Bone by Bone

by Carol O'Connell

  ‘But you came back.’

  ‘Yeah, I got a letter from the sheriff. He wrote to tell me my mother was dying. That was eight years ago. I’m still waiting.’

  Oren set his coffee cup down on the bar. ‘I haven’t seen your mother since the last time we were sent to the principal’s office. Remember that?’

  ‘After the fight in the gym. Yeah, Mom was in good form that night. Did you know she ’s got a tumor as big as a basketball?’ He finished his beer. ‘Maybe bigger – maybe she’s just one big ol’ walking, talking tumor. Bitch. But your dad and Hannah, they were aces. I still remember Hannah’s cooking.’

  ‘I don’t think you had another meal at our house after that fight.’ And now, back on point, Oren continued the pretense of catching up with an old classmate. ‘You never did say why you slammed my brother into that gym locker.’

  ‘Oh, hell. I didn’t know the coach sent Josh in there to take pictures for the yearbook. I thought the kid was just being a creep. Sorry, man. No offense.’

  Oren’s hands tightened around his coffee cup. ‘Before that night . . . did Josh ever follow you around? I know he did that sometimes – following people with his camera.’

  Dave mulled over the question between slow sips of beer. ‘No, I don’t think so. But I noticed him watching me in the locker room when I was changing my clothes. I wondered if Josh was queer or something. I guess that ’s what creeped me out. So, that night when he took my picture – I just snapped.’

  Oren’s eyes were on the wide mirror behind the bar when Evelyn Straub walked into the lounge.

  She seemed unhappy to see him sitting here with Dave Hardy. This had been a mistake. He should have run the deputy down in someone else’s bar, for now she must realize that Hannah had given up Dave as the source of leaks from the County Sheriff ’s Office. The housekeeper had thrown him this bone as a consolation prize. On the subject of missing photographs and dates, she had pleaded amnesia.

  Evelyn Straub sat down on the third barstool. ‘Hello, boys.’

  The deputy lifted his beer in salute.

  ‘Oren,’ she said, ‘give Hannah my regards.’ The light note of sarcasm was an instruction to also convey that she was pissed off. ‘Are you going to the birthday ball this year?’

  ‘I never go,’ said Oren.

  ‘You went to the first one,’ she said. ‘Not your finest hour.’

  ‘I remember that,’ said Dave. ‘Shit, we were still in elementary school that year.’ With great goodwill inspired by beer before breakfast, he slapped Oren’s back. ‘I heard the Winston girl beat the crap out of you the other day.’

  ‘I saw the whole thing,’ said Evelyn, never taking her eyes off of Oren. ‘Payback’s a bitch.’

  ‘Call me Sally.’

  William Swahn could think of other things that he might call this woman, and some were vaguely criminal. The CBI agent and her goons had crossed a line today.

  Sally Polk sipped her tea and nodded toward his untouched cup. ‘Is that too hot?’

  He could place her country-western accent in Bakersfield, a unique part of California where some migrant families had kept their transplant drawls from other states and passed them down through the generations. ‘Am I under arrest?’

  ‘No, dear. But thank you for coming in.’

  ‘It was hard to refuse the state troopers. They took my cane when they opened the rear door of the car.’

  ‘Oh, those boys.’ With a light wave, she brushed off this bad behavior of children with guns. ‘You’re a guest. You’re also the only criminologist for miles around. Do your friends call you Will or William?’

  ‘The Highway Patrol doesn’t need a criminologist. In this area, a speeding ticket might be the high point of a trooper’s day.’

  ‘I’m with a different agency.’

  ‘The CBI. I know. And I also know the Coventry homicides were taken away from you.’

  ‘Oh, my, doesn’t news travel fast? I only found out myself an hour ago. So I’m guessing you have some idea who pulled the strings to change jurisdiction. You and Oren have the same lawyer. Isn’t that right? Was it Addison’s plan? Or does Judge Hobbs still have that kind of influence?’

  Swahn pushed his teacup away. ‘I can only repeat what my cleaning lady said. Most of her gossip is very reliable.’

  Smiling sweetly, so motherly, the agent held up a color portrait of young Joshua Hobbs. The boy was posed against the ersatz blue-sky backdrop used by school photographers. ‘He was a fine-looking boy, wasn’t he? Maybe a bit on the delicate side. No interest in sports, I hear – not quite like the other boys.’

  ‘The real boys? Your bias is showing, Agent Polk.’

  ‘Call me Sally, just plain old gay-basher Sally.’

  He almost smiled. He almost liked her. ‘For a year after Josh Hobbs went missing, there were three teenage girls haunting the sheriff ’s office like widows. You still need a criminologist’s point of view? Fine. The boy was rampantly heterosexual.’

  ‘But you’re not. You can’t claim to be straight at this late date. If you did, you might have to give back all that lovely settlement money. The police down in Los Angeles might say it was paid out under false pretenses. As an agent of the Justice Department, I might have to look into that.’

  ‘Apparently, the LAPD is holding to the terms of our nondisclosure agreement. Clearly, you’ve never been privy to any details. So you’re blowing smoke. Is this your interrogation style? You just throw out a few lines of garbage and see what sticks?’

  ‘I wonder which client Addison worries about the most – you or Oren Hobbs. I know the sheriff took a real hard look at you when Josh disappeared. Now why is that? You’d have to run naked in the streets to get Cable Babitt’s attention. And then there’s Ad Winston. If he’s your attorney, I know you did something wrong.’

  William leaned on his cane, preparing to rise. There was no acrimony in his voice when he said, ‘You’ll have to excuse me now.’

  ‘So you don’t want this case solved, either. That doesn’t speak well for innocence.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘You will.’ This was no threat. She was worried.

  He followed the track of her eyes to the window on the parking lot, where people were gathering with cameras and microphones. ‘I see you called out the media.’

  She shook her head. ‘That’s your lawyer’s style, not mine.’ She left her desk and walked to the window. More vans and cars pulled into the parking lot to disgorge reporters and film crews. ‘God, how Addison loves the cameras. That ’s why I had the troopers pick you up – so he wouldn’t find out you were here. Believe it or not, I did that as a favor to you, Mr Swahn.’

  William limped to the window to stand beside her. ‘Well, you know I didn’t call my lawyer. This isn’t his doing.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ she said. ‘Sometimes – when there’s blood in the water – they just show up.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  Twenty years ago, Ferris Monty had begun his book on a typewriter, and now he was nearly done copying the old manuscript onto a computer. The screen glowed, and so did he.

  Fat fingers typed out Joshua’s dark brown hair and high cheekbones. Line by line, he animated the dead boy and made him walk the streets of Coventry with a camera strap slung around his long white neck. And sometimes, on one page or another, the boy was followed by a loopy Irish setter that seemed vaguely retarded.

  What was the stupid beast’s name?

  He paused to page through an old notebook. Ah, right. The boy had called his dog Horatio, as in, ‘Get off me, Horatio!’

  Ferris was revisiting a long-ago day when he had blended in with the tourists at a street fair. For an hour or more, he had kept watch on the boy and the dog, and then he had lost sight of them in the crowd, but found them again when a woman yelled, ‘Josh, you get this mutt off me! Now!’ Once more, in keeping with the theme of ducks in a row, Ferris had followed behind the dog that followed the boy.

  A w
oman had appeared to be the unwitting leader of this parade for a time – or perhaps not. According to his notes for that day, he had never been entirely certain, for the dog had suddenly jumped another victim in the street and slathered her with kisses until she also screamed. An old line in Ferris’s notebook lamented: How could the boy hope to shadow anyone with a dog like that in tow?

  On other pages, other days when the dog was not around, the objects of Joshua’s curiosity had been clear. The boy had a gift for capturing the telling moments, snapping rants or confusion, a binge eater at the point of throwing up in a local diner, and—

  And now Ferris recalled his own portraits – hung on public display for decades.

  He had ordered prints from Josh after the originals had appeared in the lobby of the local bank. Ferris’s private collection hung on the wall above the computer monitor, placed there so that he could daily see himself in a kinder light than his mirror could afford. He had so loved these portraits of younger days when he had black eyebrows to match his toupee. And Joshua’s work was superior to every other artist’s previous attempt at capturing Ferris’s true essence.

  Understatement.

  Today these three photographs stunned him anew.

  He saw his younger self standing in line at the bank all those years ago. In the first frame, he had noticed the boy taking his picture. Ferris’s face was turned to the camera’s lens with a look of happy surprise – and more. As the line moved forward in the second shot, he looked back over his shoulder in sweet flirtation. But his expression was most vivid in the final shot. He had been caught in the act of falling in love with the young photographer.

  However, the boy had been repulsed by him. Ferris had discovered this on the day when Joshua had come by the house to drop off these prints and collect his money. Why, then, had the boy not turned away after snapping the first shot? Why stay to take two more? And why hang this trio of pictures out in public?

  Slowly Ferris came to an understanding that increased his respect for the young artist.

  It was all about the telling moments. Joshua had captured a rare thing, the instant of love at first sight. The boy may have been repelled by his subject, but he had surely taken great pride in this amazing thing he had done.

  Over the years, thousands of customers had passed through the bank lobby and stared at these pictures while standing in line. Had any of them truly understood what they were seeing? His smile of superiority faded off.

  Horror set in.

  And it would keep Ferris company all through the day.

  The only cab company in Saulburg had no cars to spare; most had been commandeered by television networks and newspapers. Against Agent Polk’s advice, William Swahn had declined to allow the state troopers to drive him home. No thank you. He had also waived the offer of uniformed escorts to guide him through the crowd of reporters in the parking lot.

  The media rabble had swelled in size, more rowdies with cameras and microphones.

  William waited alone behind the glass doors, and he glanced at his watch. Enough time had elapsed for his ride to show up. She had promised to come with all possible speed. To the residents of Coventry, that might mean fifteen miles per hour instead of ten.

  He could see nothing of the parking lot. Reporters and photographers blocked his view. After a few more minutes, he stepped out into the light of day, the hollered questions and the press of flesh all around him. He made his way through the lot, limping ungainly past the patrol cars and passing civilian sedans he did not recognize. All the yelling blended into a single roar, and the sound surrounded him. Here and there, a phrase was clear as one reporter called out, ‘Wait a minute!’ and another one said, ‘Hey, man, slow down!’

  A foot flashed out in front of him, and he was indeed slowing down. He was falling. Where was his cane? One of the bastards had taken his cane! He landed on his bad leg, and the pain made him scream. They stood over him, grinning, some filming the motion of his writhing and others snapping still shots of agony that was slow to subside. For one lost minute, William gave up, and one of them yelled, ‘Is he dead?’

  He lay on his back, sliding into shock and motionless, forgetting to breathe or blink.

  And now it was one of his assailants who screamed, and then another one cried out. William turned his head to see a camera fall as a photographer doubled over in pain, both hands protecting his crotch. A tiny figure was battling her way through the crowd, one pair of testicles by another, and then she snatched up his cane from the ground to do some damage to kneecaps.

  Mighty Hannah Rice had come to take him home.

  Oren entered the bank with the intention to empty a savings account that he had begun at the age of ten. He stopped just inside the vestibule and opened a small blue passbook to check his memory against the balance. It was the wrong one, though he had found it in his old writing desk. This was Josh’s old bankbook. He read the total of three thousand dollars, a fabulous sum for his fifteen-year-old brother, and this did not include the interest earned over two decades. He had never realized that the sales of Josh’s photographs had been so lucrative.

  And might his own passbook be found in his brother’s desk? How had they gotten switched – and when? Perhaps he put too much stock in every odd thing these days, as if he could divine signs and omens that way. His next thought was that he might not be paying close enough attention.

  Without the right passbook, he had no business with the bank today. On his way out the door, he saw the yellow Rolls-Royce parked out front. The driver’s bad hairpiece and pale skin completed the sheriff ’s description of Ferris Monty. Oren recognized this man as one of the players at the séance, but he had a less distinct memory of him from somewhere else and long ago – just a face in a photograph.

  Monty was waddling up the walkway to the bank when their eyes met and the little man stumbled. Was he frightened? Affecting nonchalance in a pirouette, Monty spun around and hurried back to the Rolls-Royce.

  And what was that about?

  Only in Coventry was it possible to follow a car on foot. The Rolls turned a corner, and Oren strolled after it. He was only half a block behind when the yellow car parked in front of the post office. He gave Ferris Monty a minute of lead time before stepping up to the window. The little man stood in the lobby, studying Josh’s three portraits of William Swahn, moving closer and squinting to see the details. Oren rapped on the windowpane and waved. Startled, Monty back-stepped onto another customer’s shoes. Then he shot out the door and ran for his car.

  Oren made no move to prevent this escape. He planned to allow Monty time for a little sweat, time to wait for the inevitable knock on the door. At the moment, he was more interested in his brother’s old photographs of the Letter Man and why they so fascinated a gossip columnist. As Oren entered the small lobby, he remembered where he had seen Ferris Monty before. Josh’s series of triptychs only pictured people waiting in lines. One such group of photographs had been sold to the town’s only bank.

  He stared at his brother’s work on the post office wall, eyes moving from one picture to the next.

  Josh, tell me a story.

  He had always believed that the subject was William Swahn. He had forgotten that the insane librarian was also pictured here. She stood in line in front of the man with the cane, and there was no backward glance to show that she knew him. This picture might support Swahn’s claim that they had never spoken.

  No, the Letter Man had lied to him.

  As this pair moved forward in the sequence of three photographs, a bulky envelope disappeared from a group of letters in Swahn’s hand to reappear jutting out of Mavis Hardy’s shopping bag.

  The next stop on Dave Hardy’s patrol route was a small roadside bar two towns over from the county seat. It was nearly time for a liquid lunch. He liked to spread out his drinking across the day. His beer was always served in a coffee cup, and he was never asked to pay a tab – a courtesy to law enforcement.

  He loved his job
. Even after hours and out of uniform, he could drink for free.

  The deputy slid onto his favorite barstool, the one closest to the window, to keep an eye on the parking lot. He was always on the lookout for out-of-state plates, such easy targets for tickets, but all of these patrons were local people. He turned to watch the TV set behind the bar. It was early for a news show. The banner scrolling below the picture told him that this was a breaking story. On screen, only a few blocks away from the sheriff ’s office in Saulburg, the parking lot for the Highway Patrol was a mob scene.

  He recognized the limping man as a recluse from Coventry. William Swahn was surrounded by reporters and swallowed up whole. The television camera cut to a shot of Sally Polk amid cameras and microphones. She was answering questions on the old Hobbs case – a case that was no longer hers. This woman did not know when to let go.

  Dave broke with his tradition of one beer per bar and ordered another. Sally Polk reminded him of his mother, who could smile while she stabbed him with words in all the soft places.

  Oren phoned home from the bank. While he listened to the rings at the other end of the line, he stared at Ferris Monty’s three portraits on the wall.

  His father answered the telephone, and Oren learned that Hannah had taken the car. And so, said the judge, he was out of luck if he needed a ride. However, the old man knew the address he wanted, adding, ‘It ’s not much of a hike, maybe a mile or so from town.’

  Walking along the narrow back roads, Oren called up a memory of Josh returning from Ferris Monty’s house after dropping off an order of prints. Though this had been a big commission, the boy had not wanted to talk about it.

  After studying the original photographs in the bank, Oren understood his brother’s uneasiness, and now he considered the worst scenario for Josh’s death. As a CID agent, he had dealt with predator soldiers, arresting more than a few in his career. He was so well versed in this crime that he could even name the freaks who specialized in the capture and rape of adolescents.