Hold of the Bone

by Baxter Clare Trautman

Sal lifts Kook off her lap and stands. “Finish that,” she says with a nod to the mug. “It should help. If you need anything, just call. I’m a light sleeper.” She steps over the threshold into the hall.

  “Sal?”

  She turns and Frank hoists her mug. “Thanks.”

  Sal’s smile is faint. “You’re welcome. Sleep well.”

  Frank drains the mug and rinses it in the sink. She turns off the lamp and feels her way to the bedroom. She closes the door gently, loosens the curtains and spreads them to the darkness beyond. Aware of being in the home of a possible murder suspect, she noiselessly slides a small desk in front of the door. It will give easily if Sal pushes on the door, but Frank sets a lamp on the edge that will topple and wake her if it’s disturbed. The precaution is driven more by habit than concern. She stretches on the mattress, testing if it’s as uncomfortable as it looks but falls asleep before she can reach a verdict.

  At some point she wakes. The light by the bed is on and she still wears Sal’s clothes. Desk and lamp guard the door. Frank switches the light off and rises to the window. A hunched moon gallops over the spine of the mountains. Clouds course alongside and the wind howls like hounds to the hunt. Frank rests her cheek on the old, soft wood of the frame. Only as the moon begins its ride down the far side of the mountains does she return to bed.

  Blue sky shows her she has slept later than intended. Surprised she doesn’t ache from the old mattress, she quietly moves the desk back where it belongs. She steps into the hall and smells coffee. The cabin is empty. Frank pours a cup from the simmering percolator and stands at the front door. The yard is muddy but spilled in sunshine. She follows tracks to the barn.

  Sal is laying wet saddle blankets over the corral. The two big dogs see Frank and come wagging their tails. The little one stays next to Sal, barking furiously. She nudges him with a muddy, bare foot and his bark becomes a weak growl. Frank bends a hand to the larger dogs, asking Sal why she didn’t wake her.

  “I stomped around and the dogs barked for breakfast, so I figured if you could sleep through all that you must have needed to.” She ducks between the boards. “Are you hungry?”

  “I am. Must be all this fresh air.”

  Chickens have been foraging in the leaves under the sycamores and when they see Sal they come running. Frank watches warily, waiting for carnage, but the dogs ignore the flapping birds. “Why don’t they chase them?”

  “They’re not allowed to, though Bone wanted to herd them in the worst way.”

  “He’s a good dog, isn’t he?”

  Sal holds the screen door to the cabin open for him and smiles. “The best.”

  Frank sits while Sal fries eggs. After she slides their breakfast onto tortillas and pours salsa over it, she carries the plates outside, asking Frank to bring the coffee. They sit on the fire pit and eat from their laps. The chickens come running again but respect the wide arc Sal swings with her foot. The dogs, allowed to crowd closer, crouch expectantly at their feet.

  “This is really good,” Frank mumbles. “Do your clients always feed you this well?”

  “Let’s just say between the chickens and my ladies I’ll never starve.”

  After they’ve finished eating, Sal tosses each dog a scrap of tortilla, scrapes the crumbs for the chickens, and returns the plates to the cabin. Frank shifts into the old wooden chair. Fed and surprisingly well-rested, she closes her eyes and lets the sun play on her face.

  “Don’t move.” Sal’s voice carries calmly but loudly across the yard. “There’s a rattlesnake under your chair.”

  Frank almost jerks her feet onto the chair, but intuitively realizes the snake’s reflexes are probably faster than hers. She freezes, gripping the arms of the chair to keep from moving. The screen door creaks, shuts, then creaks again, and Frank hears the soft snick of a rifle bolt.

  She realizes with frigid logic that Sal could easily shoot her. No one knows Frank is here. Her body and her car could be dumped somewhere in the mountains and it would be decades before anyone found her. If then.

  Sal circles into her line of view. A .22 held high, loosely angled at the chair.

  Frank swallows the rock in her throat. The backup Beretta she usually carries on days off is secured in the lock box of the Honda’s trunk, right next to her service revolver. She doesn’t know if she’s more afraid of dying or pissed at not being armed.

  “Don’t move,” Sal repeats quietly. She rests her cheek against the stock, sighting along the barrel. The gun dips. There is a sharp crack. Dirt and rocks sting Frank’s ankles and she yanks her feet onto the seat. Something thumps under the chair and a whirring fills the air. Bone sets to furious barking. Frank feels the snake thrashing against the chair and wonders in a sick panic if it can jump into her lap. The snake writhes into view, rolling and twisting in a death knot. Its broad head flops at the spine, pierced by Sal’s bullet. Yet the animal still moves. For a second, Frank thinks she is going to faint, but the idea of falling out of her chair onto a rattlesnake sobers her.

  “Bone! That’s enough.”

  The dog glances at Sal. His bark turns to a growl, but he keeps fierce attention on the roiling snake. Frank is mesmerized by the ceaseless looping and coiling. “How long’s it going to do that?”

  “They can go for hours, even after the head’s chopped off.”

  “Shit.”

  Kook sniffs close to the buzzing snake and Sal calls him off.

  “Can they still bite?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Jesus.” Frank rubs the goose bumps on her arms. “That’s just wrong.”

  “Keep an eye on the dogs,” Sal tells her.

  Sal ducks into one of the sheds and comes out with a shovel. She starts digging under the trees. Dead leaves slither and rustle and Frank wraps her arms even tighter around her knees. She watches the snake’s twisted, torturous dying until Sal scoops it up and carries it into the trees. Frank hears the shovel blade strike ground once, then twice, and the rattling stops.

  Frank drops her bunched shoulders and checks under the chair before lowering her feet. She stands woozily, making a wide circuit of the fire ring to see if the snake brought any friends. Sal finishes in the trees and walks up to Frank, presenting the rattle.

  Frank lunges back. “What the fuck?”

  “I thought you might want it.”

  She stares at the bloody nub in Sal’s palm, gingerly prods one of the hollow segments. Pinching the rattle, she gives it a shake. “It sounds so harmless. Like something a baby would play with.”

  Frank lays the keratinous tail on the fire ring. Her hand is shaking and she tucks it into her pocket. Sal totes the rifle into the cabin and returns with the coffee pot. She pours without asking. Frank leaves her cup where it is, not sure she can hold it without spilling.

  “Cigarette?” Sal asks, pulling the tobacco pouch from her pocket.

  “Sure. I could use one.”

  Sal expertly rolls a cigarette and passes it to her.

  “How often do those things show up in your yard?”

  “Not often at all. I probably only kill one every four or five years. I don’t like to, but if they’re in the barn, or around the house, that’s too close.”

  They smoke in the sparkle of the fresh-washed morning. The big dogs work off their energy tug-of-warring over a stick. Kook dances around them on his hind legs, looking for his chance to grab the prize and run off with it. Frank’s hand steadies, and as she reaches for her coffee she catches Sal’s eyes upon her. The cool blue gaze is oddly satisfied. Suddenly Frank understands why. “You touched me last night, when I was passed out.”

  Sal looks to the dogs, but not before Frank sees a flicker of acknowledgement. She drags on her cigarette and follows the violet exhalation. She thinks she should feel angry or violated, but mainly she is curious. They watch the dogs until Bone gives up to lick his paws in a pool of sunshine. Cicero contentedly splinters the prize while Kook worries a lazy orange cat just out of claw range
.

  “Well?”

  Sal only shrugs. “I thought you had more questions.”

  Frank nods, unsure if she’s disappointed or relieved. “What was your father’s uncle’s name?”

  “Lee Saladino.”

  “Did Lee say why your father was working late?”

  “I don’t recall a reason. Just that he might still be at the site.”

  “And he gave you the address?”

  “I think so. I can’t remember a number, but I know we got there. It was the only construction site on that stretch of Western Avenue.”

  “You went straight there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did you find when you got there?”

  “Just a construction site. They’d done the framing for a building.”

  “Was the site paved or just dirt?”

  Sal drops the cigarette butt and rubs it under her heel. Frank winces, but realizes Sal has been barefoot since she removed her boots last night. “You don’t wear shoes much.”

  “I don’t wear anything much.”

  Frank almost smiles. She remembers now, but at the time she was so startled to see Sal peeling off her shirt that she didn’t notice how solidly brown she was. Sidetracked, Frank steers them both back on course. “Was the ground sealed at all or was it raw dirt?”

  “I think it was dirt. What we saw at least.”

  “How much did you see?”

  “Enough to know he wasn’t there.”

  “Did you get out and look around or just drive up?”

  “We looked around. We had a flashlight.”

  “So it was dark by the time you got there?”

  “It was dusk. Cloudy. I don’t know that it was night yet, but it was fairly dark.”

  “Dark enough to need a flashlight?”

  “We shined it around, just to make sure.”

  “And there was nobody there?”

  “No one.”

  “Were there any cars or trucks parked there?”

  Sal thinks. “Maybe nearby, but not like they belonged on the site.”

  “What did you do after you looked around?”

  “Cass was still upset, so we drove around some more. She stopped to get another bottle of bourbon.”

  “Where did you stop?”

  “I don’t know. Some liquor store.”

  “How long did you drive around?”

  “I don’t know. It seemed like forever, but it probably wasn’t more than a couple hours.”

  “Did you make any other stops?”

  “We called Lee again, from a pay phone. My aunt said he wasn’t there. Neither was my father. She tried to get us to come over and eat and spend the night, but Cass wanted to keep looking.”

  “Did she say where Lee was?”

  “I don’t think we asked. I know he had a bar he liked to go to after work. He’d take my father sometimes, but not always. He didn’t like it when he started trouble.”

  “Did you go to that bar?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you go to his aunt’s house, where he was staying?”

  “No.”

  “How come?”

  “I just told you. He wasn’t there.”

  “And you believed her.”

  “Why wouldn’t we?”

  “Didn’t you assume he’d be back, sooner or later?”

  “I don’t remember. I doubt we were thinking very rationally.”

  They watch the chickens scrabbling in the dirt. One of the hens finds a particularly choice item and the rest give chase as she runs off with it.

  “Do you miss your family?”

  The question is unplanned, its intimacy embarrassing, and Frank wishes she could take it back.

  “I miss their physical presence, but they’re always near. They’re always close.”

  “How do you know?”

  Sal takes her time before asking, “Have you ever been near a high tension wire?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And felt the electricity?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s like that. It’s a . . . a humming-ness of them. A vibration.”

  “An energy?”

  “Like that, yes.”

  “Can you tell them apart?”

  “Definitely. My father’s energy is light and warm, very steady. Cass’s is wiggly like a puppy, and my mother’s too, but more pulsing, less erratic than Cass.”

  “That doesn’t scare you?”

  “Not at all. I’d be scared if I didn’t feel them.”

  “Do their energies change?”

  “Not that I’ve ever noticed.”

  “Can you feel other people?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “When?”

  “Mostly when I concentrate, when I think about them.”

  “So you could feel me right now?”

  Sal nods. Frank is again curious but doesn’t press. “Tell me about Leslie Ferrer.”

  Sal arches a brow. “You really have been doing your homework.”

  Frank grins. “It hasn’t been all horseback riding and tea leaves.”

  After meticulously rolling another cigarette, Sal offers it to Frank.

  “Thanks. Nancy Snelling says Leslie was your best friend.”

  “Nancy.” Sal smirks. “What else did she say?”

  “Was she?”

  “She was.”

  “But not anymore?”

  “No.”

  “How come?”

  “Leslie and I were sad, mixed-up girls. She went on to become a sad, mixed-up woman.”

  “Do you ever see her?”

  “I run into her in town sometimes, but we just exchange the normal pleasantries.”

  “Why were you a sad, mixed-up girl?”

  “High school’s hardly the easiest time for a child. Were you happy?”

  “No. But I had my reasons. What were yours?”

  Sal shakes her head and the silver braid swishes on her back. Frank has the idea that if the moon were a horse, its mane would be Sal’s hair.

  “I love my sister. I miss her every day. We were so alike, yet we were so different. I always wanted to be like Cass. I was always shy, but Cass could walk into a room and it was like the sun coming out after a storm. I was jealous of her friends, her popularity, all the attention she got. I wanted her to myself. I was lonely in school. So was Leslie. I don’t even know that I liked her that much.”

  “Were you lovers?”

  Sal laughs. “That would be Nancy again?”

  “She said the kids teased you about it.”

  “Mercilessly. With a name like Leslie, naturally she became Lezzie. We both had boyfriends, but it didn’t seem to matter. Mike would get so mad.” She finishes rolling a second cigarette and seals it with a lick. Striking a match, she holds it for Frank. “Why weren’t you happy in high school?”

  Frank takes a deep drag of the sweet smoke. She’s already broken more procedural regulations than she can count on one hand. She pictures the retirement papers on her desk. She really must turn them in when she gets back. “My dad died when I was pretty young, so it was just me and my mom. I told you about her. It was a rough time.” Steering the conversation back to Sal, she asks, “Did your father ever hit you or Cass?”

  “No. He tried once, when we were little. He grabbed Cass, and my mother swung a pan off the stove, a big cast-iron skillet. There were onions and bacon grease everywhere. It took us forever to clean it up. But she waved that pan and told my father if he ever touched one of her children again it would be the last thing he touched. He backed off and went outside. It was the only time I ever saw her fight back.”

  Bone is stretched near her foot and Frank realizes she has been stroking him.

  “Would you like another cup of coffee?”

  “God, no. I’m shaky enough as it is after that damn snake. I really should get going.” But she makes no effort to move
. The sun is warm and the breeze cool. The creek warbles and coos, and she wonders if it has risen with the rain. She sees it in the gut of the mountains, gushing over the edge of a great stone fall, past rock and boulder down a thin, dark canyon hemmed with fir and redwood that block the sun.

  Sal stands and Frank is surprised to be in bright light. She swipes at her eyes and follows into the cabin. Squeezing into her damp jeans, she looks around the tiny bedroom, recalls standing at the window in the middle of the night watching the moon and clouds ride over the mountains. And then she is leaning against the wall and the room is dark but for starlight and the red, shadowy dance of a small fire. She hears a chant mumbled in a low, sexless voice, a rhythmic grinding of stone on stone. An animal stirs near, a black dog lifting its muzzle to the night.

  Bone’s wet nose pushes her hand. Frank shakes her head and the vision clears. “Jesus.” Bone wags his stump. She pets his sleek head, then goes to find Sal. She is in the barn, and Frank notes happily that Buttons is already saddled. The old mare nickers as she approaches and Frank scratches under her mane, surprised how relaxed she is around the beast.

  They ride out of the corral toward the trees. The dogs run ahead and clatter over the bridge. The horses follow single file.

  Halfway across, Frank stops. She looks down, hoping to see the fish she knows are there. But she also knows they are hiding, practically motionless in the deeper pools at the edge of the stream, as perfectly flecked and brown as the water that holds them.

  Buttons knocks an impatient hoof and tugs on the rein. Frank smiles and crosses to the other side.

  Chapter 20

  A short, thick man with a shaggy gray mustache steps from the barn as they ride into the corral. Braiding the ends of a rein, he watches them dismount.

  “Pete, this is Lieutenant Franco, LAPD. Lieutenant, Pete Mazetti.”

  She shakes his hand. It is rough and callused, and Mazetti doesn’t lessen his grip because she’s a woman.

  “Mind if I ask a couple questions?”

  He shrugs.

  “I understand you and Mike Thompson followed Cass and Sal down to LA the day Mary Saladino died.”

  “Yep.”

  “What can you tell me about the trip?”

  “Didn’t find ’em.”

  “Did you find Domenic Saladino?”