Bone Harvest

by Mary Logue

  The waitress came back with another cup of soup and set down their frosty beer mugs. Claire lifted hers and he clacked his against it. “What’re we celebrating?”

  “The end of the day.” She pointed at the sun setting over the lake.

  He felt it necessary to point out what came afterward. “But the beginning of the night.”

  “What did you think about Folger?” Claire asked him while she crumbled some crackers in her soup.

  “Are you going to eat all your crackers?” he asked.

  “Didn’t you eat anything today?”

  “No midafternoon snack and it’s almost nine o’clock.”

  “How do you stay so slim?”

  “By not eating. I just think about it a lot.”

  “What about Folger?” Claire came back to her question.

  “Guy gave me the willies, but seemed nonlethal.”

  “Yeah, that’s how he struck me this time around. When I saw him the first time at his office he was much more belligerent.”

  “The scrapbook still might tell us something. It’s worth looking at carefully. I guess it wouldn’t be uncommon for someone from around here to be fascinated by the murders, but that is also behavior we see in killers. Tracking their crime in the paper. Their fifteen minutes.”

  “You going back to the office after this?”

  “Yeah, the sheriff wanted me to be there ten to two. Do cell phones work here? I wonder if the pesticide guy has struck again.”

  “Not well, because of the bluffs. Let me use the phone at the bar to check in.” She picked up both of their empty soup bowls. “Ex-waitress,” she explained.

  He watched her walk up to the counter and lean over to grab the phone from behind the cash register. Claire wasn’t his type but she was sure fun to ogle. Good hair, great lips, nice ass. Not so skinny as many white women tried to be. She looked like she’d be a handful in bed. Five years ago he probably would have tried to find out, but five years ago he hadn’t met Sandy yet. She was good enough to be faithful for.

  Claire came back to the table shaking her head. “Nothing’s going on. No calls have come in.”

  “Maybe he’s taking a day off.”

  The food arrived. The fries looked like a pile of straw, but were nice and crispy. The hamburger wasn’t bad. Tyrone was facing the door and looked up from his food as a man walked in. He stood in the doorway and looked over at Tyrone with an odd, determined look. Tyrone was accustomed to the look. It happened from time to time when someone walked into a place where they didn’t customarily see a black man and there he’d be. He usually ignored it. Did no good to even think about it. But he was surprised when the man pushed open the door and went back out. He hadn’t looked so redneck to Tyrone that he wouldn’t even have a drink in a place serving a black. Tyrone lifted his beer mug again.

  Claire knocked hers against it. “What’re we celebrating now?”

  “Satisfaction,” he said.

  Rich didn’t know what to do with himself. He felt like an idiot. Why had he backed out the door? Why hadn’t he walked in and gone over to the table and kissed the woman he loved? Instead he had acted like he had done something wrong, or found her in a compromising position.

  He walked down toward the lake and thought of going back to the Fort, but his stomach turned.

  Rich felt like something broke in him. Seeing her with another man. Even though he was sure the guy was official—some deputy or sheriff or agent or cop. That was her world; that was her life. She was the only woman in an arena of men. She could handle it. Why couldn’t he?

  He wasn’t sure he could share Claire the way he would have to if he wanted to be part of her life. It would always be like this. One case or another would take her away from him. She would go out for drinks with the guys after work and he would not be included.

  Why, if it was so important to him to have a wife who stayed close to him, had he fallen in love with a deputy sheriff?

  The lake stretched out greasy and hot under the setting sun. When he turned back to go to the bar, he saw their patrol car pull away.

  He missed her.

  CHAPTER 23

  Debby didn’t usually work the late shift. It had been one of the requests she had made when she took the job, that she not have to work at night. Everything was screwed up these days. She had started to hate to come to work since her flowers were dead. Everyone was working longer hours. All because of that guy who had stolen the pesticides and something that had happened fifty years ago. She didn’t get it.

  Debby had agreed to fill in at the front—she was tired of answering the phones. She had only another couple hours left and she could go home. It was nearly ten o’clock and she thought of her husband, her new husband, watching the news without her.

  Ned told her that he loved every ounce of her. She was a little overweight, but not only did it not bother him, he saw it as positive. “Something to hold on to,” he whispered in her ear. “Something to keep me warm at night.”

  She was sorry she wasn’t there snuggled next to him on the couch, her eyes opened only a slit, ready to climb into bed. But she was at the sheriff’s department, watching no one walk in the door and waiting to go home.

  She left the desk for a few minutes to go to the bathroom and make a phone call to Ned. He told her he had just made popcorn. Then she came back to finish up her shift. She had told the sheriff she was leaving at eleven. She had already worked three hours extra, and although she was glad she was getting overtime, it still wasn’t worth it.

  When she walked back to the front, a rolled-up napkin smeared with ketchup was sitting in the middle of the counter. She picked up the napkin to throw it away and it felt like part of a hot dog was still left inside it. She unrolled the napkin and stared at what she was holding in her hand. She couldn’t believe it.

  Without thinking, she flung it back on the counter. She couldn’t even scream. She opened her mouth but the sound that came out was more like a whimper. She said, “No, no.”

  This was it. This was enough. She hated this kind of thing. She didn’t even like watching scary movies.

  The African American guy, Tyrone whatever his name, was walking in and looked over at her as she was whimpering. She pointed at the crumpled napkin.

  “Look,” she managed to say.

  He gingerly rolled back the napkin and saw the bloody stump of a finger that was tucked inside. Debby actually thought he turned paler. She didn’t know black people could do that, but he did. She swore he did. She stopped whimpering.

  “How did this get here?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I went to the bathroom.”

  “It happened right now?”

  “Yes, in the last ten minutes.”

  “You didn’t see anybody.”

  “No. The napkin was just sitting here on the counter when I came back.”

  “Would you get me a plastic bag to put it in? We don’t want anyone else touching it.”

  The Tyrone guy seemed like he was holding his anger in. Debby didn’t give a hoot. He could throw a tantrum as far as she was concerned. She was tired of working here. This was it for her. Ned didn’t really like her working so much anyhow.

  “I quit,” Debby said.

  Tyrone stared at her for a moment as if looking through her. Then he said, “Yeah, I bet you do.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out plastic gloves. That alone gave Debby the creeps. Imagine living with a man who walked around with plastic gloves in his pocket.

  He gently unrolled the napkin and moved the finger to one side and looked at what was written in black ink.

  Point this at one of your own.

  Marie Lowman woke and found herself curled up in the lounge chair next to Andy’s bed. Through sleep-heavy eyes, she looked up at the clock on the wall, which read eleven o’clock. The night air pressed against the window. She needed to go home. She hadn’t seen her children in twenty-four hours. She hadn’t changed her clothes in twice
as long.

  But the thought of leaving Andy tore at her heart. He hardly seemed to breathe in that white hospital bed. His hair was pushed back off his forehead, showing the tan line left by his Farmer’s Cooperative cap.

  She couldn’t help herself. She put her finger in front of his nose and felt the gentle movement of air that meant he was still of the world. How long, she wondered, how long could he go on this way? If she thought of him being in a coma for weeks and then months and then years, she didn’t know if she could bear it. How would she keep her family going without him? He supported them in so many ways.

  A nurse walked in and said, “Just need to take his vitals.”

  Marie noticed how young the woman was. Maybe thirty, probably not. She had that clean-scrubbed look of a Wisconsin farmgirl: short bobbed blond hair, blue eyes, and pink skin. She wondered what it did to her to take care of people who were dying day after day.

  Marie stood by and watched her go through the familiar routine: blood pressure, pulse, temperature. At first it had reassured her that they kept such a close watch on him, but when it all remained constant she wondered why they bothered.

  “Do you expect it to change?”

  “He could spike a fever. We need to watch for that.”

  “He’s never sick,” Marie told the nurse. She wanted to go on and explain what a strong man he was, but she knew the nurse didn’t need to hear about it. Andy was only a patient to her.

  When the nurse was done, Marie said, “I think I’m going to go home pretty soon. Just for a few hours.”

  The nurse nodded.

  “You will keep an eye on him, won’t you?”

  “Yes, and if anything changes we will call you.”

  “It helps to know that.”

  The nurse was almost out the door when Marie asked her, “Do you think he’ll wake up?”

  The nurse thought for a moment. “They often do. I would hope so.”

  Her words were enough for now. She would be leaving Andy with someone who hoped he would wake up.

  Marie felt tears rise up into her eyes, but she blinked them away. If she started she would never stop. She needed to hold them in check for a while longer. Until she got home, until she hugged her kids, until she was alone in bed.

  She walked up to the bed and put her hand on Andy’s forehead. Leaning over, she said his name. “I’m going home for a while. I’ll be back.” She stopped and then couldn’t help herself. “Come back to me.”

  She took his hand and squeezed it. At first when she held his hand it felt like a small animal sleeping; then it stirred. She squeezed again. Again she felt his hand move.

  “Andy,” she said.

  Nothing.

  She leaned in closer to him. She raised her voice. “Andy, can you hear me?”

  A moan came out of his mouth.

  “Andy, it’s Marie.”

  He coughed and his eyes flew open, then dropped shut again.

  “Andy.”

  He lay still.

  She sank down on the floor at the side of the bed, holding on to his hand. Whatever came she would not let him go. He was coming back if she had to pull him all the way.

  Then she heard her name. She lifted up her head.

  She heard Andy say, “Marie?”

  Claire had called to talk to Meg, but Brenda Watkins, Meg’s grandmother, told her that she was already fast asleep. “Do you want me to wake her up?”

  “No, of course not. Just let her know I’ve called. She worries.”

  “We wore her out today.”

  Then Claire tried to call Rich, but there was no answer. It was after eleven o’clock and she wondered where he was. Maybe at a poker game. Maybe out for a beer. She wanted to hear his voice. He knew how to settle her.

  After she had parked her car, she had walked by the wild rosebush and saw that the roses were no longer blooming. They had all fallen and she hadn’t even noticed. That was how fast things could change, if you didn’t pay attention to them. She needed to give Rich some attention.

  She hated nights like this, when she was so tired she hardly had enough energy to take her clothes off, but she knew the moment she got into bed, her mind would start to whir. She called it whirring and it sounded a lot like worrying, but it was faster and more disorienting. Drinking helped her fall asleep, but usually she woke up a few hours later and started up anyway. The one beer she had had with dinner was enough. A hot bath might relax her, she thought, and started to run a tub.

  Just as she was ready to climb into the water, the phone rang. She had set it on the toilet right next to the bathtub.

  “Hello,” she answered.

  “I hope you’re not asleep,” a male voice said, but it wasn’t Rich. It was Tyrone.

  “What’s up?” She sat down on the toilet and grabbed at a towel. Without any clothes on, she felt odd talking to this man she hardly knew.

  “We got a special delivery.”

  “What?”

  “From the pesticide guy.”

  “Yeah, tell me.” She didn’t appreciate his fooling around.

  “Well, you know how you were saying today that there weren’t enough fingers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he must have agreed with you. He sent us another one.”

  “Does it look like it could be the father’s?”

  “Nope. It’s a fresh finger.”

  “What do you mean, fresh?”

  “It is covered with flesh. Someone lost it within the last day or so. That’s what the medical examiner thought.”

  “I’m coming down.”

  “No, Stewy said you would want to, but we need you to be here early. Get some sleep.”

  “Any ideas whose finger?”

  “Dr. Lord wasn’t sure of the sex—probably middle-aged. Whoever it was had worked hard.”

  “That would match most of the people in the county.”

  “Uh-huh. See you tomorrow.”

  Claire let the towel drop and she looked down at her own fingers. What poor person was out there tonight without a digit? Would he or she still be alive—and be found in time?

  CHAPTER 24

  Earl pulled up in front of the hospital. It was after midnight, but he had decided, driving into town, that this had to be his first stop. Marie had probably gone home, but he needed to lay his eyes on his son. No matter what he looked like. That was where this journey home had to start.

  A youngish woman sat at the information desk, but she was looking down at her lap. When Earl walked up closer, he saw that she was knitting. He stood quietly and watched her for a few moments. The needles moved in and out of the yarn like magic. A hot activity for this time of year, but it was air-conditioned in the hospital.

  “What’re you knitting?” he asked her.

  “Oh.” She jumped. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were there.”

  “What’re you knitting?”

  “A sweater for my son. For Christmas. I always get a head start.”

  “He’s a lucky son.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled up at him. “What can I help you with?”

  “I’m here to see my son, Andy Lowman.”

  Her face dropped slightly. She knew what had happened to his son. She felt sorry for him. “He’s up on the second floor. It’s not really visiting hours.”

  “I know, but I just drove up from Tucson. I’d like to see him for a moment.”

  “I guess that’s all right.” She gave him the room number.

  As he stood in front of the elevator, he remembered all the events that had taken place in this hospital. His children had been born here. His mother had died here. He had lost his appendix at this hospital. The smell—why did all hospitals smell like that? A mixture of sorrow and ammonia. Not unpleasant, but sometimes a little too strong.

  As he came up to the room, he could hear talking. He wondered if one of the nurses was in there. Then he stood in the door and saw Marie leaning over the bed. Andy was sitting up with his eyes op
en and he was talking.

  “Andy,” Lowman said.

  They both turned and saw him. Marie’s face was wet with tears. “He’s back,” she said, and Earl didn’t know if she was talking about Andy or himself.

  “Dad,” Andy said.

  “Is it okay if I’m here?” Earl asked.

  Marie walked up to him and said, “You must be exhausted.”

  “I think we all are,” he said as he hugged her.

  “Come and take a chair.” She pointed at the chair that was pulled up next to the bed.

  “How long has he been awake?”

  “A couple of hours. He’s pretty groggy. Doesn’t remember much of what happened. But doesn’t look like he’s going to slip away again. The nurses have come in and checked him over. Everything looks good. They’re pretty sure they got all the pesticides out of his system.”

  “Hallelujah,” Earl said quietly.

  He sat down in the chair and looked at his son whom he hadn’t seen in ten years. His son was getting old. The wrinkles had set in around his eyes and down his cheeks. But he was wearing well. Looked strong.

  “I’m sorry about everything, Andy.”

  The eyes fluttered shut, then jumped open again. Andy turned his head to see his father. “Don’t go there, Dad.”

  But Earl couldn’t stop himself. He knew it wasn’t time to talk of such things, that it was only time to rejoice that his son was risen from the dead, but he needed to get it out and say it. He had promised himself he would. “I’m going to talk to the police tomorrow and tell them everything. I decided on my way up here that no matter what, I would tell them what happened.”

  His son nodded his head. “Mom would be glad.”

  The rich smell of deep summer night followed Rich as he walked up Claire’s hill from town. The slight dip in temperature, probably from a high of eighty-five that day to about seventy-five right at present, caused dew to form, glazing grasses and lilac bushes. A silvery haze glowed around the streetlights as bugs flew in and out of it.