Bone by Bone

21

Twenty years ago, Ferris Monty had begun his book on a typewriter, and now he was nearly done copying the old manuscript onto a computer. The screen glowed, and so did he.

Fat fingers typed out Joshua's dark brown hair and high cheekbones. Line by line, he animated the dead boy and made him walk the streets of Coventry with a camera strap slung around his long white neck. And sometimes, on one page or another, the boy was followed by a loopy Irish setter that seemed vaguely retarded. What was the stupid beast's name?

He paused to page through an old notebook. Ah, right. The boy had called his dog Horatio, as in, "Get off me, Horatio!"

Ferris was revisiting a long-ago day when he had blended in with the tourists at a street fair. For an hour or more, he had kept watch on the boy and the dog, and then he had lost sight of them in the crowd, but found them again when a woman yelled, "Josh, you get this mutt off me! Now!" Once more, in keeping with the theme of ducks in a row, Ferris had followed behind the dog that followed the boy.

A woman had appeared to be the unwitting leader of this parade for a time-or perhaps not. According to his notes for that day, he had never been entirely certain, for the dog had suddenly jumped another victim in the street and slathered her with kisses until she also screamed. An old line in Ferris's notebook lamented: How could the boy hope to shadow anyone with a dog like that in tow?

On other pages, other days when the dog was not around, the objects of Joshua's curiosity had been clear. The boy had a gift for capturing the telling moments, snapping rants or confusion, a binge eater at the point of throwing up in a local diner, and-

And now Ferris recalled his own portraits-hung on public display for decades.

He had ordered prints from Josh after the originals had appeared in the lobby of the local bank. Ferris's private collection hung on the wall above the computer monitor, placed there so that he could daily see himself in a kinder light than his mirror could afford. He had so loved these portraits of younger days when he had black eyebrows to match his toupee. And Joshua's work was superior to every other artist's previous attempt at capturing Ferris's true essence.

Understatement.

Today these three photographs stunned him anew.

He saw his younger self standing in line at the bank all those years ago. In the first frame, he had noticed the boy taking his picture. Ferris's face was turned to the camera's lens with a look of happy surprise-and more. As the line moved forward in the second shot, he looked back over his shoulder in sweet flirtation. But his expression was most vivid in the final shot. He had been caught in the act of falling in love with the young photographer.

However, the boy had been repulsed by him. Ferris had discovered this on the day when Joshua had come by the house to drop off these prints and collect his money. Why, then, had the boy not turned away after snapping the first shot? Why stay to take two more? And why hang this trio of pictures out in public?

Slowly Ferris came to an understanding that increased his respect for the young artist.

It was all about the telling moments. Joshua had captured a rare thing.

the instant of love at first sight. The boy may have been repelled by his subject, but he had surely taken great pride in this amazing thing he had done.

Over the years, thousands of customers had passed through the bank lobby and stared at these pictures while standing in line. Had any of them truly understood what they were seeing? His smile of superiority faded off.

Horror set in.

And it would keep Ferris company all through the day.

The only cab company in Saulburg had no cars to spare; most had been commandeered by television networks and newspapers. Against Agent Polk's advice, William Swahn had declined to allow the state troopers to drive him home. No thank you. He had also waived the offer of uniformed escorts to guide him through the crowd of reporters in the parking lot.

The media rabble had swelled in size, more rowdies with cameras and microphones.

William waited alone behind the glass doors, and he glanced at his watch. Enough time had elapsed for his ride to show up. She had promised to come with all possible speed. To the residents of Coventry, that might mean fifteen miles per hour instead of ten.

He could see nothing of the parking lot. Reporters and photographers blocked his view. After a few more minutes, he stepped out into the light of day, the hollered questions and the press of flesh all around him. He made his way through the lot, limping ungainly past the patrol cars and passing civilian sedans he did not recognize. All the yelling blended into a single roar, and the sound surrounded him. Here and there, a phrase was clear as one reporter called out, "Wait a minute!" and another one said, Hey, man, slow down!"

A foot flashed out in front of him, and he was indeed slowing down. He was falling. Where was his cane? One of the bastards had taken his cane! He landed on his bad leg, and the pain made him scream. They stood over him, grinning, some filming the motion of his writhing and others snapping still shots of agony that was slow to subside. For one lost minute, William gave up, and one of them yelled, "Is he dead?"

He lay on his back, sliding into shock and motionless, forgetting to breathe or blink.

And now it was one of his assailants who screamed, and then another one cried out. William turned his head to see a camera fall as a photographer doubled over in pain, both hands protecting his crotch. A tiny figure was battling her way through the crowd, one pair of testicles by another, and then she snatched up his cane from the ground to do some damage to kneecaps.

Mighty Hannah Rice had come to take him home.

Oren entered the bank with the intention to empty a savings account that he had begun at the age of ten. He stopped just inside the vestibule and opened a small blue passbook to check his memory against the balance. It was the wrong one, though he had found it in his old writing desk. This was Josh's old bankbook. He read the total of three thousand dollars, a fabulous sum for his fifteen-year-old brother, and this did not include the interest earned over two decades. He had never realized that the sales of Josh's photographs had been so lucrative.

And might his own passbook be found in his brother's desk? How had they gotten switched-and when? Perhaps he put too much stock in every odd thing these days, as if he could divine signs and omens that way. His next thought was that he might not be paying close enough attention.

Without the right passbook, he had no business with the bank today. On his way out the door, he saw the yellow Rolls-Royce parked out front. The driver's bad hairpiece and pale skin completed the sheriff's description of Ferris Monty. Oren recognized this man as one of the players at the séance, but he had a less distinct memory of him from somewhere else and long ago-just a face in a photograph.

Monty was waddling up the walkway to the bank when their eyes met and the little man stumbled. Was he frightened? Affecting nonchalance in a pirouette, Monty spun around and hurried back to the Rolls-Royce.

And what was that about?

Only in Coventry was it possible to follow a car on foot. The Rolls turned a corner, and Oren strolled after it. He was only half a block behind when the yellow car parked in front of the post office. He gave Ferris Monty a minute of lead time before stepping up to the window. The little man stood in the lobby, studying Josh's three portraits of William Swahn, moving closer and squinting to see the details. Oren rapped on the windowpane and waved. Startled, Monty back-stepped onto another customer's shoes. Then he shot out the door and ran for his car.

Oren made no move to prevent this escape. He planned to allow Monty time for a little sweat, time to wait for the inevitable knock on the door. At the moment, he was more interested in his brother's old photographs of the Letter Man and why they so fascinated a gossip columnist. As Oren entered the small lobby, he remembered where he had seen Ferris Monty before. Josh's series of triptychs only pictured people waiting in lines. One such group of photographs had been sold to the town's only bank.

He stared at his brother's work on the post office wall, eyes moving from one picture to the next.

Josh, tell me a story.

He had always believed that the subject was William Swahn. He had forgotten that the insane librarian was also pictured here. She stood in line in front of the man with the cane, and there was no backward glance to show that she knew him. This picture might support Swahn's claim that they had never spoken.

No, the Letter Man had lied to him.

As this pair moved forward in the sequence of three photographs, a bulky envelope disappeared from a group of letters in Swahn's hand to reappear jutting out of Mavis Hardy's shopping bag.

The next stop on Dave Hardy's patrol route was a small roadside bar two towns over from the county seat. It was nearly time for a liquid lunch. He liked to spread out his drinking across the day. His beer was always served in a coffee cup, and he was never asked to pay a tab-a courtesy to law enforcement.

He loved his job. Even after hours and out of uniform, he could drink for free.

The deputy slid onto his favorite barstool, the one closest to the window, to keep an eye on the parking lot. He was always on the lookout for out-of-state plates, such easy targets for tickets, but all of these patrons were local people. He turned to watch the TV set behind the bar. It was early for a news show. The banner scrolling below the picture told him that this was a breaking story. On screen, only a few blocks away from the sheriff's office in Saulburg, the parking lot for the Highway Patrol was a mob scene.

He recognized the limping man as a recluse from Coventry. William Swahn was surrounded by reporters and swallowed up whole. The television camera cut to a shot of Sally Polk amid cameras and microphones. She was answering questions on the old Hobbs case-a case that was no longer hers. This woman did not know when to let go.

Dave broke with his tradition of one beer per bar and ordered another. Sally Polk reminded him of his mother, who could smile while she stabbed him with words in all the soft places.

Oren phoned home from the bank. While he listened to the rings at the other end of the line, he stared at Ferris Monty's three portraits on the wall.

His father answered the telephone, and Oren learned that Hannah had taken the car. And so, said the judge, he was out of luck if he needed a ride. However, the old man knew the address he wanted, adding, "It's not much of a hike, maybe a mile or so from town."

Walking along the narrow back roads, Oren called up a memory of Josh returning from Ferris Monty's house after dropping off an order of prints. Though this had been a big commission, the boy had not wanted to talk about it.

After studying the original photographs in the bank, Oren understood his brother's uneasiness, and now he considered the worst scenario for Josh's death. As a CID agent, he had dealt with predator soldiers, arresting more than a few in his career. He was so well versed in this crime that he could even name the freaks who specialized in the capture and rape of adolescents.

Something about a fifteen-year-old boy had called out to the strange little man with the black toupee. That much would have registered with Josh, and it would have placed the whole subject beyond the confidence of his older brother. In those days, Oren had an ugly word for Josh's stalking activities. Consequently, his little brother would never have mentioned any incident that involved Ferris Monty, the personification of creepy.

Oren wished that he had been more understanding then. Understanding now broke his heart.

Sarah Winston mimicked bright birdcalls as she filled the feeders all along the rail of the outside deck. A few steps away, her daughter adjusted a pair of binoculars to focus on the judge's old Mercedes as it turned into William Swahn's driveway and disappeared behind thick trees.

Isabelle circled around the deck for a better view, and the car was recaptured in her lenses when it reappeared in the small clearing in front of the house down on Paulson Lane. She anticipated Oren Hobbs, but it was Hannah who emerged from the driver's side to help William up the steps to the front door. His limp was worse today.

She wondered if he knew what they were saying about him on the news.

Sarah Winston was ignorant of the latest rumors. Isabelle had not wanted to spoil a day of rare good spirits. Her mother seemed so happy in her whistled conversations with the birds flocking to the feeders.

Leaning back against the rail, Isabelle watched wild things grow tame in the older woman's presence. After passing a few minutes this way, she noticed that one of the stationary telescopes was aimed downward. She looked through the eyepiece. It was already focused to give the clear view of a window framing a desk and chair. This was no accident. Every tension screw had been tightened to fix the position and keep the lens from straying off target. She was startled when William appeared in the window.

Which one of her parents was spying on him?