Inherit the Bones

Chapter Eight

I hated leaving Chavez alone in his office, in a space that seemed too small to contain such fresh grief, but I respected his wish to call the Bellingtons in private. Exhaustion waited patiently behind adrenaline, kindly allowing me to make the winding drive up the canyon safely, only to smack me upside the head as I pulled into our drive. I sat there, in silence, staring at the front of our dark house in a near stupor, until finally Seamus’s barks reached me and propelled me up and out of the car.

I went in through the front, turning on a single light in the foyer as I closed and locked the door behind me. Seamus met me and after a final bark, fell silent and took his place at my heel. I kicked off my shoes and socks and walked by the living room, with its hulking leather furniture and upright piano and fireplace partially obscured by plants and a painting that had yet to be hung. Down the dark hall, not bothering with the lights, letting the quiet wash over me.

Coming home has always been a salve to me, a warm bath after a good chill.

Sanctuary.

In the kitchen, I flicked on the big ceiling light and fan and cracked open a window. The house is shaded and high enough up the mountain that it stays cool most of the day, but by evening the air is warm and stuffy. Our nearest neighbors are a quarter mile away and tonight, for the first time in a long while, I wondered what I would do, if I actually needed quick help.

I was confident in my ability to take care of myself. But a baby… a mother tethered to her child is both the fiercest fighter and the most vulnerable. Beside the morning sickness, this had been the hardest part of my pregnancy thus far; this feeling of weakness, knowing that very soon, my entire being would revolve around this little stranger. No longer would I answer only for myself. A life would depend on me, and my life would depend on her: her happiness, her joy, her every breath.

Seamus scratched at the pantry, interrupting my thoughts and bringing me back to reality.

“Okay, little one, I’m getting your food,” I said. He scarfed down the kibble in three quick bites and then looked surprised when he didn’t get seconds. He never gets seconds, yet he remains the epitome of hope. It’s quite sad, really.

I poured a glass of skim milk and heated up a late supper of frozen enchiladas and beans. The small cardboard box with its filmy wrapper rotated slowly in the microwave, warming until steam seeped through the tiny holes I’d poked in the plastic. I watched it, one minute, two minutes, three minutes, then took it out at the beep and swore when the boiling cheese dripped onto my thumb. Sweat beaded at my temple and I stripped down to my undershirt, a thin cotton tank top that didn’t quite cover my belly.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Nicky.

Nicky died three years ago.

Nicky died today.

Nicky was the good-looking teenager I used to see around town every now and then.

Nicky was the pierced and tattooed circus clown.

I ate my microwave dinner slowly. The house grew too still, too dark. Brody wasn’t due home from Anchorage until the end of the week and all of a sudden, I missed him like crazy. This was how most of Brody’s trips went, at least for me; initial excitement at the chance to have the space to myself for a while slowly faded into a kind of boredom that eventually bloomed into feelings of actually missing him. Even Seamus seemed more mopey than usual. Trust me, you haven’t experienced depression until you’ve lived with a sad basset hound.

After dinner, I stood and stretched and wiped down the counters and put away the milk. I picked up my cell phone and hit the second button on the speed dial. The line rang three times and then a sweet old lady’s voice said, “Hello?”

“Hi, Julia, it’s Gemma.” I leaned back against the counter and looked at the nails on my right hand. They were unpolished and needed a good filing.

“Who is this, please?”

“Julia, it’s Gemma. Gemma. Your granddaughter…” I said. I held my breath and waited. Maybe she was having a good day.

The good days were happening less and less as summer wore on.

“No, I don’t need any damn newspapers. Thank you very much for calling,” Julia said, and hung up with a resounding whack.

“No, thank you very much,” I said into the phone and hung up. It was late; I shouldn’t have called, I knew better. I set the phone down then picked it back up and sent a text message to her husband, Bull: “I’ll call tomorrow. Sorry, bad day for us both I guess.”

I wondered when the bad days would be the new normal, and the good days the exceptions. I wondered if we had until Halloween… or Christmas. Maybe pessimism was getting the best of me and we had until next summer. Damn it all. A car accident took my parents in a minute; dementia was taking my grandmother day by day. I still couldn’t decide which was worse.

It was the little things at first, lost keys and misplaced utensils. Then it was friends’ names, lost, and emotions, misplaced. I was lucky; Bull got her to a doctor who was patient and kind and exhaustive in explaining the horror that is dementia. It might be Alzheimer’s, or it might be some other disease. What was known was it would get worse and worse until she died. She would never get better. There was no cure for what ailed her, no magic pill, no miracle exercise.

Poor Bull was bearing the brunt of it. After forty years as a district attorney, the last ten of which he’d spent as a judge, he had looked forward to retirement; long days on the golf course and low-stakes poker games in town. He barely got a taste of that before Julia’s symptoms appeared. Now he was nurse, babysitter, and watcher. Bull made sure Julia didn’t burn the house down or walk into a street full of traffic. He kept her stylish and attractive, lipstick and pants on before she left the house.

For the time being, Bull managed. But it could be years of this, and I knew Bull’s sheer determination and physical strength wouldn’t last forever. At some point, we’d need to move Julia into a home, or hire help.

On the counter, my phone buzzed. A reply from Bull: “Need to talk? Julia reading now.”

I turned off the kitchen lights and dialed Bull’s cell. He answered on the first ring.

“Hi, sweetheart. Julia’s been off for most of the day. She’s got a Reader’s Digest now. We just had steaks and potatoes. Do you think I need to watch her cholesterol? I read an article that said too much fat can affect this.”

“Jesus, I don’t know. I’m sure you could find an article espousing the benefits of fat for dementia. Don’t read too much into one recommendation or another. Everything in moderation, right?”

I walked up the stairs as I spoke, moving into the bedroom, crossing the room in the dark. Cool mountain air blew through the windows I’d left open the previous night, bringing with it the smell of pine and night. I turned on a small bedside lamp then crawled onto the top of the bed, got situated, and then leaned back, adjusting a pillow under my ankles to elevate my legs.

Bull sighed into the phone. “Don’t take our Lord’s name in vain, honey. So what’s the story on this homicide up at the fairgrounds? It’s some kid?”

I closed my eyes. I was so tired…

“Gemma? Gemma? Are you there?”

Eyes open. Jesus.

“Yes, I’m here. Stop listening to the scanners,” I said. “I shouldn’t be talking to you about this, but I know you’re not going to let it go. It was a nineteen-year-old male, a circus employee. The killing was brutal.”

“Any leads?”

“Sort of, but I can’t speak to them yet. I’ll swing by tomorrow; do you need anything?”

“Your grandmother could use a new jar of her face cream, that stuff she gets at the department store, in the yellow jar.”

“Clinique?”

“Yes, that’s it. But I can order that online, too…” Bull trailed off.

I closed my eyes again. “No, it’ll be good to take her out, she loves the mall. We’ll have fun, a ladies’ day out. I can’t do it this week, but maybe over the weekend.”

“Okay. Gemma, we haven’t seen that pretty face in a while. Your grandmother loves to see you, why don’t you swing by tomorrow, just for a few minutes? Remind her she’s got a great-granddaughter on the way.”

“I’ll do that. Good night, Bull. Love you.”

“Love you, too, honey. God Bless.”

Sleep came quickly. When I woke in the middle of the night, the phone was still in my hand, the bedside lamp still burning. The room was cold. I went to the window and shut it, pausing to stare out at the dark night. Somewhere out there was a killer. Did he sleep, satiated from his kill? Or was he a creature of the night, restless and awake and hunting again?