Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

Perhaps roused by the unsettling dream, images of Larabee’s last moments unspooled in my head. The gray-green pallor of his skin. The eerie glow of the surgical-trauma ICU. The impartial pinging of the monitors recording their bloodless peaks and valleys. The screaming silence when the pinging stopped. Later, in an interview room smelling of sweat and fear, the slouchy indifference of the brain-fried tweaker who’d sent the bullets into my longtime boss’s belly.

Stop!

Aloud? Or just in my mind?

I lengthened my stride, footfalls crunching softly in the stillness.

A full minute, then a trench-coated form, far up where the path emptied into a residents’ parking area. The man was walking with an odd swinging gait, his back to me.

Suddenly, noise seemed to ricochet from all around. Rustling leaves. Shifting branches. Snapping twigs. Night creatures? Trench Coat’s geeked-out pals looking to fund more meth?

I had no valuables—carried no money, wore no watch. Would that anger them?

Or were the sounds the invention of overwrought nerves?

I patted the pepper spray at my right hip. Felt the canister. Pink and nasty. A molecule of the price I’d paid had been donated toward breast-cancer research.

Momentary indecision.

Head home? Continue on the path and observe the man? Confront him in the parking lot? There were streetlamps there, overwhelmed but trying their best.

I slowed. Trench Coat was now just ten yards ahead.

My brain chose that moment to unreel a blockbuster tableau.

When I approached, the man would pull a knife and try to slit my throat.

Jesus!

Why was I letting this guy fluster me? In my line of work, I encounter far worse than a dude dressed like Bogie in Casablanca . Outlaw bikers who chainsaw the heads and hands from their murdered rivals. Macho pricks who stalk and strangle their terrified exes. Drunken bullies who wall-slam fussy infants. Those lowlifes don’t dissuade me from focusing on my job. Quite the reverse. They inspire me to work harder.

So why the drama over a man in a belted coat? Why the sense of threat? It was doubtful the guy was a psycho. More likely a harmless geezer overly sensitive to damp.

Either way, I owed it to my neighbors to find out. I’d use the hedge as cover and follow him for a while. If he acted suspicious, I’d go inside and dial the cops. Let them decide.

I wriggled through a gap in the bushes, moved along their far side a few yards, then paused to scan the parking lot.

The man was there, standing under one of the struggling lamps. His chin was raised, his features vaguely discernible as dark blotches on a smudgy white rectangle.

My breath froze.

The guy was staring straight at me.

Or was he?

Unnerved, I pivoted to search for the opening in the shrubbery at my back. Couldn’t find it. Dived in where the darkness seemed less dense. The tunnel was narrow, barely there, or not there at all. Twigs and leaves snagged my arms and hair, skeletal fingers clawing me back.

My breathing sounded louder, more desperate, as though fighting entrapment by the thick vegetation. The air was heavy with the scent of wet bark, damp earth, and my own perspiration.

A few feet, then I was free and hurrying back toward the pond. Not the way I’d come, a new route. More shadowed. Less open.

Imperceptibly, a new odor entered the olfactory mix. A familiar odor. An odor that triggered a fresh wave of adrenaline.

I was catching whiffs of decomposing flesh.

Impossible.

Yet there it was. Stark and cold as the images haunting my dreams.

A minute of scrambling around a stand of azaleas and philodendron, then I detected a thawing in one slice of the darkness ahead. Within the slice, angles and planes of shadow shifting and tilting out on the lawn.

Trench Coat’s minions lying in wait?

I was almost to the edge of the garden when a rip-your-face-off snarl brought me up short. As my mind struggled to form a rational explanation, a high-pitched scream sent every hair on my arms and neck upright.

Hand shaking, I pulled the pepper spray from my pocket and inched forward.

Beyond the shrubs, out where the lawn met the eastern wall of the property, two dogs were locked in winner-take-all combat. The larger, the scraggy consequence of some Lab–pit bull affair, was all hackles, bared teeth, and gleaming white sclera. The smaller, probably a terrier, cowered, tense and timorous, blood and spit matting the fur on one haunch. Neither animal was familiar to me.

Unaware of my presence, or not caring, the Lab-pit braced, then lunged for another attack. The terrier yelped and tried to flatten itself even more to the ground, desperate to reduce the amount of mass it presented to the world.

The Lab-pit held a moment, then, confident that rank had been established, pivoted and trotted toward a dark mound lying at the base of the wall. As the terrier slunk off, tail curled to its belly, the Lab-pit sniffed the air, scanned its surroundings, then lowered its head.

I watched, spellbound, curious about the cause of the fight.

A flurry of thrashing and tugging, then the victor’s snout rose.

Clamped in the dog’s jaw was the severed head of a goose, ravaged neck glistening black, cheek swath winking white like the smile of an evil clown.

I watched rain fall on the bird’s sightless eye.

2

FRIDAY, JUNE 29

A week passed. Almost to the minute. Nothing much happened. Freaked by the dueling dogs and murdered goose, I hadn’t reported the intruder. Or peeper. Or whatever he was. Never saw him again.

I’d hit a rough patch of late. Healthwise. Personally. Professionally. The last self-inflicted. I could have been more diplomatic. Or kept my mouth shut. Who knew my comments would come back to bite me in the ass? Right. Don’t they always? Mostly, I focused on those problems.

And seriously? A prowler in a trench coat? Was that not the oldest cliché in the book? Had the man been there at all? Or was the whole incident an aftershock of my migraine-induced nightmare?

A pair of fuzzy orbs congealed into headlights that drilled my car’s rear window. The interior brightened, nudging my thoughts back from wherever they’d been.

11:10 p.m. I’d just dropped Mama at her new digs and was stopped on Sharon Amity at the intersection with Providence Road. While waiting for a green, I peeked at myself in the rearview mirror.

Hair knotted at the nape of my neck, not great but OK. Remnants of mascara, blush, and gloss gamely trying to mask the exhaustion.

Mama hadn’t commented. Or had she? I’d paid little attention.

Silk tunic, a little bohemian but not over the top. Couldn’t see the black skinny jeans, baggier these days. Tory Burch sandals. “I Stop for Red” toes.

The outfit, the L’Oréal, the OPI polish. I was making an effort. Reengaging with the world, as Mama would say. Did say. Repeatedly. Between checking to see if my pupils were equal.

Mahler’s Symphony no. 2 in C Minor tonight. Resurrection .

Ironic.

I couldn’t wait to get home.

Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy the concerts. But I rank the postperformance cocktail klatches with Mama’s friends on par with a colonoscopy. Though, in fairness, the old up-yours confers a health benefit.

My mother, Katherine Daessee “Daisy” Lee Brennan, is a widow with cancer and a boyfriend who spends his weekdays running a dry-cleaning empire out of its Arkansas headquarters. My sister, Harry, lives a thousand miles away in Texas. And is crazy.

You get the picture. I’m usually Mama’s default date.

Which is fine. But why agree to the après-theater gatherings? Simple. My mother elevates the art of passive-aggressive to previously unimagined heights. And I always cave.