Bone Deep

by Janice Kay Johnson

  He stood very still, closed his eyes for a minute, then, breathing through his mouth, studied the interior of the shed. He turned slowly, doing his damnedest not to miss any small thing. Once he’d looked carefully, he started moving piles of plastic plant pots, the couple of other larger terracotta pots, the gunnysacks, a metal toolbox that held only the usual assortment of screwdrivers, hammer, wrench. Nothing caught his eye; nothing seemed out of place.

  Except, of course, for the small, headless corpse and the pair of human pelvises. And, oh, yeah, the charred, steaming wall of the shed.

  He snapped a couple dozen digital photos from every angle: bones, rabbit sans pot, blackened wall and some wide-angle shots of the interior. Then he used one of the sacks to gather up the two pelvises.

  When he walked outside, he tried not to gulp fresh air too obviously. His stomach chose that moment to heave in protest, but he ignored it. God knows, he’d seen and smelled worse. He’d had to crouch over floaters pulled in after days in salt water, the burned remains of arson victims, insect-infested bodies unearthed from shallow graves. This was nothing, and he wouldn’t succumb to the weakness of nausea.

  He went straight to the security camera pointed toward the shed, and was pissed but not surprised to find a brown plastic grocery bag wrapped over the lens. An adirondack chair had been pulled over to serve as a step stool. He’d look at the footage, but someone who knew the camera was there could have approached from the side without ever appearing in front of it.

  So much for the crisscross cedar slats that almost disguised its presence.

  Disgusted, Grant pulled out his cell phone and called Jed Beier, the arson investigator, who agreed to come out. After a brief conversation, Grant asked Cheung to continue to keep an eye on the shed for now, went into the main building to tell the new woman not to open the nursery yet, then left for the hospital.

  Kat was in a curtained cubicle in the emergency room. He heard her hacking long before he saw her.

  Somehow he wasn’t surprised, though, to walk in as she slid from the bed, hospital gown discarded and her already dressed again in one of those damned sweatshirts he knew had been Hugh’s. “I’m ready, Joan,” she was saying.

  “The hell you are.” His gaze dropped to her hands, both wrapped in gauze.

  Kat turned. “Grant.” That set her off. She coughed for a good minute, Joan wrapping an arm around her in support.

  “The doctor is releasing you?” he asked incredulously.

  Joan shot him a look of sympathy. “They think she’s okay. She’s just going to have to get all the junk up.”

  “I can do that at home,” Kat said, in a gruff, whispery voice.

  “Damn.” He wanted nothing more than to haul her into his arms. The fact that it wouldn’t be politic to do so where someone might see them only increased his frustration and anger.

  Her eyes latched on to him as if she didn’t want to let him go. “You…saw?”

  He unclenched his jaw. “I saw.”

  “Who…?”

  He knew what she was asking. “We’ll find out,” he said grimly.

  Human bones could be purchased online. It was possible a female pelvis had been bought to stage this scene, that it was merely a symbol. But somehow Grant didn’t think so. His gut told him the woman, whoever she was, had died with Hugh. That she’d had something to do with his death, was maybe even the reason for it. What this looked like to him was jealousy.

  Somebody besides Kat had expected something Hugh apparently wasn’t capable of giving: fidelity. Maybe even love. What Grant couldn’t figure out was how it all tied in to Kat. If one of Hugh’s lovers had killed him because she found out she wasn’t exclusive…why hadn’t she acted on it by attacking Kat back then? And if she thought she’d won and Kat was on the way out…why had she clung to this obsessive hatred?

  He pulled himself up short. No, clung wasn’t the right word. Developed was maybe a better one. Whoever this was had been okay with Kat for a long time. Maybe didn’t see her as a rival. But she’d finally done something to set this off. Grant was thinking, more and more, that the whoever-this-was had to be another woman.

  He also had a bad feeling that he knew who that other pelvis would turn out to belong to. Proving it, though, was another story.

  “Joan,” he said, “would you go home with Kat? Stay with her? I’ve got to get back to the nursery and meet the fire marshal. I don’t think you should open today. Can one of the employees lock up?”

  Kat in her croaky voice started to protest. Joan overrode her. “Yes. Tell James to stay until you’re done and then make sure everything is locked.” Under her breath she muttered, “As if the horses haven’t escaped already.” A sentiment with which Grant sympathized.

  He walked the two women out, watching as Joan settled Kat into the passenger seat of a pickup with a brusque kind of tenderness. He was still standing there when the truck pulled out of the parking lot. This was one of those times when merely looking at Kat had left him feeling as if he’d been pummeled. The resultant deep bruises might not be visible, but they did hurt. He looked down to see that he was actually rubbing the heel of his hand over his breastbone, as if that would help. A brief, humorless bark of laughter escaped him as he climbed into his patrol car. Would it ever quit hurting, loving her the way he did?

  He called in to let dispatch know where he was. Jed Beier was waiting for him out front of the nursery. The two men shook hands and he said, “Gasoline.”

  “Good nose.”

  “I’m like a vintner. My nose is a connoisseur of smoke.”

  This laugh felt a little better. Grant liked Jed.

  Jed took his own photos, whipped out a measuring tape and scribbled indecipherably with a blunt-tipped pencil in a breast pocket-sized notebook. He used the pencil, Grant knew, because so many fire scenes were also saturated with water, fire retardant foam and the like. Ink ran.

  “Not much I can tell you that you don’t already know,” he said finally. “I take it this didn’t happen out of the blue?”

  “No.” Grant encapsulated events to date.

  Jed meditated. “This setup seems to be more of an attention grabber than a murder attempt.” He glanced at Grant. “Not saying Ms. Riley couldn’t have died. But employees were due to arrive momentarily. Of course they’d rush out to see what was on fire.”

  Staring at the charred, dripping side of the shed, Grant imagined Kat trapped inside as fire ate its way through to her, hammering on the door until her hands were raw. And he said, in a voice that sounded feral even to his own ears, “But whoever did this didn’t much care if Kat died.”

  “No,” Jed said quietly. “Most fires I see are set either for profit or for fun. This one’s different.”

  “That’s because the fire wasn’t the point. Like you said, it was an attention getter.”

  Grant saw Jed off, then told Helen and James Cheung to close up. He waited while they did so, and drove out behind them.

  He paused before turning onto the highway to call Kat. Joan answered.

  “She just got out of the shower. The coughing seems to be letting up.”

  “Okay. Tell her the place is locked up. Your new employee seems to be sharp. She put a sandwich board out front that says the nursery will be closed today because of a fire.”

  “Good. We usually use that to mark specials.”

  “I figured.”

  “Are you…coming to talk to Kat?” She sounded hesitant.

  “Not yet,” he told her. “I’m going to take the bones to Dr. Erdahl at the hospital first, and then do a little research. I have an idea.” He paused. “Why don’t you see if you can get her to take a nap.”

  She snorted. “Fat chance. But I’ll try.”

  He got lucky and the doctor squeezed him in between two autopsies. She confirmed that the second pelvis was indeed female. “A young woman,” she said. “Not an adolescent. Probably hadn’t borne a child yet. Say, eighteen to twenty-five. I’m sorry not to
be of more help.”

  Grant shook his head. “I keep hoping we’ll discover a cause of death.”

  “We might get lucky if you find the full skeleton. A bullet passing through the body does damage that would be recognizable. A knife blade often nicks bone.”

  He thanked her and took the two pelvises to the funeral home to be stored with the other bones. Then he went to his office and pulled out his own notes about what he’d learned so far about Hugh’s life and death.

  Angela Jo Hiatt. He had already gotten far enough to get a copy of her original application of employment from the school district office, but the information it contained hadn’t given him an easy way to trace her. In Next of Kin she’d written None, grew up in foster homes.

  She’d been vulnerable, he thought now, as he had when he’d first read that. Just like all Hugh Riley’s victims. And despite their foolish decisions to sleep with a married man, that’s what they were: victims. He’d worn a lazy, charming disguise, but beneath it he was a sexual predator.

  Grant had tried at the time calling the names Angie Hiatt had given as references, but neither of the numbers had been in service anymore. Now he went online and got the phone number for the alumni office of Pacific Lutheran University, where she’d graduated. They hadn’t received any updates from her since graduation, and had no current address; the alumni magazine had become undeliverable. They confirmed that the last known address they had for her was the one here in Fern Bluff.

  He checked motor vehicle records for the names she’d given as references and found both. When he called the first one, he got a chirpy message followed by a blast of heavy metal music that made him wince. He explained who he was and asked her to call. The second woman, whose name was Margaret Proctor, answered.

  “Meg here.”

  Once again he explained that he was attempting to track down Angela Hiatt. “May I ask how you knew her?”

  “She worked for me part-time most of the way through college. I have a day care center.” Meg’s voice was warm; the fact that she’d liked Angie Hiatt rang through in it. “She was great with the kids.”

  “And have you stayed in touch with her, Ms. Proctor?”

  “I did for a while. She was working for the school district up in…” She stopped, apparently connecting the dots. He’d told her he was the police chief of Fern Bluff. “I guess you knew that.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, as far as I know, she finished out the school year there, but then she dropped off the map. I was surprised to quit hearing from her. But you know how it is. I figured she’d met a guy. Moved to Florida.” She sounded resigned but also regretful. “Did something happen to Angie?”

  “It would be premature for me to suggest that,” he said carefully. “I may find her in Florida. At this point, I’m pursuing a hunch. That’s all.”

  Silent for a moment, she said finally, “Will you let me know?”

  “I will,” he promised. “Please do call me if you hear from her unexpectedly. And thank you for your help, Ms. Proctor.”

  He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. His hunch was hardening into near-certainty. Angie, he was now convinced, had not sent that email letting the school district know that she’d had a family emergency and wouldn’t be able to finish out the year. Whoever had sent it hadn’t known that the young teacher’s aide had no family. Nor had Angie packed up the contents of her own apartment.

  Two hours later her other reference returned his call. Siobhan Seton hadn’t heard from Angie in four years, either. Her feelings were hurt; they’d been roommates their junior and senior years at PLU. Siobhan had married a guy they’d both known in college, and had wanted Angie to be her maid of honor. But she never got a reply to her email, and the phone number was disconnected. She’d wondered if Angie had secretly liked the guy, too, and that’s why she’d cut ties.

  Siobhan became hysterical despite Grant’s repeated assurances that he was merely attempting to locate her friend to get some information. “Oh, God!” she kept saying. “Something happened to her, and I didn’t even try to find her!”

  “Did she tell you about a man she was seeing here in Fern Bluff?” he asked.

  Siobhan sniffed. “Kind of. I didn’t meet him or anything. I wasn’t even sure she hadn’t made him up. You know. Like, see, I have a boyfriend, too.” Angie, she said, had told her he was older, and really hot, and he was getting a divorce because his wife was such a bitch.

  Grant wondered how often the son of a bitch had described Kat that way and to how many people.

  He already knew that the apartment manager hadn’t seen Angie moving out. Odds weren’t good that other residents were still around four years later, or would remember someone they’d seen carrying boxes out to a car. Why would they? It wasn’t the kind of place you became best friends with your neighbor.

  He did some searches online in law enforcement databases as well as Google and Facebook and anything else he could think of. He found what he’d expected to: nothing.

  Angie Hiatt had had a car, too. An older Chevy Geo. She’d sold it the same day she quit her job and moved. It had changed hands one more time and then been scrapped.

  He’d butted up hard against a dead end, and Grant didn’t like it. Prickles of unease raised the hair on the back of his neck and skittered over his body. The possibilities for further escalation of this campaign of terror were now limited.

  Kat hadn’t died today, but she would soon if he couldn’t manage to protect her.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SINCE NAPS TENDED TO make Kat feel groggy and grumpy afterward, she hardly ever let herself take one. But after her shower, she lay down on her bed, for a minute. The next thing she knew, she surfaced to find herself curled on her side, her mouth hanging open and dry with a disgusting taste, and her brain in a fog. Ugh. Obviously, she’d fallen asleep.

  She worked her mouth and jaw, managed a swallow and groaned. She opened her eyes to find herself alone. She’d half expected to find Joan perched like a vigilant guardian angel at her bedside.Kat stumbled into the bathroom, used the toilet and then took an unhappy look at herself in the mirror. More ugh. Her hair, wet when she lay down, was flattened on one side and tangled on the other. Her cheek was decorated with creases. Her eyes were puffy.

  With water splashed on the brush, she repaired the damage to her hair, although she was clumsy with her hands wrapped. The gauze was probably overkill, but she’d wait until tomorrow to take it off. Her knuckles had been bloody, she knew, when Helen had opened the shed door and Kat had fallen out.

  After brushing her teeth to get rid of the icky taste, she inspected herself again and decided there wasn’t anything else she could do.

  Grant was standing in the bedroom when she came out of the bathroom. His gaze moved swiftly over her, taking in her long, bare legs. She’d gone to bed in her T-shirt and panties.

  “How are you?” he asked, in a voice made gritty by emotion.

  “I’m…” Fine. She tried to say it, even though she wasn’t. The word stuck in her throat.

  “Oh, damn,” he said explosively. “Come here.”

  In an instant, he’d yanked her into his arms. She wrapped hers around his waist and pressed even closer. She felt his cheek against her hair, or maybe his lips.

  “You scared the hell out of me,” he muttered. “I don’t know if I can take any more.”

  A giggle welled up from somewhere. “You can’t?”

  He tried to laugh, she knew he did, but it didn’t quite come off. “I swear, you’re not getting out of my sight again.”

  Kat sighed and reveled in the slam of his heartbeat and the strength of his arms. It was a while before she murmured, “That’s not very practical.”

  He was gently rocking her. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it does.” But she was smiling anyway, even if her lips wobbled, because he meant it. Feeling ridiculously happy, scared to death and wanting to bawl all at the
same time was weird. It was like teetering on a tightrope stretched over an abyss. She never wanted Grant to let her go.

  “Is Joan still here?” she finally asked.

  “No.” His big hands skated up and down her body, as if he had to feel for himself that she was there and safe. “I sent her home.”

  “Oh.”

  He eased back finally. “I put some soup on to heat when I heard the toilet flushing. It’s probably boiling by now.”

  “Okay.” She swiped at her eyes—the thick gauze was good for something, it turned out—and made herself step away from Grant. “I’m hungry, now that you mention the subject of food.”

  “Good.”

  He waited while she pulled on jeans, and didn’t say anything else as they went downstairs, although she felt his gaze resting on her. The way he looked at her had unnerved her from the beginning, in a whole lot of ways. One was the intensity of his gaze. She’d have sworn he saw all the way through her. The sensation was especially unsettling for someone like her, who had been very, very careful all her life to keep the essence of herself buried deep inside. He was giving her that look now, as if he knew how tangled her feelings were. It was a relief when he had to turn his attention to dishing up the soup and making sandwiches while she waited with her hands folded docilely on the table.

  Only after he’d poured them both milk and sat did she clear her throat and ask, “Did you learn anything?”

  “Not as much as I’d have liked.” He frowned. “You knew those were pelvises?”

  Kat nodded.

  “One male, one female.”

  She felt sick and set down her spoon. “I…guessed.”

  “Eat,” he said gently.

  After a moment, Kat picked up the spoon again. Eating his own lunch, Grant watched her, too.

  “Here’s what I think,” he said finally, when she’d finished half of the turkey sandwich and most of her soup. “It’s possible Hugh messed with the wrong guy’s wife. But I doubt it.”