The wealthier citizens had made it possible for every child in town to obtain a fine education, though teams for football and basketball had to draw their players from a smaller-than-average pool of students, and contests with other towns had always been a countywide joke.
Oren’s last day of high school had been capped by a night game with an unexpected twist. The bleachers had rocked with stomping feet, applause and wild cheers from the crowd, though not a single point was scored. No player ever touched a basketball.
Visitors and townspeople had witnessed the spectacle of schoolboys bursting through the locker-room door, Dave Hardy half flying and Oren following on the run. The two had rolled, boy over boy, to the center of the gymnasium. None of the spectators had complained about the fight – they loved it – though the blood gushing from Dave’s nose had made the damage look more exciting than it was.
When it was over, and the fight fans had gone home happy, the principal’s office smelled of blood and sweaty boys. Oren’s knuckles were raw that night, and so was Dave Hardy’s face. They sat with Josh in chairs lined up before the desk. Without being told, the adults queued up like schoolchildren to stand with their backs to the office wall – all except Hannah, who stood behind Josh’s chair.
Oren had a clear memory of Hannah fussing with a bandage that covered his little brother’s wound. Josh had looked up at her, eyes pleading, silently begging, Don’t baby me, not here, not now. With a slow wink of understanding, she had turned away from him to join the judge and Mrs Hardy at the back of the room, where they kept company with a worried Coach White.
Principal Mars made eye contact with each of his three students in turn. ‘I don’t suppose you kids want to tell me who started the fight.’ After a few seconds of boy-squirming silence, the man said, ‘No, of course not. Much too easy. What was I thinking?’
Heavy footsteps clumped forward from the back of the room. Without turning his head, Oren knew it was Mrs Hardy. He could smell her.
‘I bet it’s got something to do with Josh’s camera.’ There was a sneer in her voice when she said, ‘Maybe Josh took a shot of my boy’s little pecker.’
‘That ’s enough, Mavis.’ The principal’s tone was not angry. He seemed only bone-weary of his dealings with Dave’s mother. This was hardly her first visit to his office. He focused his attention on Josh. ‘You’re not on the basketball team. What were you doing in the locker room with a camera?’
‘I was taking pictures for the school yearbook. No pecker shots . . . sir.’ Josh gave the principal his widest, goofiest grin, and this was the boy’s best trick, for the man had to smile; he was helpless to do otherwise. Josh was that charming.
‘It was my idea,’ Coach White called out from the back wall. ‘I brought the boy into the locker room to get a few pregame shots.’
The principal beamed at the coach. ‘So you were there when the fight started. Well, now we’re getting somewhere.’ He pointed to Josh. ‘This boy was hit from behind. Is that right, Coach?’
‘No!’ Coach White stepped forward to lay both hands flat on the desk, insulted and on the offensive. ‘None of my kids would ever do a thing like that.’
‘Really? I couldn’t help but notice – the bandage is on the back of the boy’s head.’
In a more offhand tone, the coach said, ‘Josh cut his head on a locker with a broken handle . . . Dave could’ve pushed him . . . It might ’ve been an accident.’
The heat of a blush rose in Josh’s face. The scalp wound had been his only battle scar – ever – and now all his hopes of shared glory were gone.
Oren had seen his own error in that moment. He had been too quick to go after Dave, never giving Josh a chance to strike one blow for himself. That night, his little brother would have given anything to be the boy standing under the bright lights of the gym with blood on his hands.
‘David?’ The principal rapped the desk, calling for Dave Hardy’s attention. ‘Is that right? You bounced Josh off a locker, and then his big brother went after you? Now why would you do a thing like that to a smaller boy? What set you off?’
All three maintained their schoolboy’s honor code: Thou shalt not rat on thine enemies.
Once again, crazy Mrs Hardy advanced her theory on the camera shot of an undersized penis. ‘Not very good porno in my estimation.’
The departing group of boys and adults were gathered in the corridor, all but Dave ’s mother, when they heard the principal yell, ‘Mavis, sit your ass down in that chair!’ And the office door was slammed shut.
The judge herded his two boys toward the stairwell, and Oren turned back to see their housekeeper reach out to the enemy and lightly squeeze Dave Hardy’s arm. He suspected that she was offering comfort. Whatever she said to him was too low to be heard from any distance.
Outside in the parking lot, his father was heading toward the car, keys jingling in his hand. Oren hung back to wait for Hannah. When she appeared on the schoolhouse steps, he faced her down, arms folded in quiet resolve. ‘I’m done with Dave Hardy. I don’t care what the judge says.’
Josh tried vain hand signals to tell his brother that the judge was coming up behind him on cat’s feet. Both boys hated those crepe-soled sandals, though they had agreed that the old man’s long ponytail was kind of cool.
‘It’s over,’ Oren said to Hannah, oblivious to his brother’s sign language. ‘I’m not asking Dave home to dinner one more time.’
‘Yes, you will.’ The judge smiled, so pleased to see his firstborn spin around so quick. Gotcha. With the waving arms of a goose tender, he shooed his family into the waiting Mercedes.
Purchased that very day, its interior had the wonderful new-car smell of rich leather. Oren opened the rear door and inhaled deeply. And then he was told that, because of the fight, he would not be allowed to drive it for one solid month. Oren slumped low in the backseat, and Josh slumped in sympathy.
They rode in silence for a mile of dark road before pulling into the driveway. Horatio came bounding toward them, barking and slobbering, his jaw hanging open in a dog’s idea of hysterical laughter. Up on his hind legs, dancing in the headlights, he was so excited to see them – so eager to get at them. He had never grasped the fact that the car could not bring his family all the way home until he got out of the way. Fortunately, the dog was easily distracted. Hannah fished about in her purse for a plastic bag where she kept one of Horatio’s soggy, smelly toys. Tossing a toy into the woods sometimes worked, sometimes not.
The dog was deliberating.
The judge used the time to reiterate that Oren certainly would invite David Hardy home to dinner on the following night. ‘That boy has gone to live in hell, and it’s no fault of his. No wonder he acts out from time to time. So, once a week, we will reach into the pit and pull David out for a good meal in a sane house. That boy is your good deed.’
‘You mean like the old lady on Paulson Lane,’ said Oren, reminding the judge of another good deed done under duress. ‘She died.’
‘Nonetheless,’ said the judge. ‘This is how we care for one another.’
That night, Oren had wondered what the old man’s next project would be – after Dave Hardy died.
Days later, Josh was gone. And for months of mornings after that, Oren had awakened in shock, as if he had suddenly discovered that he was missing an arm or a leg.
Twenty years later, almost to the day, Sheriff Babitt walked into the Water Street Café. The man had an anxious look about him when he sat down at the table. His eyes were fixed upon the red folder resting on the checkered cloth alongside an untouched ham sandwich.
Oren pulled the folder back a few inches to make it clear that this was no longer the property of the County Sheriff ’s Office. He opened it to remove a single sheet of paper and handed it across the table.
The sheriff read his own interview with Mavis Hardy and her teenage son, Dave, a statement made back in the days when an entire town was searching the woods for a lost boy:SHERIFF BABITT: I kn
ow you had an argument with Josh Hobbs a few days ago. I understand you bounced that boy off a gym locker. What was that about?
DAVID HARDY: I pushed him.
SHERIFF BABITT: Some push. The way I heard it, the kid was bleeding. But I didn’t ask what you did. I asked you why you did it.
DAVID HARDY: Josh was in my way that night. So I moved him.
MAVIS HARDY: You know how I can always tell when my boy’s lying? His little pecker just shrivels up like it’s trying to crawl back inside of him. Makes him look kind of girlish. If you like, we can unzip him and—
SHERIFF BABITT: Mavis, shut the hell up. Dave, go home. I need a word with your mother.
Cable looked up from his reading. ‘This might’ve been the shortest interview I ever conducted.’
‘That was the only interview with Dave. You felt sorry for him, didn’t you? His crazy mother and all.’
‘Son, I misspoke. Your old interview was even shorter than this one.’
‘Dave Hardy was the only one who ever hurt my brother. I was there. He didn’t push Josh. He picked him up and threw him into a wall of lockers. Dave should ’ve made your shortlist.’
The sheriff shrugged. ‘It was just a matter of time before he got around to Josh. Dave had fights with every boy in school.’
‘I know the second victim you found in Josh’s grave was a woman.’
A worry line cut down the middle of the sheriff ’s forehead and deepened. ‘I have to wonder how you know that, Oren.’
‘You just told me. And that’s another strike against Dave. His mother probably taught him to hate all women.’
‘No, that was his father’s job,’ said the sheriff. ‘That bastard used to beat on Mavis all the time.’
‘And what about crazy Mavis Hardy?’
‘Not so crazy. I think Mavis was real smart about getting sympathy for Dave. I sure felt sorry for him. The kid never did anything that his mother couldn’t top. Every parent-teacher night was a crawling horror show. One time, Principal Mars found a teacher hiding under her desk, crying real soft so Mavis wouldn’t find her. Everybody felt damn sorry for Dave. No matter what kind of trouble that boy got into, he never got thrown out of school.’
‘And you never suspected him? You couldn’t see Dave beating Josh to death?’
‘I thought about it. I even thought it couldn’t hurt to keep the boy close. So, when he came back to town, I made him my deputy. Satisfied, Oren?’
SEVENTEEN
Only days ago, Henry Hobbs had been crazed by Dave Hardy’s threat to dig up the flower garden, and now Hannah was surprised by the old man’s calm demeanor. While five state troopers opened every drawer in the living room and dumped them out on the floor, the judge was content to sit and read a search warrant by the light of the bay window.
Special Agent Sally – damned if Hannah would call her Sally – Polk stood by the judge’s chair. The woman had a down-home country way about her – miles too friendly, and every word out of her mouth was suspect, even to saying hello at the front door.
‘I’m so sorry about this mess,’ said the CBI agent, as if this carnage had come about by accident.
‘Sorry? No,’ said the judge, ‘I don’t think you are – not yet. But just wait half a minute.’ He read a few more lines. ‘Your work is a bit sloppy, Miss Polk.’
‘Agent Polk,’ she said to sweetly remind him that she was in charge.
He raised his eyes from the warrant to watch another drawer crash to the floor. ‘And, by sloppy, I don’t mean the ham-handed way these boys conduct a search. Now that mess, as you put it, is all for show – pure intimidation. And I can make that charge stick.’ He held up the warrant. ‘This doesn’t cover the common areas of the house. The way I read it – the way any judge would, retired or not – you’re restricted to Oren’s residence, and that ’s his bedroom. He doesn’t own this place. I do. And the only item you can seize – from Oren’s room – is a red folder that holds standard-size documents.’
He pointed to one of the young men in uniform. ‘So that boy shouldn’t be searching anything as small as that ceramic candy box. Incidentally, the box belonged to my late wife. Trust me on this – you really don’t want the trooper to drop it, not until you find out just how many ways I can hang you out to dry. So tell him to put it down right now.’
The young trooper never even glanced at his boss. He was looking at Hannah’s angry upturned face and finding the tiny housekeeper more formidable. Very gently, he set the ceramic box back in its place on the mantelpiece.
‘So this,’ and this, by the wave of the judge ’s hand, included everything in sight, ‘this is illegal and damned incompetent.’
The telephone rang, and Hannah retreated down the hall to the kitchen to answer it in privacy. When she returned to the front room, the search had ended. ‘Not good enough,’ she said to the troopers. ‘I wasn’t born to clean up after you boys.’
Two of these young men had known the housekeeper all their lives, and now they gathered up the spilled contents of drawers. They treaded lightly around Horatio, who lay on the rug, doing his only trick – pretending to sleep while dead.
Hannah stood at the center of the room and raised her voice for all to hear as she spoke to the judge. ‘That was the sheriff returning your call. He wants you to know that he found that red folder behind his credenza.’
Heads lifted all around the room.
‘And he’s real sorry that Miss Polk went off half-cocked the way she did. But she just wouldn’t wait till he had time to do a proper search of his office.’ Hannah glared at the CBI agent. Why was that woman still smiling?
Another state trooper entered the house. The first person he saw was Hannah with her arms folded – waiting. And now the young man backed up a step to make his courtesy knock on the front door. He removed his hat and nodded hello to the housekeeper, who knew his parents and their parents all too well. The trooper drew Sally Polk into the dining room, wanting a word with her alone. Their voices were so low that even Hannah could not make out the conversation, though it was rumored that she could hear birds fluffing their feathers in the next county.
‘You arrested my son?’
The trooper and Sally Polk whirled around to see Henry Hobbs standing behind them. Hannah grinned as she looked down at the judge’s sandals, the old man’s creepers.
‘Well, that ’s another warrant I’d like to see,’ said the judge. ‘And all of your paperwork should be in order. Now what are the odds of that?’
Agent Polk’s folksy veneer was still holding. ‘I’ll be more careful from now on.’ Her voice was butter-smooth when she asked, ‘Have you always been in collusion with the sheriff – or is that a recent thing?’
A plate of brownies had pride of place on the desk. The fresh-baked aroma was tantalizing and unexpected at the local headquarters of the California Highway Patrol.
‘Oh, is that light too bright? Well, of course it is.’ Sally Polk drew the blinds in her office. ‘There, that’s better.’ Smoothing back her gray hair, she smiled benignly as she faced her prisoner, Oren Hobbs. ‘I can’t see Cable Babitt just giving you that red folder.’ She paused a beat, most likely waiting for a signal that she was on the right track – and that the county sheriff was dead meat. Apparently, she did not believe the fairy tale of a critical piece of evidence getting lost behind Cable ’s credenza.
Disappointed by Oren’s tell-nothing face, she moved on. ‘So let’s say you borrowed that old folder without permission. But wouldn’t the sheriff ’s credenza be locked? I’m so sure I remember a set of keys hanging from a lock on the bottom drawer.’ Her smile broadened as she waited out the silence of a few seconds. ‘All right then. We’ll just forget those pesky charges of stealing official documents. And – no promises, mind you – but maybe the sheriff can keep his badge.’
She turned her back on him to water a potted geranium on a stand in the corner. Smaller plants, pansies and African violets, sat on the windowsills, and personal pho
tographs lined the walls. The whole room was a study in domesticity – and it did not have the look of an office on short-term loan to the lady from Sacramento.
Special Agent Polk sat down at her desk and straightened a stack of papers, then picked up loose pens and pencils and returned them to their glass container – just tidying up in a housewifey way. She pushed the plate of brownies toward him and raised her eyebrows to ask if he would like one.
As he was reaching out to the plate, she said, ‘Sweetheart, in a manner of speaking, I’ve got you by the balls.’ She raised one hand and slowly curled her fingers into a fist, smiling all the while. ‘Please don’t make me squeeze ’em until they split open and spatter the wall. That’s gotta hurt something awful.’ Her voice was so friendly. She was almost motherly, if one discounted her intentions toward his testicles.
But the brownies were good.
He chewed slowly as he stretched out his legs, preparing to spend a few hours in this interrogation. Behind him, the office door opened and – bang! – closed.
Addison Winston appeared, briefcase in hand and wearing the body armor of a silk tie, a suit with a lustrous sheen and diamond cuff links. His eyes were fever-bright. The man was shining inside and out. Smiling, he moved around the desk to hover over the state’s investigator. This sort of smile might be the last thing a mouse would see before a cat ripped its head off. ‘Hello, Sally, old girl. How’ve you been?’
Agent Polk countered with strained goodwill. ‘Well, Ad, I can’t complain.’
‘I can,’ said Winston. ‘I know Judge Hobbs informed you that Oren was represented by counsel. But here you are – interrogating my client. Oh, Sally, Sally . . . The judge will be so pissed off.’ He shook his head in mock sadness. ‘As if you aren’t in enough trouble.’
‘What interrogation? Me and your client were only passing the time, just waiting around for you to show up.’
Bone by Bone Page 17
