Bone by Bone

26

The judge sat in a wooden armchair beside Hannah's empty porch rocker, and the yellow stray stretched out at his feet. The man and the dog had been napping in the sun. But now the animal raised his floppy ears, and his eyes opened. Henry Hobbs also heard the sound of a car's engine.

The CBI agent parked her black Taurus in front of the house. She stepped out of the car with a wave of hello. The dog pronounced her harmless when he laid his head down on his front paws and closed his eyes. The judge was not so charitable in his view of this woman.

Harmless indeed.

Sally Polk approached the porch, and the judge stood up, as he would for any woman, lady or sociopath. And his tone was civil when he addressed her. "So you've come to vandalize the rest of my house."

"Oh, no. Today I'm on best behavior." Slinging her purse strap over one shoulder, she climbed the steps and paused to glance at Hannah's rocking chair. She waited for a nod from her host, and then she sat down. "Judge, I know you pulled the strings to take those homicides away from me."

"You don't know anything of the kind." And now that he had called her bluff, he matched her smile and made his wider. He remained standing, a pointed suggestion for a short visit.

She settled her handbag on her lap, a sign that she was not leaving anytime soon. "I know you've got a vested interest in a backwoods investigation."

"You mean Cable? He's the one with jurisdiction. The state of California has no interest here. My son's grave is on private land-a county matter."

"Only because Mrs. Straub's government lease was rescinded. I hear the paperwork to kill those old mineral rights went through in one day. Well, let me tell you-that gave heart attacks to a pack of bureaucrats down in Sacramento. They've never seen paper fly so fast. I'm guessing that's thanks to you. Oh, and Addison, too. He seems to be everybody's lawyer this week."

"I'm sure the sheriff will make a competent investigation."

"We both know that's a lie." She opened her purse and pulled out a photograph. "Maybe you forgot. Your son shared that grave with someone else." She held out the picture, leaving him no choice but to take it. "That's Mary Kent. A common name-easy to forget."

He looked down at the face of a girl-so young-with long blond hair, immortal when she smiled for the camera, smiling down a long hallway of doors opening, life unfolding. At this frozen moment, she could never have imagined her death.

"That's an old passport photo," said Sally Polk. "She was in her mid-thirties when she died."

"But you thought this photo of a youngster would make a much better inducement for cooperation."

"No, that's not it. I couldn't find any family albums with a more recent picture. There's no family. No close friends, either. So you got lucky, Judge. No one's gonna care if Cable Babitt screws up this case. Mary Kent's got nobody to fight for her."

He handed the picture back to Sally Polk, but the CBI agent waved it away.

"No, sir. You keep that." She settled back in Hannah's chair, rocking slowly, and the floorboards creaked. "The County Sheriff 's Office has a team of investigators, but Cable's working this case on his own. That's the way you wanted it, right? A bumbling idiot in charge? That smells of collusion. It reeks." She looked out over the meadow, rocking, rocking. "What pretty wildflowers." In the same harmless tone, she said, "I think you're protecting Oren. I've seen his Army record. He's more than just a world-class cop. That boy knows how to kill."

The judge lowered his eyes. "Oren loved Josh more than his own life."

"I believe that. Oh, did you think I was accusing him of murder?" The rocking stopped, and she leaned toward him. "While you've still got one son left, you better hope I solve this case before Oren does."

The judge shook his head. Despite the military record, he could not see his son taking human life by choice-not on Josh's account. Twenty years of sorrow had a tempering effect. With great care, he had watched the returning soldier for signs of unraveling, and he had waited with his safety net to catch the boy when he fell. But Oren had come shining through, his character intact-if not his heart. And the pride of Henry Hobbs was enormous. "You can depend on my son to do the right thing."

"You mean act like a cop?" Once more the floorboards creaked beneath the chair's rockers. "When a child is murdered, cops always look at the parents first. I wonder if Oren took a hard look at you. Does he know what you did in the Korean War? So many medals. You were a damned death machine. As a soldier, you killed more people than I've arrested."

"I'm a pacifist. I sickened of killing as a very young man." And now the judge felt the need to sit down. He settled into the chair beside hers. "I did not murder my son."

The dog lifted his head, awakened by the inflection of pain in an old man's voice.

"I'd like to believe you," said Sally Polk. "But you can see my problem, can't you? Most parents-the innocent ones-they want a case solved. They want justice for the dead child. But you don't." The rhythm of the creaking floorboards was faster now, as if a rocking chair could take her somewhere. "That only makes sense if you already know who killed your son. Rumor has it you're an atheist. So I know God's not telling you to leave the vengeance to Him." The rocking stopped. "If you know who did this, tell me."

"Vengeance is thine, Sally Polk?"

"You bet your sweet ass, old man." She reached out to tap the photograph in his hand. "Mary Kent's skull was caved in with a rock. She died quick. The killer spent more time with Josh. It was hands-on torture. No other way to say it. Broken ribs, a fractured jaw, cracks in his leg bones, breaks in the arms. And then there's the damage to Josh's hands. My expert says one trauma can't account for all the broken fingers. They were snapped like twigs-one by one. The boy's pain just went on and on."

The judge looked down at the dog's brown eyes, wells of solace. "I don't know who murdered my son. If you find out, don't come back here expecting thanks. And I won't thank you for that litany of Josh's suffering-those terrible pictures you put in my head. Now I can see his fear-I can feel it. I can even hear the bones breaking… my child crying. Is this what you wanted?"

He turned to her with all his pain, all his sadness, and it drove her away.

"I'm not an invalid." Swahn waved off assistance as he settled down on the couch in his library. He reached out to an end table and picked up a stapled sheaf of papers. "This is the final report on the bones."

"You didn't get that from the sheriff." Oren sat on the floor and prowled through a box of food delivered by the cleaning woman. He pulled out two roast beef sandwiches and handed one to Swahn. "Who sold you the coroner's report? Dave Hardy?"

"No, I never paid a dime." Swahn bit into his sandwich and nodded toward the box. "There should be a carton of beer in there. And I've got better sources than the deputy. I know Dr. Brasco. He's the anthropologist they called in to examine the bones. I may have misled him. He thought I was consulting on the case. So he faxed me his own results. He also passed along his condolences and regards. Dr. Brasco tells me the two of you go way back to the mass graves of Bosnia. He said you were an uncommon man-his highest praise. He couldn't understand why you left the military. Especially now when-"

"Good job. I found it." Oren pulled out the six-pack of beer cans. "What was Brasco's finding?"

"The female victim died quickly. Josh's death was more drawn out." Swahn reached down to accept a warm beer and popped the tab. "That makes your brother the most likely target. The woman was probably a witness."

Oren could think of other scenarios, but he said nothing.

"That kills the theory of a murder for hire," said Swahn. "A professional would've been more… efficient. The killer's violence toward Josh suggests immaturity, control issues."

"Like somebody who knocks his wife around?"

"I wouldn't rule out spousal abuse. Your brother's killer might have a history of violence, but he certainly had something to hide. Find the secret, something photographable-that's the motive. It's most likely a shameful thing, and that's where the rage comes in."

Oren set down his beer can. "I don't care about a perp's motivation or how he was affected by early potty training. I just collect the evidence, and then I catch him. So simple."

"But you seem to favor abusive husbands. Maybe a jealous husband? You think our killer might've mistaken Josh for you? We could narrow down the suspects if you gave me a list of all the married women you slept with-just the bleach blondes. According to my sources, the female victim was identified as a-"

"We're not partners," said Oren. "You give. I take. It's like that." And now he could rule out any tie to Evelyn, whose hair had been tawny brown, the color of a lion's mane.

"Dr. Brasco said you loved your work. Hard for him to believe you'd ever leave it. He also said you were a moral man. What happened? Were you asked to do immoral things? Is that why you left? Did your shining military code fall apart on you?"

Oren wiped his hands of bread crumbs. "I'm still looking for those missing prints from Josh's last roll. Hannah says she doesn't have them, and I know they weren't left at the drugstore. So that leaves you."

"Unless she lied… But I would never believe any bad thing of Miss Rice, even if I knew it to be true." He looked down at the cartons, the papers and pictures that covered the rug. "You've seen everything I have. If those photographs aren't here-"

"Maybe you missed something. I'll just take a look around upstairs." Oren moved toward the open doors that led to the foyer and the staircase. He glanced back to see Swahn reach for his cane and rise to a listing stand.

Oren slowed his steps near the foot of the staircase, where he listened to the closing of the elevator door in the room behind him-and now the whirr of the slow-rising cage. This was an odd race of dragging feet. He heard the cage door open on the floor above. He climbed upward and paused near the landing to watch William Swahn hobble into a room at the top of the stairs.

Oren gave the man enough time to find the thing he most wanted to hide. Then he opened the door to a room of filing cabinets and other furnishings of a private office. Swahn was not holding papers or pictures. He was secreting a pair of binoculars in the top drawer of a desk.

Interesting choice.

Obviously, the cleaning woman had never ventured into this room. Only one windowpane had been washed, and there were repeated patterns of twin circles in the dust on the sill. Oren took the binoculars from the open drawer and turned to the one clean window, training the lenses on the only thing in sight that was not a cloud or a tree. The binoculars were already focused for the tower of the Winston lodge. Below the roof of bright copper shingles, half the wall was made of glass-a voyeur's dream. He watched Mrs. Winston pacing back and forth like a captive in a giant's jewel box.

"You were right about one thing," said Oren. "I never wanted to work on my brother's murder. Personal involvement screws with judgment." He returned the binoculars to the desk drawer-and slammed it. "That's what blindsided you." He stared at the ruined side of Swahn's face. "You still think you got that scar because the other cops in your precinct thought you were queer?"

Swahn looked wary, but curious, too.

Oren walked toward him. "That A carved into your skin doesn't stand for AIDS. Nobody heard that rumor until after you were attacked." He stood toe-to-toe with Swahn. "I think you believe that now. You're not even gay, are you? Even that was a scam. Back in LA when you were a cop, how many married women were you screwing? Was Mrs. Winston one of them?"

Swahn's gaze was fixed upon the window, the view of Sarah Winston in her tower. He closed his eyes.

Isabelle Winston reached over the paddock fence to feed a slice of apple to the horse, Nickel Number Two.

In her early childhood, Number Two had been her name for Addison. Legally, he was her father, the only one she had ever known. But once there had been another father, a natural one. What was his name? She had carelessly forgotten. Beyond a tie of blood, her sole connection to that other man had been an old photograph in her mother's wallet. After a time, the wallet had been lost, and the photograph had not been missed.

If only Daddy Number Two could fade away so easily

Addison stood beside her, making a great show of looking around in all directions to be certain that they were not overheard. His lips close to her ear, he spoke in a stagy whisper. "Don't you have any curiosity? You never asked me about the day your mother buried Josh in the woods."

"I don't believe you."

"Sarah buried something else. Evidence of murder. I could show you where to dig."