece of knowledge.

  “Part of her body was still harnessed by the seat belt. There’s no doubt she wasn’t driving.”

  I stared at the churned-­up dirt that could tell me nothing. “How far back was the driver’s seat?”

  Sliding the hood back up, Neri slipped her hands into her pockets. “Inconclusive at present. Impact caused damage to the mechanism. Forensic mechanics are processing the vehicle.”

  “Why the sudden openness?”

  “We’re officially launching a homicide inquiry. News will be all over the media by this evening. I’m on my way to brief you and your father.”

  Yet she’d come here first because this was where it had all begun. “What else did you find?”

  “Why don’t we go to your father’s home so we can speak together?”

  “Let’s not.”

  “There’s a lot of pain in your book, a deep sense of loss and rage.”

  “I’m a good writer.”

  Her face was invisible to me, the hood eclipsing her profile. She stepped forward until she was right on the edge of the caution tape.

  I followed.

  “The car came down that bank.” She pointed to where the road existed high above. “There wasn’t so much growth back then, which is why it didn’t end up wedged against trees higher up.”

  “Land would’ve been slippery, muddy that night.”

  “Meteorological reports confirm your memory of the conditions.”

  Echoes of rain so hard it had stung, thousands of tiny bees all over my body.

  “Storm might’ve brought down more trees and foliage after the car came to a rest,” Neri added. “That would’ve further camouflaged ­it—­especially as indications are that it came to a halt in an area of heavy ­undergrowth that would’ve bounced up around it within a matter of days. See there.”

  I followed the line of her arm, saw the tough forest plants designed to not be easily crushed. The rain had continued for days after the storm. Which meant no sunlight to spark off the metal until it was too late and the Jaguar was buried.

  “Do you think whoever did it expected the car to disappear for ten years?”

  “Anyone thinking rationally wouldn’t have left y
our mother in the passenger seat.”

  I should’ve thought of that. A simple move to the driver’s seat could’ve confused matters even had the car been found only days after it’d vanished. Had the killer also fully lowered the windows, the rain would’ve diluted or contaminated any trace evidence. “Crime of passion?”

  “Too early to call.”

  “What about the money?”

  “According to the old police report, your mother is meant to have taken a leather satchel from your father’s office. She apparently concealed the money in there.”

  “An old brown thing my grandfather gave him. I think he was as pissed about losing that as he was about the quarter mil.” If my mother had even taken anything at all.

  His rage ­though … that had been real. So maybe she’d taken it well before that night and hidden it somewhere where no one would ever find it. But he checked that safe daily. He’d have noticed. So she must’ve taken it before their night out. Chances were high it had still been in the car.

  “Is it possible the people who found the car took it?”

  “No, the Department of Conservation team didn’t even get close enough to see the remains. They reported it as an abandoned car. Two officers came out here on a routine pass to check it ­out—­they’re the ones who made the discovery.”

  “Nice of you to share so much information.” I made no attempt at sincerity. You’d have to live under a rock not to know the police tended to be manipulative when they suspected family involvement.

  That scream.

  Red taillights.

  No cigar smoke.

  A son who’d made a mess on a prized rug.

  “This isn’t a television show, Aarav. We want your cooperation. We won’t be playing games.”

  I took that with a grain of salt. Before being a family liaison officer, Sefina Neri was a police officer. Her loyalties were never going to be to my family. But I had my own cards to play. “Some things I can discover that you never will. Be open with me and I’ll share.”

  “If you know something and hold it back, you risk being charged with obstruction.”

  “Bullshit.” I shifted in an attempt to ease the pressure on my ­shoulder—­right now, the cane was taking most of my weight on one side. “We both know the optics would be terrible for the department. Especially after that recent case where you charged the son and it turned out he was innocent.”

  A staccato movement as she shifted on her heel and began to walk back the way I’d come.

  I didn’t even make the attempt to go after ­her—­pointless with a bum leg.

  “The instant you run after anyone, Ari, you give them power,” my mother had said. Her lips on my cheek, her fingers around the thin stem of a cocktail glass, diamonds sparkling in the sun. “Be the one who is pursued.”

  Constable Neri halted so I could catch up. She wasn’t about to leave me alone at the scene, even though we both knew it to be a meaningless stance with no guard on duty down here.

  “The Cul-­de-­Sac community is incestuous,” I told her, my breath even because I hadn’t rushed. “They’ll clam up against you.” Newcomers like Leonid and Anastasia might talk, but they had nothing to tell.

  “You’re so sure this involves someone in the neighborhood?”

  I pushed back my hood, the rain now down to a hazy mist. “Or they might know something. For example, as a teen I once heard Paul and Margaret Dixon murmuring about how the Henares were on the verge of bankruptcy.” They’d been in their yard, Margaret smoking and Paul mixing drinks, while I walked in the bush only meters away yet fully screened from their view.

  Funny how much of the Cul-­de-­Sac was accessible through the back way. No one ever seemed to worry about an intruder from the bush. Probably because it was too hard to ­access … unless you lived there.

  “Henare?” Shoving back her own hood, Neri raised an eyebrow. “That would take some doing. They have significant investment interests.”

  “Maybe. But ten years ago, that family had a serious financial problem. If that’s true, where did they get the money to survive? And recover?”

  “That’s all you have?”

  “Let’s just say it’s a gesture of good faith on my part. Work with me and I might remember more.”

  Tight lines bracketing her mouth, she broke off to the left, heading down a track I knew led eventually to another tiny parking area. Good luck to her in dealing with my father. I had other things to do, other pots to stir.

  Transcript

  Session #4

  “You’re looking happy.”

  “It’s been a good day, ­work-­wise.”

  “You sound pensive.”

  “I was just thinking, it’s funny.”

  “What is?”

  “My father used to say I was useless, that I’d never make anything of myself. Now every day someone finds a way to tell me I’m brilliant.”

  “Does that cause mental dissonance?”

  “If you mean confusion, then no. It’s ­just … it’s strange. Like the me that people know is a skin suit that I wear for the rest of the world.”

  17

  I’d barely made it back to my car, my leg hurting like a bitch, when my phone lit up. I knew what it was as soon as I glanced at the screen. “I missed the appointment, I’m sorry,” I said when I answered the call.

  Honey, always honey. Until a situation altered and called for more calculated manipulation.

  “Dr. Binchy understands this is a difficult time for you, Mr. Rai, but he really needs to see you. It’s part of ­your—­”

  “Sure. No problem. When’s the next available appointment?”

  “We just had a cancellation at twelve. Can you make it?”

  “Yes, I’ll be there.” To make sure of it, I drove straight from the site and toward the exclusive suburb where all the specialists had their offices and examination rooms.

  Since I was early, I stopped off at a café to grab something cold and sweet, sat down at one of their tables while a heavy rain washed the windows. And fought my brain.

  That night. The rug. Why couldn’t I remember?

  My spine grew stiff, and suddenly, I was moving again. My city apartment wasn’t far from the doctor’s office, and it took me only twenty minutes to make it there. Entering the underground garage after punching in my code on the security gate, I drove to my parking area.

  It was empty.

  No black Porsche, nothing but a void.

  Cheeks hot, I turned into the space, then got out and made my way to the elevator and into reception.

  “Aarav!” Bobby jumped up and came around the corner to bump fists with me. “It’s good to see you up and about. And with a badass cane.”

  Normally, I’d have laughed. Bobby, shaved bald, and bodybuilder buff, with a flawless ­year-­round tan courtesy of his sunbed habit, was only a few years older than me. We’d often shot the breeze about local rugby and I’d had a beer with him more than once when I still drank, but today, I had other priorities. “Hey, man. I wanted to talk about my Porsche.”

  “Oh yeah, you got an ETA on the repairs to that sweet ride?” Grin wide, he went back behind his desk so he could keep an eye on the security feed. “I’ll make sure the delivery people hand it to me at the gate. I’ll drive it in personally. No scratches, I promise.”

  “I trust you.” I shot him an equally wide grin while my heart raced. “No ETA yet, but I wanted to make sure you’re good with driving it into its parking space.”

  “You kidding me? If I wasn’t a law student trying to keep a clean rec­ord, I’d be tempted to take it for a joyride.”

  “Thanks, Bobby.” My mouth was full of cotton, snarling my throat. Coughing in an effort to clear the blockage, I said, “I’m going to head upstairs for a bit, make sure the houseplants aren’t dead.”

  “Should be all good. Maid service has been in once a week like normal and I check out the place now and then like you asked. I’ll call up the executive lift
for you.”

  After waving my thanks, I made my way over to the elevator. It opened as if on cue, swallowing me up and cutting off the sight of Bobby’s happy face. I kept my expression casual. These elevators were monitored as part of the building’s security ­system—­nothing secretive, the camera was right out in the open.

  Only once I was in my apartment did I allow my breathing to speed up, my expression to shift from ­good-­humored to icy panic. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

  Ignoring the bright green and flowering indoor plants, I headed straight for the door to my home office and punched in the code on the top of the line keypad lock. Since all my important files were in the cloud, I could work anywhere as long as I had my laptop, but I hated anyone in my dedicated ­work-­space.

  Inside was a full computer setup, complete with dual screens.

  Slumping down in the black leather chair that had cost almost as much as the computer, I booted up the system. It came on with a gentle hum, the machinery state-­of-­the-­art. But I was still almost hyperventilating by the time the screen bloomed with the password dialogue box.

  It took me three tries to input my alphanumerical code.

  Finally.

  I went directly into my email client. It was ­web-­based, so I could’ve run this search from the laptop, but I couldn’t wait for that. I had to know what the hell was going on.

  I misspelled “Porsche.” My fingers were shaking.

  “Calm the fuck down.” Making fists with my hands, I just sat there and breathed until I was functional again.

  Then I typed the word “Porsche” into the search bar. Multiple hits, most of them in the newsletter of the Porsche dealer from which I’d purchased my ride. But dusted in among those were a number of other documents.

  Including ones from my insurance company.

  … full ­cover … organize ­repairs … police report.

  Mind on the blink, the information coming in fragments. Getting up, I grabbed a Coke from the fridge and pressed the cold bottle to my cheek for several long seconds before I allowed myself back in the office.