Bone by Bone

by Carol O'Connell

  ‘Eavesdropping, Hannah?’ He sat down beside her.

  ‘Mr Swahn’s a gentleman. He won’t tell you what was in that envelope. But I will. The judge used to do the same thing for years. The line at the post office was the best place for it. Before we had rural delivery, Mavis always picked up her mail at the same time every morning. Coventry didn’t have anything as grand as welfare, and Mavis hadn’t seen a paycheck for a while. You may have noticed – no one goes to the library anymore. Officially, it was closed for years. But Mavis still showed up for work every day.’

  ‘A creature of habit.’

  ‘Right. And crazy. I’m sure you noticed that, too. So, once a month, people with money – like the judge, like Mr Swahn – they’d slip her some cash on the sly. It was done that way so she wouldn’t have to thank anybody. The envelopes were labeled as donations to the library, and that was to save her pride. I know Addison was generous, too. His envelopes were the thickest ones. It took the judge a long time to force the town council into reinstating Mavis so she could get regular paychecks. But back then, she was the town charity.’

  Hannah shook her head, slowly, sadly. ‘Josh and his collection of secrets. Hanging that one out in public made your father so mad. Only a handful of people would’ve understood what was going on in those pictures, and maybe a year passed by before any of them caught on to what the boy had done – exposing a sick woman that way. The judge was the first one to notice. I remember when he came home from the post office – so angry. His last conversation with your brother was an argument. After that, they didn’t speak for days. And then Josh was gone – dead.’

  Oren stopped on the sidewalk outside the drugstore. Down the street, Alice Friday stood on the verandah of the Straub Hotel. The psychic was keeping watch on the judge’s Mercedes. Well, if she wanted a word with him, the feeling was mutual. He had read her old interview with the sheriff and memorized every line:ALICE FRIDAY: I know that boy is dead. Only the dead speak to me.

  SHERIFF BABITT: Josh went missing a year ago. So that’s hardly a revelation from the great beyond. Did the Ouija board tell you where to look for his body?

  ALICE FRIDAY: The dead don’t care about such things. I can tell you he’s not at peace. Josh’s death was violent.

  SHERIFF BABITT: Lady, if you know something about that kid, you—

  ALICE FRIDAY: He’s my spirit guide. Now I came here today because I have a question for you. Josh keeps asking me all the time. What about the other one? Josh says you’d know about that. Now what does he mean?

  SHERIFF BABITT: If you were a real psychic, you’d know I’m planning to boot your bony ass out of my office.

  Oren walked toward the Mercedes. He was about to open the door when the psychic noticed him and waved. Evelyn Straub came outside as Alice Friday ran down the steps and crossed the street, yelling, ‘Young man!’ When she had closed the distance, she stood before him, thin arms folded, her stance resolute. ‘You shouldn’t have walked out in the middle of my séance. You have to come back. Your brother isn’t done with you.’

  He was distracted by the speeding car, a standout in the crawl of Coventry traffic, and now Alice Friday also stared at this unusual sight. A redhead sat behind the wheel and aimed her automobile at Oren. He pushed the psychic into a space between parked vehicles, and then he rolled onto the trunk of the Mercedes. The nose of the black sports car almost kissed his rear bumper.

  Isabelle Winston had looked right through him as if he were not there, as if—

  ‘That woman tried to kill us.’ Alice Friday’s words were hushed. Her eyes were startled and wide.

  ‘No,’ said Oren. ‘She tried to kill me.’

  This distinction was lost on the stick-thin woman. She reached into her purse to produce a small notebook and a pen. ‘Not to worry. I got a good look at the license plate.’ After jotting down the numbers, she saw the stout hotelier crossing the street, and she yelled, ‘Evelyn, go call the sheriff!’

  ‘Not a good idea.’ Evelyn Straub walked up to the smaller woman. ‘Cable ’s got enough to deal with this morning.’

  Alice Friday grabbed Oren’s arm. ‘That woman tried to murder him with her car.’

  ‘No,’ said Evelyn, ‘that’s just how they say hello.’

  The glazier’s truck was gone, and the cleaning lady’s car had also departed. Oren was surprised to see the yellow stray standing at attention in front of William Swahn’s door. The animal must have followed the judge down the road to Paulson Lane.

  Addison Winston sat on the hood of his Porsche, dangling his legs as he engaged in a staring contest with the wary stray, trying to win over a dog with his professional smile. The lawyer shrugged and turned to Oren. ‘I’ve got a great lawsuit to pitch to my client. Did you see those news broadcasts? He can get millions from the TV station and the California Bureau. But Hannah won’t let me inside.’

  ‘The CBI agent had nothing to do with what happened last night.’

  ‘Sally’s interview incited the—’

  ‘That was no interview. That was an ambush.’

  ‘Why let the truth get in the way of a tasty lawsuit?’

  Oren climbed the steps to the front door and leaned down to pet the yellow stray. ‘Don’t press your luck with any more cops. That bogus settlement in LA might come back to bite you.’

  ‘We had a deal, Oren.’

  ‘Your client is the wild card. I think he ’s putting it together all by himself. When Hannah barred the door, she probably did you a favor.’

  News of attempted vehicular homicide traveled fast.

  The judge and Hannah were sitting at the table when Oren entered William Swahn’s kitchen. Their conversation suddenly stopped.

  That was a clue.

  His father winked at the housekeeper, and then looked up with a pretense of shock. ‘I heard Belle Winston tried to run you down.’

  Hannah smiled. ‘Never dull, is it? I love this town.’ She rose from the table to fetch another cup and pour him some coffee.

  Oren thanked her when she set it down in front of him, and then he let the two of them sit and wait. The judge was foiled by his own policy of never asking an obvious question, such as why would the Winston girl try to kill him? Oren sipped his coffee – slowly – and slowly he set down his cup to gaze out the window and watch the clouds roll by – while listening to his father’s tapping foot beneath the table.

  Finally, he said to no one in particular, ‘Alice Friday moved to Coventry a year after Josh disappeared. She knows Mrs Winston, but she didn’t recognize the daughter.’

  ‘Well, Belle ’s only been back for a few months,’ said Hannah. ‘I guess she’s never been to one of Alice’s séances.’

  ‘But over all these years . . .’ He splayed his hands to ask how this lack of recognition was possible in a town the size of a postage stamp.

  Hannah countered by holding up three fingers. ‘In all that time, Belle’s only made three visits home that I know of. And I don’t think the girl ever stayed a whole day.’

  So Isabelle Winston had been another exile. Had she also been sent away after Josh vanished? Or had she run away?

  Cable Babitt’s jeep rounded the last curve on the way to his house. He spotted the CBI agent’s Taurus parked in the turnout just beyond his driveway. Her black sedan slowly pulled into the road and drove off.

  That bitch! She had waited for him. She wanted him to see her.

  He left the jeep’s door hanging open and ran to the back of his garage. The cordwood was still neatly stacked against the rear wall, and there were no signs of disturbance among the individual logs. But he had to know for certain if the knapsack was still there, or he would get no sleep tonight. One by one, he pulled down the logs and flung them away. At last, he uncovered the bright green canvas wadded up inside the plastic bag. Perhaps it had been a mistake to move it from his former hiding place in the toolshed.

  The cellar would be better, safer from Sally Polk. She’d never get in there with
out the proper paperwork, and that woman had burned her bridges with warrants in this county.

  Half an hour later, he opened the storm doors that led him up to the light of his backyard, and he emerged from the cellar a satisfied man. Josh’s knapsack was safe in its new resting place under piles of storage cartons and suitcases.

  ‘Oh, goddamn.’

  He caught sight of the wind-whipped hem of a flowery dress, just a flash of material from behind the back wall of his garage.

  That bitch!

  He rounded the corner and there was Sally Polk, standing in the middle of his cast-off firewood. The logs he had strewn all about the yard now advertised something once hidden in the woodpile and removed with great haste – and fear.

  But the damn woman only made cheerful small talk while he sweated on a cool morning.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The judge sat in a wooden armchair beside Hannah’s empty porch rocker, and the yellow stray stretched out at his feet. The man and the dog had been napping in the sun. But now the animal raised his floppy ears, and his eyes opened. Henry Hobbs also heard the sound of a car’s engine.

  The CBI agent parked her black Taurus in front of the house. She stepped out of the car with a wave of hello. The dog pronounced her harmless when he laid his head down on his front paws and closed his eyes. The judge was not so charitable in his view of this woman.

  Harmless indeed.

  Sally Polk approached the porch, and the judge stood up, as he would for any woman, lady or sociopath. And his tone was civil when he addressed her. ‘So you’ve come to vandalize the rest of my house.’

  ‘Oh, no. Today I’m on best behavior.’ Slinging her purse strap over one shoulder, she climbed the steps and paused to glance at Hannah’s rocking chair. She waited for a nod from her host, and then she sat down. ‘Judge, I know you pulled the strings to take those homicides away from me.’

  ‘You don’t know anything of the kind.’ And now that he had called her bluff, he matched her smile and made his wider. He remained standing, a pointed suggestion for a short visit.

  She settled her handbag on her lap, a sign that she was not leaving anytime soon. ‘I know you’ve got a vested interest in a backwoods investigation.’

  ‘You mean Cable? He ’s the one with jurisdiction. The state of California has no interest here. My son’s grave is on private land – a county matter.’

  ‘Only because Mrs Straub’s government lease was rescinded. I hear the paperwork to kill those old mineral rights went through in one day. Well, let me tell you – that gave heart attacks to a pack of bureaucrats down in Sacramento. They’ve never seen paper fly so fast. I’m guessing that ’s thanks to you. Oh, and Addison, too. He seems to be everybody’s lawyer this week.’

  ‘I’m sure the sheriff will make a competent investigation.’

  ‘We both know that ’s a lie.’ She opened her purse and pulled out a photograph. ‘Maybe you forgot. Your son shared that grave with someone else.’ She held out the picture, leaving him no choice but to take it. ‘That’s Mary Kent. A common name – easy to forget.’

  He looked down at the face of a girl – so young – with long blond hair, immortal when she smiled for the camera, smiling down a long hallway of doors opening, life unfolding. At this frozen moment, she could never have imagined her death.

  ‘That’s an old passport photo,’ said Sally Polk. ‘She was in her mid-thirties when she died.’

  ‘But you thought this photo of a youngster would make a much better inducement for cooperation.’

  ‘No, that’s not it. I couldn’t find any family albums with a more recent picture. There ’s no family. No close friends, either. So you got lucky, Judge. No one’s gonna care if Cable Babitt screws up this case. Mary Kent’s got nobody to fight for her.’

  He handed the picture back to Sally Polk, but the CBI agent waved it away.

  ‘No, sir. You keep that.’ She settled back in Hannah’s chair, rocking slowly, and the floorboards creaked. ‘The County Sheriff ’s Office has a team of investigators, but Cable’s working this case on his own. That’s the way you wanted it, right? A bumbling idiot in charge? That smells of collusion. It reeks.’ She looked out over the meadow, rocking, rocking. ‘What pretty wildflowers.’ In the same harmless tone, she said, ‘I think you’re protecting Oren. I’ve seen his Army record. He’s more than just a world-class cop. That boy knows how to kill.’

  The judge lowered his eyes. ‘Oren loved Josh more than his own life.’

  ‘I believe that. Oh, did you think I was accusing him of murder?’ The rocking stopped, and she leaned toward him. ‘While you’ve still got one son left, you better hope I solve this case before Oren does.’

  The judge shook his head. Despite the military record, he could not see his son taking human life by choice – not on Josh’s account. Twenty years of sorrow had a tempering effect. With great care, he had watched the returning soldier for signs of unraveling, and he had waited with his safety net to catch the boy when he fell. But Oren had come shining through, his character intact – if not his heart. And the pride of Henry Hobbs was enormous. ‘You can depend on my son to do the right thing.’

  ‘You mean act like a cop?’ Once more the floorboards creaked beneath the chair’s rockers. ‘When a child is murdered, cops always look at the parents first. I wonder if Oren took a hard look at you. Does he know what you did in the Korean War? So many medals. You were a damned death machine. As a soldier, you killed more people than I’ve arrested.’

  ‘I’m a pacifist. I sickened of killing as a very young man.’ And now the judge felt the need to sit down. He settled into the chair beside hers. ‘I did not murder my son.’

  The dog lifted his head, awakened by the inflection of pain in an old man’s voice.

  ‘I’d like to believe you,’ said Sally Polk. ‘But you can see my problem, can’t you? Most parents – the innocent ones – they want a case solved. They want justice for the dead child. But you don’t.’ The rhythm of the creaking floorboards was faster now, as if a rocking chair could take her somewhere. ‘That only makes sense if you already know who killed your son. Rumor has it you’re an atheist. So I know God ’s not telling you to leave the vengeance to Him.’ The rocking stopped. ‘If you know who did this, tell me.’

  ‘Vengeance is thine, Sally Polk?’

  ‘You bet your sweet ass, old man.’ She reached out to tap the photograph in his hand. ‘Mary Kent’s skull was caved in with a rock. She died quick. The killer spent more time with Josh. It was hands-on torture. No other way to say it. Broken ribs, a fractured jaw, cracks in his leg bones, breaks in the arms. And then there’s the damage to Josh’s hands. My expert says one trauma can’t account for all the broken fingers. They were snapped like twigs – one by one. The boy’s pain just went on and on.’

  The judge looked down at the dog’s brown eyes, wells of solace. ‘I don’t know who murdered my son. If you find out, don’t come back here expecting thanks. And I won’t thank you for that litany of Josh’s suffering – those terrible pictures you put in my head. Now I can see his fear – I can feel it. I can even hear the bones breaking . . . my child crying. Is this what you wanted?’

  He turned to her with all his pain, all his sadness, and it drove her away.

  ‘I’m not an invalid.’ Swahn waved off assistance as he settled down on the couch in his library. He reached out to an end table and picked up a stapled sheaf of papers. ‘This is the final report on the bones.’

  ‘You didn’t get that from the sheriff.’ Oren sat on the floor and prowled through a box of food delivered by the cleaning woman. He pulled out two roast beef sandwiches and handed one to Swahn. ‘Who sold you the coroner’s report? Dave Hardy?’

  ‘No, I never paid a dime.’ Swahn bit into his sandwich and nodded toward the box. ‘There should be a carton of beer in there. And I’ve got better sources than the deputy. I know Dr Brasco. He’s the anthropologist they called in to examine the bones. I may have misled him. H
e thought I was consulting on the case. So he faxed me his own results. He also passed along his condolences and regards. Dr Brasco tells me the two of you go way back to the mass graves of Bosnia. He said you were an uncommon man – his highest praise. He couldn’t understand why you left the military. Especially now when—’

  ‘Good job. I found it.’ Oren pulled out the six-pack of beer cans. ‘What was Brasco’s finding?’

  ‘The female victim died quickly. Josh’s death was more drawn out.’ Swahn reached down to accept a warm beer and popped the tab. ‘That makes your brother the most likely target. The woman was probably a witness.’

  Oren could think of other scenarios, but he said nothing.

  ‘That kills the theory of a murder for hire,’ said Swahn. ‘A professional would’ve been more . . . efficient. The killer’s violence toward Josh suggests immaturity, control issues.’

  ‘Like somebody who knocks his wife around?’

  ‘I wouldn’t rule out spousal abuse. Your brother’s killer might have a history of violence, but he certainly had something to hide. Find the secret, something photographable – that’s the motive. It’s most likely a shameful thing, and that’s where the rage comes in.’

  Oren set down his beer can. ‘I don’t care about a perp’s motivation or how he was affected by early potty training. I just collect the evidence, and then I catch him. So simple.’

  ‘But you seem to favor abusive husbands. Maybe a jealous husband? You think our killer might’ve mistaken Josh for you? We could narrow down the suspects if you gave me a list of all the married women you slept with – just the bleach blondes. According to my sources, the female victim was identified as a—’

  ‘We’re not partners,’ said Oren. ‘You give. I take. It ’s like that.’ And now he could rule out any tie to Evelyn, whose hair had been tawny brown, the color of a lion’s mane.