Bonegrinder

by John Lutz

  Wintone was uneasy the rest of the evening, and he barely slept that night.

  He had coffee and toast the next morning at Turper’s Grill, and instead of the usual emptiness of the past few weeks there were half a dozen customers. Talk was of the reward.

  Two of the men, seated at a table near the counter, Wintone recognized as reporters. They ate their ham and eggs slowly and seldom talked except to add a word to keep the conversation going.

  “Ain’t much I can’t do with ten thousand dead presidents,” one of the men at the counter said. He was a big man with a sunburned neck and rough, sun-darkened hands. There was a lazy power to the slope of his wide shoulders.

  All four men at the counter wore tight, grimly satisfied expressions that somehow linked them in Wintone’s mind, though he didn’t know if they were together.

  The bell above the door jangled flatly. Two men in their early twenties, wearing Levi’s and sleeveless shirts, entered and sat in one of the far booths along the wall. One of the men began studying a small black notebook while the other studied a menu.

  “Why, all the pussy in the world’d be mine,” the big man at the counter continued. “At least for a while. But that’s as long as I want it.”

  In the laughter that followed Wintone saw Velda’s henna hairdo pause behind the high serving counter, then continue. She emerged to walk to the rear of the restaurant and take the order from the booth. The big man at the counter, then the three beside him, turned their heads with feigned nonchalance to look at her with varying degrees of appreciation, speculation.

  “Do you think you really have a chance for that money?” one of the reporters asked whoever wanted to answer.

  A man at the counter wearing an amazingly shapeless gray fishing hat over long hair swiveled slowly on his stool to face him. “Good a chance as any, better than some.”

  The reporter twisted his lips and nodded as if forced to agree. “What about the element of danger?”

  “That’ll make the reward all the sweeter,” the big sunburned man said. “How ’bout a warm-up on the coffee, sugar?” he called to Velda. “Or any kinda warm-up.” He grinned. Velda poured the coffee and looked at him as if he were junk at an auction. The big man cleared his throat uncomfortably.

  “I’m curious,” the other reporter said. “How do you intend to go about finding Bonegrinder, then dealing with him when you do find him?”

  The man in the shapeless hat grinned secretively. “I got my methods, all thought out.”

  “A thirty-aught-six rifle is how I intend to earn my money,” the big man said. “Special bullets.”

  “You gotta find somethin’ to shoot at first,” Shapeless Hat said.

  “First you should determine if your bullets will have the desired effect,” one of the younger men in the back booth said. He was the one who’d been studying the notebook. “We’re dealing with an unknown quantity, as it were, and the first step should be to acquire some knowledge of what we’re seeking.”

  “And how do you intend to do that?” one of the reporters asked.

  The young man in the back booth took a sip of his coffee before answering. “Instrumentation and analysis.”

  The reporter stood and walked back to introduce himself to the man.

  Wintone finished his buttered toast, exchanged glances with Velda and left.

  He returned to the lake to find that the surface was now dotted with boats.

  Wintone stood and watched from the same high spot where he’d stood the evening before, and though he’d expected something of this sort he was surprised at the number of boats. Mostly they were flat-prowed Jon boats, though out in the deeper areas of the lake there were a few larger boats, a metal pontoon boat glinting in the sun, even a few cabin cruisers. A small speedboat snarled as if trying to escape its rooster-comb wake as it passed to the left of Wintone, a man with a rifle slung on his back standing to peer over the windscreen. Because of the shallowness, the reeds and the underwater tangles of growth and jagged stumps, none of the boats could get close to shore.

  But along the shore where it curved away to Wintone’s right, he saw a few signs of activity at the edge of the woods, heard distant, shouting voices. He lifted his binoculars and focused them in time to see two men with backpacks disappear into the woods toward a rise of land. Sweeping the binoculars across the lake, he saw that most of the boats contained more than one man, there were even a few women, and most of the men were armed in one way or another, with weapons ranging from high-powered hunting rifles to side-arms. Mounted on the prow of one of the boats was a device that resembled a harpoon gun.

  Wintone heard a vehicle grind to a stop on the gravel road beneath him and turned to see Craig Holt’s canvas-topped Jeep through the trees. A few minutes later Holt approached him, long arms swinging in disjointed rhythm.

  “It would be ludicrous,” Holt said, sweeping an arm to cover the distant lake surface, “if it weren’t so tragic.” He was standing loosely and casually, wearing patched white denims and a faded blue shirt. His shallow-bowled pipe, unlit, was clamped in his teeth.

  “It’s liable to get more tragic,” Wintone said.

  “They’ll be out in increased numbers tomorrow, you know.”

  “I expect it’ll get worse.”

  Holt shook his head. “It makes serious investigation damn near impossible, all those fools out there and swarming all over the bank.”

  “What I’m bothered with,” Wintone said, “is the idea that one of those fools is gonna get killed before this is over.”

  Holt removed the pipe from his mouth, glanced down at it as if considering lighting it. “I’d be surprised if somebody didn’t get accidentally killed. There’s no way you can stop them—no law, I suppose?”

  “Nothin’ to keep a man from makin’ an ass of himself.” Wintone handed Holt the binoculars and watched him focus them expertly with one hand and scan the lake. Holt hadn’t shaved, appeared as if he’d had a rough night.

  “Unbelievable,” Holt said. He handed back the binoculars by their rawhide strap.

  “There might be one thing I can do about it,” Wintone said, “an’ that’s talk to Baily Howe an’ see if I can get him to withdraw the reward. Everybody swarmin’ around this end of the lake’s got ten thousand reasons to be here, but I doubt if many of ’em’s got ten thousand an’ one.”

  “Who exactly is this Baily Howe?”

  “He’s a man with money who mostly does what he wants, an’ what he wants usually only makes sense to him.”

  “He’s opened up the prospect of real trouble here,” Holt said, pointing with his pipe stem toward the lake. “No doubt you should talk to him.”

  “Want to come along?” Wintone asked. “Kinda throw the government at him, if you follow my meanin’.”

  Holt’s features slipped into his easy smile. “I don’t know if my employers would like that. Besides, I’m tied up for the day. I’m supposed to conduct some interviews up on Yellow Ridge.”

  “With Sarah?”

  “Matter of fact, yes.” Holt’s eyes met Wintone’s gaze quizzically. “I’m not poaching, am I, Sheriff?”

  “Not on me, you’re not. How come you’d ask?”

  “I know you two were close once. Sarah talks about you a lot.”

  “Don’t mean nothin’,” Wintone said. “You go ahead an’ do what you want.” He smiled and jerked his head toward the lake. “Like them fellas out there.” He wound the rawhide strap around the binoculars and turned.

  “Let me know how it comes out then,” Holt said, “your talk with this Baily Howe.”

  “Surely will.”

  Wintone could feel Holt watching him as he walked bent-legged down the uneven, grassy slope toward the parked patrol car.

  As if there weren’t enough to worry about.

  TWENTY

  “I’M BEGINNING TO WORRY,” Kelly said, sitting on the wooden glider outside their motel cabin. “You have a camera, they have guns.”

&n
bsp; Alan took a drink from the beer can he’d set aside in the freezer of the cabin’s hard-working old refrigerator. The can was still so cold that the rounded metal stuck to the flesh of his palm. He’d found that exactly twenty minutes in the freezer brought the beer to perfect drinking temperature. “You talk like they’re out there hunting me.”

  “They’re hunting ten thousand dollars. They’ll look at what they’ve shot after they’ve shot it.”

  He smacked his lips in exaggerated appreciation and took another sip of beer. “I’m too little to be Bonegrinder.”

  “I wish you’d be serious.”

  “I am serious about my work. That’s why I’m here. You want me to put a beer in the freezer for you? I’m going to have another.”

  Kelly tucked her bare legs under her and shook her head. “Save me some of that one.” She wanted to leave, but not without Alan. She wanted him to leave. Now that so many of the tourists had left it seemed that there were few women in the area, at least few young women. When Kelly had gone into Colver this morning in shorts she’d felt exposed, the object of attention of every man on the street. It had never occurred to her that few of the local women ever wore shorts, even in this unending heat.

  That was her imagination, she told herself. There were other women around, right here in the motel, and they occasionally wore shorts. Maybe she’d wanted to be the object of attention this morning.

  Alan walked over and sat next to her on the gently rocking glider, handed her the half-empty can of beer. She was surprised at how cold the beer was, and how good it tasted.

  “I used a wide-angle lens this morning,” Alan said. “Found a high spot on the bank with a terrific view. I got some really unique shots of the lake. And some good mood shots.”

  He wasn’t going to leave; she knew that.

  “I wonder what this Baily Howe would pay for a photograph of Bonegrinder,” he said. “Or what the wire services would pay.”

  “Do you really believe there’s … something out there to photograph?”

  “I don’t know, Kel. A lot of people do believe it. It’s a strange world. Consider the abominable snowman.”

  “God, no. Not here. Not now.”

  Alan laughed. “It’s just another job. Don’t let your fertile imagination get you going.”

  “You’re right. I know you’re right. But all those reward seekers out there aren’t imaginary, with their guns and walkie-talkies and phony bravado. I heard shots fired today, three times so far.”

  “Sound carries over the lake.”

  “And there’s nothing to stop a bullet from carrying.”

  He kissed her on the ear. “You’re too damned sensible, you know that?”

  “Maybe it’s the heat.”

  “That’s better. Be your normal, cheerful self—that’s the self I love.” He grinned at her. “Not that I don’t love all your selves.”

  She had to smile, and that was what he wanted.

  “I’ve got to do some work” he said, pushing himself up from the glider. “I came back to eat lunch and I’ve been here over an hour. Want to come with me? I’m going to drive north a few miles and see if there’s anything interesting.”

  “I don’t think so,” Kelly said. The glider was almost out of the shade now, the cracks and minute imperfections of one wooden arm glaring in harsh sunlight. “I’ll go back inside and bask in the air conditioning.” She thought of telling him to be careful, but that would be pointless, harping.

  Kelly had never underestimated the importance of Alan’s work to him. Even before their marriage she’d made up her mind to defer to that importance. It was a sacrifice she’d been willing to make, telling herself it was better to be jealous of a camera than another woman. But sometimes, lately, she wondered.

  “I’ll have one more beer while I’m checking my equipment,” Alan said, starting for the cabin door. “Absolutely sure you don’t want one?”

  “I’m sure,” Kelly said.

  While Alan was inside she watched a hawk high against a sky deep blue and void of clouds, soaring in unpredictable arcs on unpredictable currents of air, until the pattern of its graceful flight took it out of sight beyond the towering limbs of an oak tree near the cabin.

  Later she watched Alan wave to her and saw the dusty white Volkswagen disappear beyond the trees at the road’s bend, the whining beat of its engine seeming to hang in the air, then settle with the dust.

  TWENTY-ONE

  WINTONE PLAYED THE ACCELERATOR pedal skillfully as the powerful patrol car climbed the steep and narrow graveled road to Baily Howe’s bluff-top home. The road was straight for long sections, then it would right-angle twice to climb in the opposite direction, like a turn in a staircase landing. Far below him Wintone could make out the almost dry bed of Mopey Creek, a dark, indistinct ribbon winding its way among the trees.

  The patrol car’s engine was laboring as if it might overheat, and Wintone sat uncomfortably behind the wheel in the air-conditioned interior, feeling a stiffening, steady warmth on the left side of his face as the sun’s glare worked its way through the rolled-up window. Then the road leveled out, curved, and he could see the cedar-shake roof of Howe’s home through a stand of tall pine trees. The unpredictable Howe had agreed without hesitation to see Wintone when the sheriff had phoned earlier. That, at least, was encouraging.

  Wintone braked the car before a low oaken gate topped high with barbed wire. An eight-foot cyclone fence stretched away through the woods on either side of the gate, and there was a red-lettered No Trespassing sign, freshly painted, nailed to the gate’s top rail.

  The sheriff got out of the car and opened the gate, aware of the heat and the odor of cooked oil from the idling engine. He drove through, shut and latched the gate behind him, then drove the rest of the way to the house.

  Though Baily Howe’s house was of split-log construction, there was nothing crude about it. Long, low wings stretched on either side of a peaked-roof center with its tall, ornately carved door beneath a huge entranceway light. A line of evergreen shrubs huddled against the front of the house, and off to one side were some recently planted maples with taut, staked supporting ropes to guide them to a straight start of growth. Wintone turned off the ignition and began to get out of the car when a large, black Doberman pinscher trotted around a corner of the house and froze staring at him.

  The tall front door opened, and Baily Howe stepped out. He was of average height, a man in his late forties, muscular but thickening around the middle, wearing a blue-trimmed white sport shirt, dark blue slacks and white shoes. His hair was thinning but still dark, cut short and parted with precision, and he had one of those heart-shaped, broad-featured faces that but for their eyes project a boyish image well into middle age. Glancing at the poised Doberman, Howe gave a palm-out, downward-pushing motion with his right hand, and the dog sat and seemed to lose interest in Wintone. Then Howe motioned for Wintone to come inside and stood by the open door.

  It had been almost a year since Wintone had seen Baily Howe in Colver. The man looked much older, possibly slightly heavier. After shaking hands with Howe the sheriff followed him into a huge room with rough-sawn beams crisscrossing the ceiling and a wall that was a single sheet of thick but clear glass overlooking the valley of green treetops and winding road. There was a bulky stone fireplace along another wall, flanked by ceiling-to-floor bookcases crammed with books in haphazard arrangement, some on edge, some in stacks, a few lying open atop other books. Howe motioned for Wintone to sit on a long, brown-leather sofa. It was a quiet room as well as large, as if all sound sank heavily to be absorbed by the thick beige carpet.

  “Something to drink, Sheriff?” Howe asked, facing Wintone with his arms crossed.

  “A beer would feel good goin’ down.”

  Howe walked around a paneled corner and returned in a minute with a frosted mug of beer for Wintone and what looked like a glass of watered-down Scotch for himself. Wintone accepted the beer and sampled it.

 
; “Is the criminal element in Colver being controlled?” Howe asked, sitting down in a leather chair that matched the sofa. He stirred his drink with his finger.

  “Crime’s not my main worry right now, Mr. Howe.”

  “Bonegrinder?” Howe’s blue eyes were quizzical over the clear rim of his glass.

  “Yes an’ no,” Wintone said. “What I came to see you about is that reward you put up. It’s causin’ me some concern.”

  “Oh? Has it created much interest?”

  “Too much interest. There’s people out there by the hundreds maybe, an’ some of ’em too eager for your money.”

  “Surely you want Bonegrinder found,” Howe said. “I should think you’d be grateful for the help.”

  Wintone sipped his beer. He had the feeling he was being led, didn’t like it. “I’m doin’ my job, Mr. Howe, but why are you so interested in Bonegrinder?”

  “Curiosity, of course. The acquisition of knowledge, scientific development. You must understand that.”

  “Do you really think there’s somethin’ out there that’ll add to scientific development?”

  Howe swirled his drink in his glass and smiled at Wintone. “Perhaps that’s the difference between myself and you, Sheriff. I believe there’s something out there worth finding because of its uniqueness.”

  “Good an’ well,” Wintone said, “but all these people swarmin’ over the area are like as not creatin’ a situation where nothin’ is gonna be found.”

  “Since we’re dealing with the unknown, I have to conclude that the more people searching, the more likely it is that the object will be discovered. You’re concerned with possibilities, Sheriff, while I’m concerned with facts. Facts are my life. I live in a world of facts, and my object is to expand that world.”

  Wintone was beginning to sense that the conversation was rudderless and that he had no way to guide it. “My concern is that somebody’s gonna get killed.”