Jonathan Nasaw - Twenty-Seven Bones

Sunday morning. Funny how somehow you always know it’s Sunday, thought Dawson. Even here on St. Luke, two thousand miles and three decades removed from the little Wisconsin town she’d grown up in, there’s that same Sunday stillness in the air.

Only here, it’s always a summer Sunday, which is even better. No homework hanging over your head. No chores, either, as long as you went to church. That was the choice in the Bannerman household: church or chores. Her older brother Randy, who took indolence to places it hadn’t been before, used to ask if he could get out of chores entirely, if he stopped off at church every afternoon after school or football practice, depending on the season.

She hadn’t seen or talked to Randy since 1970, her ill-fated freshman year at Madison. She had managed to talk to her parents several times over the years, and even visited her mother twice, once not long after Dad died and the second time just before Mom passed away, but Randy had let it be known through their younger brother Danny, who’d arranged the last visit, that if she showed up at the funeral, he’d turn her in so fast her head would spin.

Come to think of it, there was to be a funeral today. For poor Mrs. Apgard. Dawson wouldn’t be attending-she’d been avoiding public gatherings for thirty years and didn’t see any reason to change her routine now.

Then she remembered that soon she might have to change everything, now that an FBI man had not only moved into the Core, but seemed to be attracted to her-and vice versa. The very fact that he kept telling her she looked familiar meant he hadn’t recognized her yet; when he stopped trying to place her, though, it would probably be time to take it on the lam again.

Or would it? When you’re young, when you’re eighteen or twenty-eight or even thirty-eight, you can think about starting over, but at fifty? Screw it, she thought-maybe I’ll just take my chances.

And there went that luxurious Sunday morning feeling, right down the old Crapaud. Dawson’s heart was pounding; she’d grown warm under the covers. Holly’s covers-she’d baby-sat for Holly again last night, and again she’d slept over. She’d pretended to be asleep when Holly crawled into bed around two-thirty, this time without taking a shower first.

Dawson couldn’t blame her-she’d taken her own shower at ten in the evening, with Miami Mark standing guard outside the Crapaud door, armed with a twelve-gauge over-and-under. Corefolk had patrolled in shifts all night; they’d also strung lights in the tamarind trees and set tiki torches around the perimeter of the clearing.

Around nine o’clock, Dawson slipped out from under the mosquito net. A few minutes later Holly joined her in the next room, lured by the smell of fresh coffee. They folded the table down, sat across from each other, and spoke in whispers. The first topic of conversation was the Machete Man, who’d also been topic number one at the ’Hands last night-apparently the rumor had already spread around the island-and when that was exhausted, Holly changed the subject to Pender.

“Our new neighbor was guarding the gate when I got home last night,” said Holly. “Guess what we talked about?”

“The pompitus of love?”

Holly made the whoosh sound and passed her hand, palm down, over her head, which was where most baby-boomer references went. “No, about you. He thinks you’re the greatest thing since sliced bread.”

“Really?” Dawson colored.

“Really. You didn’t sleep with him yet, did you?”

“Just a good night kiss, so far.”

Holly wrinkled her nose, as if her friend had confessed to eating worms.

“What’s your problem?” said Dawson. “He’s kind, he’s super-smart, a terrific listener-”

“Not exactly the answer to every young girl’s dream, though.”

“Looks aren’t everything, my dear. The best lover I ever had made Pender look like Brad Pitt. And come to think of it, the lousiest lover I ever had did look like Brad Pitt.”

“So are you gonna?”

“What?”

“Sleep with him.”

“None of your business.”

“Come on-I’d tell you.”

“At present, I’m leaning sixty/forty in favor.”

“What’s the forty?”

“He’s a cop.”

“What’s the sixty?”

“It was one hell of a good night kiss,” said Dawson.

Pender’s new neighbors had helped him drag a foam pad and a sleeping bag from the skip-rent shed up to the loft of the A-frame Saturday night, and given him a mosquito coil to set up on a saucer beside the bed. He slept soundly after his turn on watch, and when he awoke Sunday morning the coil had burned to ash and the sky was gray with false dawn. He propped himself on his elbows and watched the stars reappear, then fade on the horizon as the meadow materialized, broad, wet, and green, with its rain tree centerpiece sparkling like cut glass.

He could smell the dawn through the screen walls. This was like camping out, only without the dew problem. I could get used to it, he thought, as he lay back down and tried to punch a little softness into the round meditation cushion he was using for a pillow. Throw in a good woman-say, Dawson-and a satellite dish, I could get used to this easy.

Pender fell asleep again. His bladder awoke him the second time. Indoor plumbing would also be a plus, he decided. He pulled on the bathrobe he’d borrowed from Julian, grabbed his travel bag and one of the towels Ziggy had loaned him, and strolled up to the Crapaud.

The man who’d introduced himself as Roger the Dodger yesterday was at one of the sinks. He might have just finished brushing his teeth, thought Pender-judging by that Captain Katzenjammer beard, he sure hadn’t been shaving.

“You’ll get used to the smell,” Roger called, as Pender let himself into one of the stalls. “And don’t worry about the shit eels: there’s not one in a hundred can make it all the way up the side.”

There’s no such thing as shit eels, Pender assured himself as he lowered himself onto the cold wooden toilet seat, but his testicles were not entirely convinced.

According to the plaque on the outside of the building, the First Lutheran Church had been built in 1750, while the white Georgian steeple with the mahogany siding and the open cupola had been added in 1798.

“Do I look okay?” whispered Holly, as she and Pender joined the crowd filing inside. She was wearing a short, tight-fitting black cocktail dress-the only black item in her wardrobe-and had borrowed a black sweater to cover her bare arms and shoulders.

Julian and Ziggy were close to the front. Pender took off his Panama and slipped into the last pew-he was more interested in the mourners than the minister. “You look spectacular,” he told Holly, as she slid in next to him.

She tugged the hem of her dress as far down her thigh as it would reach. “I meant appropriate.”

“Stick with me, nobody’ll notice.” Dawson had “borrowed” Andy Arena’s black jacket for Pender to wear to the funeral; it didn’t fit too badly, as long as he didn’t try to button it. He’d never worn one victim’s clothes to the funeral of another before, but down here, he was starting to learn, all bets were off.

It was eleven in the morning. The church was already sweltering. The casket was closed. A few white women sniffled; a big black woman sobbed into her handkerchief. Pender craned his neck, saw Apgard’s bandaged blond head in the front pew. Suddenly Apgard turned-that old eyes-in-the-back-of-the-head reflex. Caught you looking!

Pender nodded solemnly, his lips pressed tightly together in wordless condolence. Apgard nodded back, mouthed thanks for coming, then looked up and to his left, past Pender’s right shoulder. His face registered something-surprise? distaste? maybe even fear? — but he turned away before Pender, who read faces the way stockbrokers read tickers, could get a fix on it.