Bone Harvest

by Mary Logue

  “Just don’t go getting huffy and hysterical on us,” he advised her, even though she looked like she would do neither.

  She stood up and looked down at him. “I’ll do my job. You do yours. We’ll get along.”

  “How’s Rachel?” Leaning back in her chair in the quiet office, Claire asked the required question. After first calling the pharmacy where Bridget worked, she had then tracked her sister down at home.

  Claire had found in talking to Bridget these days that she might as well make an immediate inquiry about her niece and get it out of the way. Otherwise Bridget would find some way to mention Rachel in the first minute or two. Not that hearing updates on Rachel was a hardship. Bridget’s enthusiasm for her young daughter was infectious, although sometimes Claire worried that Bridget’s vocabulary was suffering since she was spending so much time with Rachel. “She’s fine. I think she’s starting to talk.”

  Claire had recognized early on that this child of her sister’s was going to be a genius. At least if she believed half of what Bridget told her. And for the most part she went along with it all. But there were times when Claire had to object.

  “I don’t think that’s possible, Bridget. She’s only nine months old.”

  “You should hear her. She’s hardly ever quiet.”

  “That’s called babbling. She’s practicing talking. It’s not the same thing. She is saying sounds to say sounds, not to communicate.”

  “Well, when she does start to talk, she’s going to be a master at it.”

  “I’ve no doubt. Hey, I’d love to chat, but I’m actually at work. I have some questions for you about pesticides.”

  “Pesticides. Not exactly my area of expertise.”

  “I’d like to understand better what they can do to a human if ingested or inhaled.” Claire explained the theft at the cooperative and the massacre of the flower garden. She concluded with the thought that was uppermost in her mind. “It wouldn’t have taken very much of the pesticides to kill the flower garden. This guy probably still has a lot of the stuff left.”

  “You sound worried. Do you really think he’s going to do more with the pesticides? Like what?”

  “That’s where you come in. I need to understand what kind of harm could be rendered with these substances. I talked to the agronomist who works at the cooperative and he was barely helpful. Made me feel like an idiot because I didn’t know what cholinesterase inhibition was.”

  Bridget giggled. “Well, at least you can say it. Do you understand what it is now?”

  “Not really.”

  “I doubt the agronomist did either. I’m not sure I remember completely. Pharmacy school was a few years ago. But basically what it means is the body stops functioning.”

  “That sounds bad.”

  “Yeah, deadly. Arsenic acts by causing this inhibition. The body slowly starts to shut down. Or it can happen fast. Depending on the dosing.”

  “Okay, that helps. I know it’s your day off, Bridget, but I really do need help with this. We need to be ready in case this guy gets crazy on us.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Could you look up what Caridon and Parazone can do, what amounts are needed, and what the antidotes are? I need all the particulars. The agronomist acted as if it were some state secret and I was a KGB agent. I want to disseminate this information to all the deputies by tomorrow so we can be prepared. I don’t want to be taken by surprise.”

  “Sure, I can help out. I was going to go into town anyway. I’ll look through my books here and then I’ll check at the pharmacy. Rachel has been saying she wants to go for a ride today.”

  Claire felt relieved that Bridget would be on the case. “Buy the kid an ice-cream cone for me.”

  Two hours later, Bridget called her back. “I’ve got what you need. Rachel and I shared an ice-cream cone.”

  “Vanilla?”

  “Of course. She’s too young for chocolate. I’ve written down all the specifics on the pesticides and I can fax that to you.”

  “You’ve included the antidotes?”

  “Yes, but let me just tell you. For Caridon atropine sulfate is antidotal. For Parazone it would be a little more difficult. It would have to be done in a hospital because they would use charcoal or clay to bind the material in the stomach, removing the main ingredient, paraquat, from the blood by cleaning out the blood. Because it can burn tissues, you wouldn’t want the person to throw up.”

  “It sounds like either way, get the victim to the hospital as quickly as possible.”

  “That would be my recommendation.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Meg climbed out of the bathtub, rubbed her body dry, and stepped into her new summer pajamas. Her mother had bought them for her—shorty pajamas with bunnies on them and a pink ribbon at the neck. Meg wished she could go stay at someone’s house for a sleepover just so she could show them off. Maybe she should visit Aunt Bridget and her cousin, Rachel.

  It was only a little after nine o’clock and Mom was letting her stay up later in the summer, but she didn’t even care tonight. Meg was tired. Since her mom had worked most of the day, Meg had gone over to the Daniels farm and played with their kids. She had helped them get the eggs away from the chickens. There was one chicken that tried to attack them, but they had managed to escape her sharp claws.

  They let Meg bring a dozen eggs home with her. The eggs were not the normal white, but soft brown, as if they had been dusted with dirt. They seemed more real to her; they looked like they actually came from the earth. When Mom fried them, the yolk was a bright orange color.

  “Mom, I’m going to bed,” Meg shouted at her mother, who was sprawled on a wicker chair on the front porch, reading.

  “You going to read for a while?” Claire asked.

  “Maybe. I’m kinda tired.”

  “I’ll be up in a few minutes to tuck you in.”

  Meg stood on the middle stair and yelled down, “Is Rich coming over?”

  “I think so. We left it a little vague.”

  “He should just live here, he sleeps over so much.”

  Her mother didn’t say anything for a moment, almost as if she hadn’t heard Meg; then she yelled back, “Everything in its time.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Her mom lifted her head from her book, turned, and gave Meg a look. “When we get good and ready.”

  “I’m ready right now.”

  “Noted.” Her head dropped back down to her book.

  Meg walked the rest of the way up the stairs. She knew her mom was working on another case. It didn’t sound that exciting to her. Someone had stolen weed killer out of a store in Durand. What a weird thing to steal. It just sounded like shoplifting. Kids did it all the time. What was the big deal?

  Meg climbed into her bed. Clean sheets. She loved the feeling of clean sheets. In the summer Mom hung them out on the line and they carried some of the outdoor smell in with them. She smoothed her hands over the sheets and remembered the one time she had shoplifted.

  It had been at the grocery store in Pepin. She had slipped a candy bar into her pocket when she was shopping with her mom. Then she had to wait while her mom had gone through the checkout line. She had almost thrown up, she was so sure that Peggy, the lady who ran the cash register, would catch her. When she got home, she had run upstairs and eaten half the candy bar and then thrown the rest of it away. It hadn’t tasted as good as she had expected. She had decided then and there that a life of crime was not for her. Probably just as well with a mom as a deputy sheriff.

  But then Mom had told her tonight at dinner that someone had ruined all the flowers in front of the sheriff’s department. Meg had only seen them once a few weeks ago, but she thought they had looked real nice. She didn’t get why someone would do that. Was it a message to the sheriff? To her mom? She didn’t want to have to start worrying about her mother again.

  She was glad Rich was in their life. He was almost as good as a dad. Maybe he would be he
r dad one day. She wondered if he and her mom were ever going to get married. They had been going out forever. She was already too old to be a flower girl. Maybe her mom would let her be a maid of honor. That would be totally cool.

  Her eyes were closing. She could hear her mother’s footsteps coming up the stairs, but her eyelids were too heavy to lift up again. Her breathing had gone into the deep zone, slow and even. Her mother patted the sheets and then leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.

  Meg floated away on top of smooth white water.

  Claire looked up from the book she was reading, a new Irish novel called My Dream of You—very romantic and with a heroine who was turning fifty. How refreshing to read about an older woman who was still sexual. She thought she had heard something outside the window, but when she checked, she didn’t see anything.

  When she had talked to Rich earlier, he hadn’t been sure when he would come over. He was playing poker with the guys, but they didn’t usually go too late. These were older guys who had responsibilities in the morning. She thought of getting undressed and climbing into the bed to wait for him, but it was so pleasant out on the front porch. She had all the windows open and the night air flowed in the house, humid and soft. All the sounds of summer surrounded her.

  Claire was a little worried about her relationship with Rich. She had been getting the feeling that he wanted to change it. She suspected that he was going to want to get more serious, and she wanted to head him off.

  Suddenly the headlights of his truck bounced down the driveway. Earlier than she expected. How nice. She heard the engine being turned off. She set her book down.

  As she stepped outside to greet Rich, the gentleness of the air hit her. Balmy nights were rare enough in Wisconsin that she felt like staying up and enjoying it. She walked up to the truck.

  Rich opened the door and swung down. “Hey, good-looking,” he said.

  “You sound lucky. You bring me any money?”

  “You bet. I’m the big winner.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty-four dollars.”

  She stepped in closer and they kissed. She could tell from his kiss that he was feeling good about himself.

  They broke apart for a moment and looked up at the sky together. Other than the porch light, it was dark outside. The moon wasn’t out and the sky was sprayed with the Milky Way, but it gave off little light. She put an arm around his neck and pulled his face to hers again. They kissed a longer kiss—deep and thrilling.

  She could feel that he wanted her. The way he was pressed up against her left little to the imagination. He started to lead her toward the house.

  “Let’s stay outside,” she whispered in his ear.

  He pulled back enough so he could see her face. “Really? Outside?”

  She could feel his resistance. Rich liked everything in its place, and she knew he thought the place for lovemaking was in the privacy of one of their bedrooms. Usually she agreed with that. But not tonight. She felt as if the idea had been under her thoughts all night long, that the warm summer air had been seducing her—and now lucky Rich had walked right into it. “We could do it behind the roses.”

  He looked around, checking to see if anyone was walking down the road. There were no lights on in the closest neighbor’s house. The town was quiet and dark.

  “No one will see us. Everyone’s sleeping,” she reassured him. “Besides, it’s not against the law.”

  “Indecent exposure?”

  “We’ll be hidden.”

  “Let me get a blanket out of the truck.”

  She patted his butt as he turned back to the truck. “You must have been a good Boy Scout. Always prepared.”

  She watched as he grabbed the blanket from the backseat. He turned and wrapped an arm around her shoulders and they walked to the other side of the wild rosebushes. Thank goodness the neighbors weren’t close enough to see anything, even if they had been looking, even if there had been some light to see by.

  He spread out the blanket and settled her down on it, pushing her back so she was stretched out on the blanket.

  Claire closed her eyes and smelled the wild roses’ sweet nutmeg aroma. The blooms lasted for only a week or so, and all the rest of the year the bushes were scroungy-looking, but she loved them for what they gave her this one week: delicate pink blossoms and gorgeous perfume.

  Rich knelt down beside her and unbuttoned her blouse. He spread it open, leaving it loose on her shoulders. He ran a hand down between her breasts from her neck to her waist. Then he dipped his head down to her right breast and kissed it.

  She thought of bees; she thought of nectar. She felt herself opening, blooming inside. She wanted him in her. She loved what he was doing. She wanted to rush it. She wanted it to last forever. All of it. She wanted all of it.

  She ran a hand up his thigh and then unzipped his jeans. But there was no hurrying him. Rich knew how to take his time. She let him set the pace. The waiting made it sweeter. When he finally came into her, she exploded immediately. He laughed and moved slowly through her.

  The stars were in her eyes. Then they fell into her.

  Later, after they had rolled back into their clothes and laughed their way into the house, Rich went back outside. When she was curled up in bed, he brought her a rosebud that he had picked and put in a little vase. He set it on her bedside table, right under the lamp. She could smell the whiff of nutmeg it gave off.

  Then he crawled in next to her, kissed her gently, curled into her, and fell asleep. Sometimes she thought he barely got his eyes closed before he was gone.

  Claire loved to watch him fall asleep while reading. His breath would slow and she would glance over and notice that his mouth was slightly open, the book listing, and suddenly his eyes would be shut. She often watched until the book fell and jolted him awake.

  She rested her arm over his waist. Rich was a nice man to sleep with. He didn’t hog the covers; he gave her enough room.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t want to marry him, she thought as she held him in her arms. She wasn’t crazy to get married again. Didn’t think the institution offered much to women. She had never cared for the term wife, implying as it did the biblical helpmeet. The last thing she wanted to be was a helpmeet—ever since she had read the term in the Bible as a child, she had wanted to avoid that designation. Even so, she would marry if that was what Rich wanted. She loved him.

  But she didn’t want to do it soon. There was something so sweet about the slightly illicit nature of their romance—the coming over after poker games, the stopping by for a coffee and a quick moment of love. She didn’t want all that to end just yet. Once they married, they would never retrieve that carefree element.

  She hoped the love they would grow into would be deeper, more committed; but what she wanted now was the wild roses that only bloomed for a moment.

  He stood in the dark next to the truck.

  Dark as the inside of a closet.

  The wind moved around him. He could hear the sounds of the night, sounds he had grown up with: crickets, frogs, the occasional howl of a wild animal.

  He didn’t like everything he had to do. There were moments when he wanted to stop. But it was clear to him that this was the path he had to follow. It had been laid out for him.

  The lights were off in the farmhouse. He knew the family had no dog. He knew their habits. He had been watching them. This was the old Schuler place.

  He had learned to move quietly over the land. It was his way. He never made much noise. Often when he was a child, he had crept down the stairs at night and startled his mother while she was reading a book. She always got mad at him, asking him why he had to sneak up on her. He didn’t mean to. He just didn’t like to make noise. And he found that he learned a lot by being quiet.

  He had been up to this farm recently to buy vegetables and eggs. He knew where all the outbuildings were. He knew that this family was trying not to use any pesticides. He thought that wasn’t a bad i
dea. But he had to go ahead with his plan.

  It would happen quickly, while they slept. It would be over before they would wake, he hoped.

  He had made the mixture himself. Grain and some Parazone.

  He turned on his special flashlight. A very strong but narrow beam of light cut through the darkness. He held it like a sword in front of him and began to walk. These steps were new for him, but, as always, he counted them. When he got to the door of the building, the number was 107. The right number. He felt like someone had patted him on the back.

  The feeder was right in the middle of the yard. He poured his mixture into it. He went back to the door of the building and shone his light around the inside. The birds slept with their heads tucked into their wings. Some of them lifted up and looked at him, jerking their heads and making a low clucking noise.

  “You are the next step,” he whispered to them.

  He left them to their sleep and carefully walked out the way he came. He hoped it would happen quickly and was glad that he would not be there to see it.

  CHAPTER 6

  Whirling chicken, whirling chicken. Jilly Daniels stood in front of the chicken coop with the egg basket in her hand and watched the fluffy chicken they called Lupita whirl in front of her. The brown-striped chicken kept turning as if she were trying to look at something behind her.

  Two other chickens were sleeping by the door. Usually they went into the coop to sleep. Jilly walked up to one and touched it with the toe of her shoe. It didn’t move. So tired. She walked around it and went into the dark chicken coop. She used to be scared to go in alone, but now she was used to it: the dusty smell, the dark, small room, the hay all over.

  She made the rounds of where the chickens left their eggs and didn’t find very many. Only seven. Maybe the chickens were too tired today to lay eggs. Usually she found between fifteen and twenty. She was only six, but she knew how to count up to a thousand.