Bone by Bone

18

Hannah! Stop that! I can't hear!"

The housekeeper switched off the vacuum cleaner.

After a brief telephone conversation, the judge hung up on his caller. "That was the sheriff. He says Oren's on TV." Not a believer in remote-control contraptions, Henry Hobbs leaned down to turn on the television set. "Oh, my God." He stared at the glowing screen and a scene of reporters mobbing a parking lot. His son stood at the center of this frenzy, and the backdrop was a brick building, headquarters for the Highway Patrol in Saulburg. The shouts of the mob were unintelligible. Addison Winston climbed up on the hood of a trooper's cruiser, and, with a bit of coaxing, Oren joined him there.

"This is Ad's idea of handling things quietly?" The judge raked one clawed hand over his bald scalp. "It's a circus."

More than that-this was Hannah's old premonition come true. She had always pictured the judge's son taking center stage, surrounded by people and bright lights, a screaming public. "The camera loves him."

The cameras could not get enough of Oren Hobbs. When the afternoon sky grew dark with overcast, lights on poles bore down on him, and strobe lights popped in smaller cameras as photographers edged closer.

"Oren and his damned cowboy boots," said the judge. "He's going to dent the hood of that car."

On screen, Addison Winston stepped in front of his photogenic client, though not to shield him. The grinning lawyer had the look of an elegant sideshow barker with tickets to sell. "Sorry you were called out on a false alarm. I'm afraid Sally Polk has a rich fantasy life."

Hannah turned to the judge and reached out to nudge his arm. "You see? It wasn't Ad's fault. That Polk woman must've called the reporters."

"It was Addison," said the judge. "He's addicted to this kind of attention."

The picture had changed to a close-up of the building in the background, where Sally Polk stood in the open doorway, clearly unhappy with this event. And then the camera turned back to Oren, the one it loved best.

"Did you see that?" Hannah edged her chair closer to the screen. "That was Evelyn Straub standing not two feet away from that door."

"Oh, fine." Henry Hobbs covered his eyes with one hand. "Let's just drag out all the sordid details."

"There she is again." Hannah pulled down the judge's hand. "Look. You see that bright pink thing in her hand? That's the color of Evelyn's checkbook. I bet she planned to bail Oren out of jail."

As if in response to this, Ad Winston's voice boomed from the television set, "Bail? No, there was never an issue of bail. My client came in as a courtesy."

A reporter shouted, "Your guy was wearing handcuffs!"

Addison raised both hands in a crucifixion pose. "Another screwup. It seems there was a breakdown in communications between Sally Polk and the storm troopers."

Well, that's not right," said the judge, indignant. "And it wasn't necessary. That man has no respect for law enforcement."

As I recall," said Hannah, "you told Addison to grind up Sally Polk for dog meat."

Still following those instructions, the lawyer yelled, "It gets better! Judge Montrose-the man who signed the warrant-he was under the impression that there was probable cause. There wasn't. Let me tell you, that's one pissed-off judge."

"Now that last part's true enough." Henry Hobbs nodded at the screen. "Judge Montrose and I had a little talk. Good man. Seems Miss Polk likes to stretch the truth a bit. But so does Addison. He's talking about the search warrant. There never was a warrant for Oren's arrest. He must've been brought in for questioning. That means there's no evidence against him."

"But you always knew that."

"That I did."

They turned back to the television set as a reporter asked, "Oren? Will you be offering any assistance on this case?"

"Absolutely," said Ad Winston, answering for his client before Oren had a chance to open his mouth and say something true. "He's a decorated CID agent. That's the Army's Criminal Investigations Division. He has quite a track record for solving homicides. Incidentally, my client was the one who found the first evidence of his brother's murder. So you might say he's been on the case for a while now."

Oren seemed about to disagree with this, and the lawyer pushed him, forcing him to jump off the hood of the car before he could fall. Ad Winston also jumped to the ground and propelled his client through the crowd to a waiting limousine. The reporters regrouped and followed them across the parking lot. All that was missing was the music of a marching band.

In the distance, Evelyn Straub could be seen standing alone as the parade passed her by To the camera's undiscerning eye, she was a stout, drab figure who blended into the background and faded away.

Oren rode in the backseat of the stretch limousine hired for this special occasion of a carnival press conference. It was equipped with a stereo, television, a coffeemaker and a full bar. All that seemed to be missing was a hot tub. He turned to his lawyer. "Did my father really hire you?"

"Who else? You thought Isabelle might've asked me to defend you?" Ad Winston depressed a button on the console to raise a glass privacy barrier behind the chauffeur's seat. "And now, may I ask, what goes on between you and my daughter?"

"Sir, I've never even spoken to her."

"And yet, reliable witnesses tell me she recently decked you, flattened you out on a town sidewalk. That could pass for rough sex in the third world."

"I tripped."

"Of course you did."

"I'll pay for this myself," said Oren. "What do I owe you?"

"Not one dime. I never earned out the retainer your father paid me twenty years ago. And I won't make much of a dent in what's left. It looks like you're going to walk away from a double homicide."

"You think I murdered my brother and that woman?"

The attorney stared at him with keen interest. "The other set of bones belonged to a woman? Interesting. Don't ever tell me how you knew that. It'll make my job easier if I have to put you on the witness stand." He lifted his briefcase from the floor and settled it on his lap. "But I'm not anticipating a trial. Sally Polk's about to get a direct order to stay out of the sheriff's way. And Cable Babitt doesn't have the talent to catch a shoplifter."

"When Josh disappeared, was it your idea not to bring in the feds and the CBI? Or was that the judge's call?"

"Your father and I discussed the matter. I thought it was in your best interest if there was only one police agency to deal with-the mediocre one. I call it damage control."

You told him to send me away?"

No, that was the judge's decision. I was against it. At least he waited a few months before he shipped you out of state, but it was still a bad move. I gather you had some kind of alibi. The sheriff isn't a complete idiot." The lawyer's fingers did a little dance on the top of his briefcase while he awaited a response.

Oren had no plans to share the details of two bogus alibis. Evelyn Straub's old statement was folded in his wallet, and there it would stay. He had set fire to Isabelle's statement in full view of the sheriff and the patrons at the Water Street Cafe.

Ad Winston opened his briefcase and perused the paperwork inside. The top sheet was a list of military commendations and decorations, ribbons from combat zones, medals for Oren's valor and medals for his wounds.

"Stunning record," said the lawyer. "I was relieved to discover that you were honorably discharged. And that's all the information Sally Polk is likely to get from the Army. She probably doesn't know as many five-star generals as I do. When my general looked into the matter, what he found was very jarring." The lawyer consulted a sheet of handwritten notes. "I know you left Coventry when you were seventeen years old, but you didn't join the Army until your eighteenth birthday-legal age. When you quit, you were nine months shy of qualifying for a twenty-year pension. You walked away from that-every dime, every benefit."

Winston paused for a moment. "No comment?"

The lawyer turned back to his notes. "Well, with no prompting from me, the general investigated." He pointed to a paragraph. "This lists all the perks you were offered. In the general's own words, the Army offered you the moon if you would only stay. He tells me you never had to quit. They would have given you a leave of absence-all the time you needed. You could've claimed a family emergency, but you didn't. And your father insists you knew nothing about Josh's bones being found-not before you came home."

"My father never lies."

"Henry's better at arithmetic than I am. He knows what you lost when you walked away. He never asked why?" They rode the rest of the way in silence.

The sun had come out again, and the light from the immense window was brilliant. Beyond the glass were the muffled sounds of hammers and the sight of workmen building a large wooden platform on the grass behind the Winston lodge. Truckers unloaded tables and chairs for the guests who soon would fill the house to overflowing.

Oren had not set foot in this place since the age of twelve. Today the front room was an empty cavern of cedar paneling and glass. All the furnishings had been removed to accommodate a night of dancing beneath a ceiling that soared more than thirty feet, and the floor space had the dimensions of a grand ballroom.

Walking alongside his lawyer, he was told that the lodge had been built with the annual festivities in mind. Oren could only see it as a needy display of wealth, a stage for a man who was always performing, always smiling. He wondered what Ad Winston was like when there was no one around to play the audience. He pictured the lawyer sitting in a darkened room, insanely grinning for no reason at all.

No difference.

"You must come to the ball this year," said Winston, leading the way across the wide expanse.

"Maybe I will." Oren delivered this line in a manner close to a threat.

The lawyer paused and turned, eyes flickering, uncomprehending, and then he walked around a screen of potted fruit trees, motioning for his guest to follow him. On the other side of the foliage was a small mahogany bar, ornately carved. A cabinet full of bottles had been built into the wall, and its shelves were enclosed by glass doors with a sturdy lock. A single key lay beside a glass of melting ice cubes. The keeper of the key, a woman in a maid's uniform, was capping a whiskey bottle.

"Hello, Hilda," said the lawyer as he joined her behind the bar. He looked down at the abandoned glass. "No refills, right?"

"She's only had the one-"

"That s enough. You can go, Hilda. I'll do the honors. Young man, pull up a barstool."

Oren was distracted by his view of a small private terrace beyond a pair of French doors. Outside in the sunlight, Isabelle Winston's red hair was fire bright. A taller woman with long pale hair stood beside her. This champagne blonde could only be Sarah Winston, and she was slowly turning toward him, but he never saw her face. The lady was led away like a passive invalid.

Ad Winston set out two glasses. "What'll you have?"

"Jack Daniel's straight up if you've got it."

"I have everything, my boy." The lawyer uncapped a whiskey bottle and poured him two generous shots. "We should talk strategy."

Oren looked down at his glass and idly ran one finger around the rim. "You're fired."

The older man leaned across the bar, for surely he could not have heard this right. "You're firing me?" He laughed at this great joke.

"I know you're the best," said Oren. "But I know how you work… I know what you did to William Swahn."

Perhaps for the first time ever, the lawyer had lost his sense of humor, and he was slow to pour his own drink. "I never discuss my clients with anyone. So any aspect of Swahn's old case is-"

"Nondisclosure agreements. You talk-your client loses money. I got that." Oren drained his glass and slammed it down on the bar-but not in anger. He simply wanted to make Ad Winston jump-and he did. "It only took me six minutes to figure out the scam. Swahn was just a rookie cop in those days… I'm the real deal."

Oren poured himself another shot from the bottle and sipped his glass slowly, enjoying the wary look in the lawyer's eyes. "You were at the hospital the night Swahn was ambushed. You were waiting in his room when he got out of surgery."

There was an unspoken-unspeakable-question in Ad Winston's eyes.

It was Oren's turn to smile. "No, your client didn't tell me. He never said a word. But I knew his partner took a bribe to call in sick the night of the ambush. I'm sure the civilian dispatcher got paid off, too. But that woman was smart enough to disappear before detectives came knocking on her door. Jay Murray stayed. That proves he had no idea why he'd been bribed. And that should've led the investigation away from a cop conspiracy. They would've been looking at civilians."

"The LAPD was liable. There's no disputing that. The dispatcher was employed by-"

"But the lawsuit would've dragged on for years." Oren picked up the bottle and poured himself another shot. "So you blackmailed the LAPD into a fast settlement, a big one. You fabricated evidence of a police conspiracy against a gay man with AIDS. And you had to work fast. When a cop goes down on duty, nobody goes home. Detectives work around the clock. It was probably still dark when you accused Swahn's precinct of ambushing your poor diseased client. The next morning, during an interrogation-that was the first time Swahn's partner heard the rumor. Now that's only odd if you know that cops gossip like little old ladies with guns. So that rumor-your rumor-was started after the ambush and before the sun came up on Jay Murray. And that's how I know you were in Swahn's hospital room when he got out of surgery."

"Interesting theory, Oren. Pure conjecture of course, but-"

"It's a fact. The only thing I don't know is whether or not Swahn was lucid when you signed him up as a client. I used to think he was in on this con game. Now I'm not so sure."

"None of this would hold up in court."

"That doesn't matter," said Oren. "I can still do a world of damage. Every reporter in the state wants to talk to me-thanks to your little performance today."

"You've got no proof."

Don't need it. Rumors make the best headlines."

Winston's smile was back. "You can't revive any interest in Swahn's case. It's ancient history."

The reporters will want to know why I fired you, the great Addison Winston. Now that's news. I can tell them it's because you smeared a precinct of innocent cops-and scammed them for money."

"Oh, I've always had lots of money, Oren, more than I can spend. What I do, I do for fun." The lawyer reached for the bottle and poured himself a triple shot of whiskey, the only sign of defeat. "What do you want?"

"Information."

"Millard Straub. Now there's another man with a motive to kill a woman." Addison Winston volunteered this tidbit, this breach of client-attorney confidence, as he parked his Porsche in front of the judge's house.

The bulb over the front door must have burned out. Hannah usually turned it on in the twilight hour.

The lawyer was still talking nonstop and very fast. A sign of frayed nerves?

"Old Millard was fixated on the idea that Evelyn was cheating on him. But he never asked me to cut her out of his will. Maybe he didn't want the paper trail of a poisoned relationship-a motive to kill his wife. He makes a fine suspect, but you seem skeptical, Oren. Quite understandable. It's hard to picture that old codger dragging his oxygen tank into the woods. However, this theory works rather well with the latest gossip about Evelyn. It seems she was a bit indiscreet yesterday when you came calling. It's all around town-the rumor of your old affair. What if the woman who died with Josh was the target of a hired assassin? Could be a case of mistaken identity. Suppose Millard Straub hired someone to kill his wife-because she was sleeping with you? Assuming Josh was an innocent witness-then you'd be responsible for your brother's death."

Oren stepped out of the car, and the lawyer was laughing as he drove away.

Behind him, he heard the squeaking hinges of the screen door.

"Don't let him poison you." Hannah stepped out on the porch. "It's real convenient, blaming murder on a dead man. I could make the same case for Addison. His wife drinks a lot. I think she cries a lot." The housekeeper- eavesdropper-stood at the railing and raised her eyes to the Winston lodge. "Makes you wonder what goes on up there."

Oren climbed the porch steps and reached up to twist the dark bulb in its socket-and there was light. He sat down in the wooden armchair next to Hannah's old rocker. "Tell me about Evelyn Straub's husband. I don't remember him very well."

"Millard? I'm not surprised." The housekeeper leaned back against the porch railing. "He hardly ever traveled farther than the verandah of his hotel. He was mean, but too old and too sick to lift a hand against Evelyn. He found other ways to be cruel."

"Why did she stay with him? Did he have something on her?"

"You mean something besides an affair with an underage boy? If he'd known about that-never mind what Addison thinks-Millard would've divorced Evelyn and kicked her to the curb without a penny. He'd sooner do that than part with money to hire a killer. Cheap old bastard."

"You knew about the prenuptial agreement?"

"Evelyn and me, we talk from time to time. In any case, you're not to blame for your brother's death, and you know that, Oren." The housekeeper sat down in her rocking chair. Josh had always called it Hannah's lowrider because of the seat built close to the ground. It was the only piece of furniture that allowed both her feet to sit flat on the floorboards instead of dangling in the air.

"Well, here comes my burglar alarm." She pointed toward a yellow dog of dubious pedigree, floppy ears and the big round eyes of a spaniel with a collie's long coat. The animal approached the porch, and then hesitated, one paw resting on the bottom step. He had a sad, wounded look about him as he stared at the housekeeper.

Oren noticed an empty bowl on the floorboards near the door. The dog was no longer eating his dinner of scraps down by the garden shed. "I guess you forgot to feed him."

I fed him hours ago." She nodded to the dog, as if in answer to a question, and the yellow stray bounded up the stairs. With better manners than Horatio ever had, the animal politely sat down in front of her rocking chair and cocked his head to one side-waiting. "This time he came for love." She gently stroked the dog's fur.

"Does the judge like that mutt as much as you do?"

"This afternoon, he was out here tossing sticks for the dog to fetch. It won't be long now."

Oren smiled. He approved of her plan to end old Horatio's days as a stuffed decoration of the parlor. He reached out to cover her hand with his. "You were going to tell me about the séances in the woods."

"Was I?"

"You and the judge go out to Evelyn's old cabin and-"

"No," said Hannah. "We used to go to the séances, but not anymore, not for years and years. But sometimes we watch the videotapes." Rising from the rocker, she kept hold of his hand and pulled him toward the porch steps. "We should go now while there's still some light."

The tiny woman peered over the steering wheel, sometimes rising off the seat to get a better view of the hairpin turns on this mountain road. It was scary and dangerous and great fun. Oren sensed that a legal driver's license might take some of the joy out of Hannah's rides.

They were the first to arrive at the old cabin. Though parking spaces out front were plentiful, she drove down and around to the back and stopped by the door to the crawl space. Hannah cut the ignition and searched the ring of keys until she found the one she wanted. "Let's go."

"How do you happen to have a key?"

"This one belongs to the judge." She fitted it into the lock and opened the door to the sound of an exhaust fan.

"Do people know they're being videotaped?"

"Of course. Evelyn sells copies to hotel guests, the ones who come for the séances."

"And what about the local people?"

Hannah hesitated too long. "Oh, I'm sure they know." She reached into the darkness and flipped a wall switch to flood the small room with light. From a nest of cables, lines trailed upward and disappeared into the low ceiling. He recognized the wicker armchairs as worn castoffs from the verandah of the Straub Hotel. Outdated recording equipment sat on a table alongside a pair of old television sets that would only accept video-cassettes.

"It's a little old-fashioned. Evelyn wants to change over to DVDs and computer monitors, but you know your father. He doesn't take well to change." Hannah slipped a cassette into a slot at the base of one of the TV sets.

"Never mind the tourists," said Oren. "Are you sure the locals know they're being filmed?"

"Once a cop, always a cop." She plucked a sheet of paper from a stack on the table. "This is the consent form. Everybody signs one. You can't say they don't get a sporting chance. It starts out by holding Evelyn harmless for heart attacks and hauntings, strokes and madness, hair turning white from fright. Lots of nonsense like that. And then, toward the bottom of the page, the consent for the taping is buried somewhere in all that legalese. But that comes long after people get tired of reading the damn thing. Usually, they just sign it." She fed another cassette into the second television. "There's two cameras. One shows the whole room, but this one's my favorite view."

Oren stared at the screen with the overhead camera angle. It looked down at the card table and the tops of the players' heads all leaning toward the Ouija board.

"That's a homemade witchboard," said Hannah. "Nothing like the one you and Josh used to play with. As I recall, that one glowed in the dark."

"And you burned it."

On the videotape, the players' fingers were touching the small wooden heart as it moved in wide circles around the board, faster and faster. Then it stopped. Alice Friday led the chant as they all looked through the hole in the heart and called out the letter S. The planchette moved again to settle over another letter.

"They're always talking to your brother-the spirit guide, always asking him how he died. It was like that from the beginning. No one ever asked if he ran away." Hannah pointed to shelves of cassettes lining the back wall of the crawl space. "There's lots of tapes with nothing but gibberish. Some nights the board spells out real words and whole sentences. Depends on who's playing."

Oren focused on one of the players. All he could see from this camera angle was the pale crown of blond hair. He turned to the second screen and identified her in this ground-level shot of the table. "Is Mrs. Winston a regular?"

Hannah nodded. "She's on quite a few tapes."

The wall of shelves held a daunting array of cassettes. How long would it take to view all of them? "Just tell me the highlights. Give me the-"

"Maybe this was a mistake," she said. "My interference always comes to a bad end, and I should know that by now."

He could hear the muffled sound of engines and car doors closing outside. And now, overhead, feet were walking on the cabin floor. "We stayed too long."

"The hell you say. We're going to the séance tonight."

"I don't think Mrs. Straub would like that."

"No one's ever turned away-except Cable Babitt. Evelyn never minded when he'd send a deputy out here now and then-so long as it wasn't somebody in uniform. But then, Cable started driving his jeep up the fire road every damn night. Well, that road only leads to this cabin."

And, farther on, a hole full of bones.

"So Evelyn figured he was spying on her full-time. These days he can't legally come within two hundred yards of this place." Hannah rose from her chair. "Stay here if you like. I'm going to the séance."

He followed her outside and up the back stairs to the kitchen door. "I'll just watch."

"You should play," said Hannah. "It's only scary for true believers." She looked up at him and smiled-a clear invitation to a dare.

They passed through the kitchen and walked into the small front room. The chairs around the card table were filled, and other people waited their turn in the dark. Hannah spoke in whispers. "You remember why I took that old witchboard away from you and Josh? I bet you still remember your nightmares."

He did. And he also remembered Josh's bad dreams, the screaming in the night that had always followed visits from their good-deed lady, the old woman who once lived on Paulson Lane. The dead Mrs. Underwood had spelled out vile curses on a witchboard that two small boys had purchased at the dry-goods store.

"Will Mrs. Winston be here tonight?"

"Maybe," said Hannah. "It's catch as catch can with her. Addison likes to think that he knows where his wife is every minute of the day and night. He also thinks Sarah stopped driving when she lost her license. But, I'll tell you, the lady gets around."

"You think Josh could've photographed a secret of hers?"

"I don't see her killing the boy, if that's what you're asking." She lightly poked him in the ribs with her elbow. "Watch the game. Listen."

The small piece of wood moved around the board, making a slow circle over the characters of the alphabet, and then it picked up speed. Each time it stopped, the players called out the letter framed in the planchette's circle.

Hannah whispered, "I tried to explain this when you were a boy, but I don't think you were listening-not then. The players don't decide to make the planchette stop and start. There's no decisions being made. The hands have brains of their own. And the mind of a true believer calls it magic."

"Or somebody's cheating."

"No one cheats," she said. "And it's not magical."

Ferris Monty, who believed in nothing, sat with his back to the shadow side of the room. Oh, the things he did for his art.

He drank in the details of candlelight and a magic act, making mental notes about the abundance of spiderwebs and a tree limb growing through a broken window. This was his first séance, and he had been unprepared for the movement of the planchette. Though it was in contact with so many hands, he would swear the small wooden heart moved around the board of its own volition. This was no manipulation by the psychic. Her hands never touched it. According to his research among the citizens of Coventry, Alice Friday was the only constant presence; the others were replaced with new players for every session. And so he could also rule out a confederate in this mix of townspeople and tourists.

The planchette circled the Ouija board, moving faster and faster, and he felt inexplicable exhilaration. He looked up at the psychic. Her eyes were closed, and she trembled-and so did the heart-shaped piece of wood beneath the tips of his fingers.

A player asked, "Does it ever go in a straight line?"

And then it did-back and forth across the board.

A voice to his right complained, "When will it ever stop?"

It stopped over the letter Y that stood for yes. Yes, the dead boy was among them tonight. A man on the other side of the table asked the next question. "Do bears shit in the woods?"

Alice Friday's eyes snapped open. "Goddamn tourists!" With a dramatic wave of her hand in the direction of the door, the offended psychic dismissed the man from the table.

She was backed up by another woman, probably the wife, who yelled, "Harry, you idiot! Go wait outside in the hotel van!" And he did.

And now they were five.

Ferris leaned toward Alice Friday. "Could you ask if the boy has a message for one of us?"

She nodded and closed her eyes once more as she posed this question for her spirit guide, Joshua Hobbs.

Ferris was grinning, hoping that this would be a good quote for his book a dead child speaking from beyond the grave. The wooden planchette shot across the board to stop over the first letter, and then the second, shooting, stopping, and all around him players chanted the letters in unison.

"D-O-Y-"

He sensed that the wooden heart had come alive to emanate its own energy, a palpable beat.

o, that's insane.

"O-U-S-T-I-"

The planchette jumped like a spider from letter to letter.

"L-L-L-O-"

Logic and sanity flew out the window. Ferris was a passenger on a runaway train, helpless, waiting for the rest, hanging on each letter, and only hanging by fingertips to the speeding piece of wood.

"V-E-M-E-"

He drew back his hands, as if the planchette had wounded him. He sat very still-still as death, no blinking. He held his breath-digesting the message from a murdered boy.

Alice Friday opened her eyes and looked beyond him to the people gathered at the back of the room. "Won't you join us? There's an empty chair." Heads were turning all around the table in the manner of a celebrity sighting.

Ferris looked back to see Oren Hobbs walk out of the shadows and into the circle of candlelight. An adrenaline chill filled his veins as he imagined that the older brother was accusing him with Joshua's eyes-the same blue eyes.

But no, Hobbs only showed interest in the retired pharmacist, who sat in the next chair. He and the elderly Mr. McCaully exchanged "Sir, you're looking well" for "About time you came home, young man." After a few more pleasantries, the old man invited the younger one to his house for a nightcap after the séance.

Hobbs sat down and joined the others in placing his fingertips on the planchette.

Alice Friday closed her eyes, and her head rolled back. "Does anyone have a question for Joshua?"

A voice from the back of the room called out, "Why did Oren leave you all alone in the woods to die?"

The planchette flew off the table and shot across the room, lost in the shadows. The cabin door had closed on Oren Hobbs before one of the players found the small wooden heart in the darkest corner of the room. And the question was never answered, though other people posed it again and again.