Bone on Bone:

by Julia Keller

  “Did you find him?” Ellie asked. Her voice was ragged with agitation. “Tyler didn’t come home tonight. He might be—”

  “We know where Tyler is, Mrs. Topping,” Rhonda said evenly. “And he didn’t do this. He was in police custody in another county at the time of the shooting.”

  The enormity of her relief made Ellie’s entire body slump forward. She put a hand to her forehead.

  “Thank God,” she murmured. “Thank God for that, at least.”

  Sandy patted her arm. “Yes. Thank God.”

  Rhonda let a moment go by. She folded back the top page of the legal pad, exposing a fresh sheet. “Tyler’s drug problems. They began—when?”

  “High school. Junior year,” Ellie answered. “Until then, he was—he was a wonderful boy. Never got into any trouble at all. He was good. He was—” She faltered.

  “He really was a fine young man,” Sandy said, finishing the sentence for her. She gave Ellie’s hand a squeeze. This time, Ellie didn’t pull away. She let herself be comforted. “He and my son, Alex, are the same age. They were best friends. And then poor Tyler just got swept up in the drugs. It wasn’t his fault. This whole town—everywhere you look—” She broke off her sentence, shook her head. “You can’t blame Ellie and Brett. They’re good parents. Did the very best they could.”

  Rhonda was making notes.

  “You sent him to rehab,” she said to Ellie.

  Ellie nodded. “Over and over again. In Florida.”

  “And—?”

  “And it’s a joke.” Ellie’s voice was bitter now. “That place made it worse. He made contacts down there. People who led him to Deke Foley. So he had even more sources. Every time he came back to us, it took him less and less time to relapse. We sent him three times.”

  “Four,” Sandy said. “It was four, hon.”

  Ellie shrugged. Whatever. “I lost count, I guess.”

  “Okay,” Rhonda said. “So Deke Foley was angry at your husband, too. Not just at Tyler. Why?”

  “Brett told Foley…” Ellie paused.

  “What, Mrs. Topping? What did Brett tell him?”

  She looked down at her hands. “I didn’t know what Brett was doing. I didn’t know until that night. The night Foley came by. Brett never told me. If he had, I would’ve begged him to stop.”

  Rhonda leaned forward. “What did he tell Foley?”

  “That he’d been following him.”

  “Following him.”

  “Yes. Spying on him, I guess you’d call it. Keeping a file on Foley’s business. He was writing down the times when Foley bought his drugs, and where, and who he sold them to. Brett said he’d been doing it for months. Ever since Tyler got back from rehab.”

  “Why did your husband take that kind of risk?”

  “He thought it might keep Foley away. Away from our son. If Brett had that file, he could convince Foley to back off. To pick on somebody else’s kid. Foley wouldn’t want all that information given to the sheriff—and so maybe he’d go away. Leave us in peace.”

  Rhonda didn’t say what she was thinking:

  Tyler would’ve just found another dealer to work for. Tyler’s problem isn’t Deke Foley. Tyler’s problem is Tyler.

  Out loud, she said, “So on Foley’s previous visit to your home, he confronted your husband and made specific threats. Is that right?”

  Ellie nodded. “He said awful things.” She told Rhonda about the arrival of Pete Pauley, about the agreement between him and her husband. They had been working together. Taking turns watching Deke Foley. Compiling a file that was better than a weapon.

  Rhonda excused herself for a moment. She knew Tyler was safe—he would be transferred soon from the Bretherton County Jail to Raythune’s facilities, and never out of sight of law enforcement—but she was concerned about Brett Topping’s associate. She sent a quick text to Sheriff Harrison:

  Need protective detail ASAP

  @ home of Pete Pauley

  Harrison would find Pauley. If it turned out that he wasn’t a resident of Raythune County, then the sheriff would request protection from the department of whatever county in which he did reside.

  Because Deke Foley did not seem like the forgiving sort. Chances were, he’d just murdered Brett Topping. He would want to take out Pauley, too, in his search for the file and its incriminating data.

  Rhonda put away her cell. Ellie was sobbing quietly now. Rhonda dearly wished she could leave this woman alone now, and let her begin to come to terms with the enormity of her loss.

  But she couldn’t. There were questions she had to ask.

  “Mrs. Topping,” Rhonda said. “Do you know what your husband meant by ‘file’? Did he mean a computer file? Or something that could be carried externally—say, a thumb drive? A USB flash drive, I mean. Or maybe he meant a physical file—an actual piece of paper. Any idea?”

  Ellie shook her head.

  “Okay,” Rhonda continued. “Someone broke into your house. It might be that Deke Foley ransacked it after killing your husband. He was looking for that file. And maybe he found it. But if he didn’t find it, then he might come back and—”

  A tiny click notified Rhonda that she had a new text. She excused herself one more time in order to check it.

  She expected the text to be from Sheriff Harrison, acknowledging her request for protection for Pauley and letting her know she was on it. And that was indeed the gist of the first line.

  The remainder of the text, however, made Rhonda grip her cell a little harder:

  Brett Topping’s office at bank

  ransacked an hour ago

  Masked assailant

  held janitor

  at gunpoint

  and demanded entry

  Rhonda knew what that meant. It meant Foley hadn’t found the file in the Topping home. If he had found it there, he wouldn’t have needed to break into Brett Topping’s office at the Mountaineer Community Bank.

  It meant Foley was still in a desperate panic. He needed to get that file. And a desperate Deke Foley was a dangerous Deke Foley.

  Maybe, though, he’d found the file in Topping’s office at the bank.

  Another click signaled a quick follow-up text from the sheriff:

  Janitor unhurt

  but says assailant

  was angry. Search of

  office unsuccessful

  So there it was. The file was still missing. Foley hadn’t found it at the bank.

  “A forensic computer specialist will go through all of yours and Brett’s computers,” Rhonda said. “If it’s on the hard drive, we’ll find it. But if your husband meant another kind of file, it’s going to be harder. Do you have any idea where he would’ve hidden it?”

  Ellie shook her head. The dazed look had returned to her eyes. She didn’t seem to be focusing on anything.

  Rhonda could see that the window had closed. She’d gotten what she could out of Ellie Topping. And it might be a while before she had another chance; the doctors, she knew, would send the grieving woman home with generous doses of medication to allow her to sleep.

  Funny thing about painkillers, Rhonda thought ruefully. On the one hand, they’re destroying us. On the other—they’re saving us. She hated to think about Ellie Topping trying to make it through the next few weeks on her own. Good thing she wouldn’t have to. She had her son.

  “We’ll be bringing Tyler back to the courthouse later today,” Rhonda said gently. “Would you like to see him?”

  Ellie appeared to be considering the offer.

  “Not right away,” she finally answered. “He’s safe. I’m glad to know that. But to see him right now—after what he brought into our lives—all of this—” She shook her head. “When I think of Brett lying there in the driveway, I just—” She closed her eyes. She shuddered. “Soon. Just not yet.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jake Oakes finally answered his phone after six rings. Bell had almost given up, but decided to stick with it. Maybe, she reas
oned, it took him a while to get to the phone.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s Bell Elkins. Haven’t caught you at a busy time, I hope.”

  He laughed.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Right. A busy time.”

  Self-pity: That was something she’d never expected to hear from Jake Oakes, no matter what had happened to him. It momentarily threw her off. Self-pity didn’t become him.

  But then again—maybe he was kidding. Mocking himself. That would be more his style. She’d know for sure after they talked for a few minutes.

  “So what can I do for you?” he went on. “What’s Bell Elkins need from a guy who pisses in a plastic bag?”

  Jaunty Jake. That was more like it.

  His jauntiness used to irk her, back in the day. Back when he was a deputy and she was the prosecutor. She’d wanted her staff to be focused, their tone reflecting the gravity of their task. That task was keeping the peace or, if the peace had been broken, bringing the law to bear upon those who’d done the breaking.

  But Jake Oakes was never like that.

  He’d grinned his way through the world. He made jokes when jokes were inappropriate. He had annoyed her endlessly. Worse yet, he seemed to sense that he did and thus doubled down on the very behavior that got under her skin. He took visible pleasure in infuriating her on a regular basis.

  Funny thing, though: When it came right down to it, there was nobody she’d liked working with better than Jake Oakes. Nobody she trusted more.

  “Did you hear about the murder last night?” she said. Some icebreaker, Bell thought. But it was a natural topic; time was, she and Jake would already be on the case, reviewing evidence in her courthouse office. Debating theories. Running down alibis. Dousing their insides with the harsh black coffee that Bell favored.

  Caring about criminal justice in Acker’s Gap was a hard habit to break.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I took the 911 call. I’m helping out at the courthouse. Nights. Working dispatch.”

  Bell didn’t know what to say. That didn’t sound like the kind of thing that would satisfy Jake Oakes.

  At least not the Jake Oakes she remembered.

  “Good for you,” she said.

  “Not my first choice, I’ll grant you. But I don’t have a lot of choices these days.”

  There it was again: self-pity.

  “You free right now?” Bell said. “I’d like to come over. If it’s convenient.”

  He laughed again.

  “Yeah, I’ll cancel all the important stuff I’ve got on my schedule today,” he said. “It’ll be hard, but for you—anything.”

  She needed to tell him to work on the self-pity. She knew from experience how seductive it could be. And that kind of conversation always went better in person.

  * * *

  His directions were good, but they didn’t need to be. Bell knew the neighborhood. She’d lived two streets over from Jake’s street when she was in high school; one of the foster families with whom she had spent a portion of her youth had rented a house there. She remembered the neighborhood better than she did the foster family.

  The one-story homes were modest but decent. Small front yards were caged by chain-link fences. The porches were concrete slabs the size of postage stamps. She didn’t need to check for the house number; Jake’s was the one with the wooden ramp.

  He opened the door and then backed away so that she could come in.

  “Something to drink?” he said.

  “I’m good.” She looked around before she sat down. “You’ve made a real home for yourself here. I’m glad.”

  He grunted. “Let’s not get carried away. It’s a piece of crap. But yeah—I’m surviving.” He watched her sit down on the couch. “How about you? Community service all done?”

  “Yes.”

  “’Bout time. Never understood why they threw the book at you in the first place. Didn’t expect you to serve any time at all, matter of fact. Nobody did. I mean, come on—it was thirty, thirty-five years ago, right?”

  “Thirty-eight.”

  “Jesus. And you were just a kid.”

  She’d stay on this topic for another ten seconds, she decided, and then they’d move on for good. “I let my sister go to prison for me. Deliberately.”

  “Not the way I heard it. I heard that you didn’t remember it at all. That your sister convinced you that she’d done it. And that you pretty much forced the judge to give you time. Insisted on it. What the hell?”

  Ding! Bell thought. Time’s up.

  “Okay, Jake. Doesn’t matter anymore. Right? Point is, I’m out. Can we move on?”

  “Sure.” He flipped the hair off the back of his neck. “How’s your daughter?”

  “Doing well. Works for a nonprofit in Charleston. They’ve got a crazy idea about making the chemical companies clean up the Kanawha River.”

  “Bunch of crazy hippie dreamers, you ask me,” Jake said. He was teasing her. His grin was so familiar to Bell that she felt a secret ache when she saw it. This was the old Jake—playful, sarcastic, but for a good cause. “Next thing you know, they’ll be asking for clean air, too. And food’s that not tainted with chemical crap. It just never ends with those do-gooders.”

  She laughed. “Exactly.”

  “So how about you? Your daughter got that hippie DNA from somebody. I’m betting you’ve already figured out some nasty old corporation to go after.”

  “Wow. Sounds like you’ve been giving the psychic hotline a workout. That’s right.”

  “Once a prosecutor, always a prosecutor.” He tilted his head, looking at her with a more serious expression on his face. “So who are the unlucky bastards this time?”

  He knew her well. “The people who are killing our children,” Bell declared. “Who ruined this county. This state. Hell—if you ask me, they destroyed the whole damned country. And they’re not finished yet.”

  “Oh. You’re talking about the drug dealers.” Jake couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice. Been there, done that. He’d spent a good part of his career arresting dealers and hauling unconscious addicts off to the hospital, so that they could recover from their overdoses and then go back to the activity that had brought them to his attention in the first place.

  But that’s not what she meant at all.

  “Screw the dealers,” Bell snapped back at him. “I’m talking about the bastards who made the stuff in the first place—and then told everybody it wasn’t addictive. And got stinking rich off other people’s agony.”

  She’d had a lot of time on her hands at Alderson, she explained to him. And she’d spent it researching Utley Pharmaceuticals, a company that seemed to have tagged West Virginia as a lucrative dumping ground for its signature painkiller. She’d added to what she knew by visiting the Raythune County Public Library earlier in the week.

  “Kind of premature, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if you ask me, it might be jumping the gun a little bit to dive right into the middle of a big old hairy mess. When you were prosecutor, you averaged about a dozen big old hairy messes per week. Maybe you ought to take a short break?”

  “I did take a break. And it wasn’t short. It lasted about three years.”

  He groaned. “Guess I should know better than to argue with Bell Elkins.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “You should.”

  He put his hands on the tops of his wheels. “Strikes me that I’m being a pretty piss-poor host. I can rustle up some snacks if you’re hungry.”

  “No, thanks. Didn’t come over here to raid your refrigerator.”

  “Then why did you come over?”

  “To see you. To say hello.”

  “To check on me,” he corrected her. A hardness had suddenly barged into his voice. “To make sure I haven’t turned into a bitter old man, crying into his beer because he’s stuck in a damned chair for the rest of his damned life. Because everything’s changed now.”

/>   “For both of us.”

  He glared at her. “Yeah. For both of us. We’re a couple of has-beens, Bell. A couple of broke-ass, useless nobodies. Dammit—we used to matter. We were doing something important with our lives. Something good. Something big. We made a difference.”

  “We still can. I just told you about Utley.”

  “I heard you. But I don’t believe it. Not for a single goddamned second.”

  “Then maybe that’s why I’m here.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “To change your mind.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Deke Foley.”

  Tyler had repeated the name so many times by now that it rang in his ears like the chanting of a monk—a monk with, as it happened, filthy hair and dirty sneakers and a puke-stained T-shirt and a bloated face and a black eye, but still: DekeFoleyDekeFoleyDekeFoley.

  It was having no effect. Nobody was doing anything. Nobody was jumping up and scurrying around to grab weapons and racing out to hunt down the bastard.

  Instead, they were pretty much ignoring him.

  “Hey!” Tyler called out. “Hey!”

  He smacked the tabletop. Even that mild effort was a bit too much; he felt an acute wave of nausea pulse through his gut. The drugs had dissipated by now. He was facing the world as it was: cold, hard, ugly.

  “Hey—somebody! I’m telling you—it’s Deke Foley! That’s who you need to go after. He killed my dad, okay? Deke Foley! Deke Fucking Foley!”

  They had brought him here, to one of two interrogation rooms in the sheriff’s office in the Raythune County Courthouse, and left him. Left him. Left him! Jesus Christ. Could they do that? Wasn’t there a law or something? Couldn’t he sue them?

  First they’d grabbed him out of the Bretherton jail, hustled him into a big SUV with a metal grille separating him from the driver, let him bounce around in the back until his brains were scrambled, and then they’d dumped him here.

  This place, he knew. This was Raythune County lockup. He’d been here dozens of times.

  On the drive, they told him. His father was dead.