Jonathan Nasaw - Twenty-Seven Bones

“Nuh-nothing.” He’d never snapped at her like that before. “I was afraid you’d had another dizzy spell-I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Fine, I’m fine.” He must have seen how he’d startled her-he softened his voice and pasted on a grimace that was meant to be a smile. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to be…Listen-there are two more bodies back there. I’m pretty sure one of them is Arena, and the other is definitely Bennie. I want you to go back to the Core with Holly and the kids-they don’t need to get mixed up in this.”

“I’ll tell them, then I’ll come back to-”

“You of all people don’t need to get mixed up in it either,” he said pointedly, stooping to her eye level and peering at her from under the ragged straw of his hat brim. “Please, trust me on this?”

Trust a cop, thought Dawson. For someone who’d been a fugitive for thirty years, it was quite a concept.

Forty-five minutes after finding the bodies, Pender called the Chief from his cruiser.

Coffee was furious. It wasn’t that anybody thought Bennie had a chance of getting out of the cave complex alive. Julian had seen the postmortem battering the first two corpses had been subjected to on their way from the Oubliette to the sea. And while they hadn’t found the outlet yet (and wouldn’t until one of their officers rappelled down the cliff on Friday) they knew it had to be pretty high up there-unless Bennie had somehow turned into Spider-Man, even if he’d survived the watery crawl, he would have been facing quite a fall.

But having read the Epp manuscript, Julian was all too aware of how lucky the department had been. If the Oubliette hadn’t communicated with the sea, they’d never have found the first two bodies, never have known they’d had a serial killer on their hands until…Well, until a lot more people had died.

And he didn’t even want to think about what might have happened if it hadn’t been for Pender’s hunch. That was the only good move Julian felt he’d made in the entire investigation-bringing Pender in-and now it was Pender who’d come up with the last remaining piece of the puzzle.

After dispatching Layla and her crime scene van, Julian hurried to his car. He met Henry Hamilton in the lobby, grabbed him by the lapels. “I thought I told you I wanted the cliffs checked out on a regular basis, until further notice.”

“I took cyare of it m’self, Chief,” replied Hamilton, in a wounded tone of voice. “Every day on my way home, I drive by dot way, look over de cliff. What could be more regular?”

“Henry, have I demoted you lately?”

“Not since last wintah, Chief.”

“Good. You’re busted down to uniform, me son-if you can find one to fit dot belly.”

Layla’s van was parked behind Pender’s cruiser. It was just past high tide; the rocks were still wet. Julian took off his shoes and socks, rolled his uniform trousers up to midcalf, and picked his way up the slippery path to the honeycombed ledge.

Layla was still photographing the scene. Julian, Pender, and two uniforms waited until she had finished before separating the bodies and untying the drawstring tied to Bennie’s ankle. Layla handed the bag to Pender. “You do the honors.”

The others gathered round. Pender donned a fresh pair of gloves, unzipped the bag, reached in, pulled out a coverless copy of Moby-Dick, and five plastic freezer bags, four of which contained loose bones, and the fifth, two severed hands. “That’s all there is, there ain’t no more,” he said. “Elvis has left the building.”

He handed the last bag to Julian, who held it out at arm’s length. “Think he made it across the bridge to the other side?” asked Julian, who besides Pender was the only one present to have read the Epp manuscript.

“I hope not,” said Pender. “I hope the son of a bitch is still falling.”

Seven weeks later. Thanksgiving. The trestle tables have been carried down to the meadow, set up end to end under the spreading rain tree, and laden with the usual Thanksgiving fare: turkey and trimmings, conch and fungi. There was also a tofu turkey for the vegetarians.

Before dinner, in lieu of a formal blessing, they went around the table, and everybody said what they were thankful for, and everybody drank a little toast. By the time Pender’s turn rolled around, he’d reached the state of clarity one of his old friends back in Washington used to call In Jim Beamo, veritas.

“I’m thankful for all the new friends I’ve made. I’m thankful for my thick skull. I’m thankful for my new satellite dish. I’m thankful for my new job as chief of detectives, which I’m scheduled to begin on December first-and by the way, you’re all under arrest-just kidding. And most of all, I’m thankful for this beautiful woman here, and that you’re never too old to fall in…well, you know, love.”

Everybody raised his or her glass, took a sip or a belt. Pender sat down. Dawson was next. She had a short speech ready, but Pender had sabotaged all that by using the L-word for the first time. She stood up, fluttered her hand at her breast. “I’m all…” She looked down at Holly, to her right. “What’s the word?”

“Ferklemt?”

“Ferklemt.” Then she looked down at Pender, to her left. “I love you, too,” she said, and kissed him on top of his head.

“I hate getting kissed on top of the head,” he whispered, as everybody raised their glasses again.

“Get used to it,” she whispered back.

Holly was next. “I have a lot to be thankful for without knowing who to be thankful to. So to whoever it was who left that mon-I mean, that paper bag-on my doorstep back in October, whether you’re within the sound of my voice or not, thank you from the bottom of my heart, and if you ever want to cop to it, free massages for life. I love you.”

Dawn was next. “I’m thankful for three people.” She put down her glass of sparkling apple juice and ticked them off on her fingers: “Auntie Holly, for being my nex’ mother. Whoever left the money-I mean the paper bag. And Mr. Apgard. I know he did bad things, but he brought me home safe and sound, like he promised. And I hope they don’t kill him-that would be just as bad as what he did.” She picked up her glass, raised it high. It took a few seconds for all the other glasses to be raised, but eventually they were.

Marley went last. “I guess everybody knows what I have to be thankful for,” he said, raising his glass in his new GSR-activated myoelectric-stimulated, signal-boosted right hand, then bringing it slowly to his mouth, tilting it, taking a sip. It was one of the first things he’d learned to do with his new hands, and one of the more difficult. The others watched him, holding their collective breaths and rooting silently for him not to dump the whole glass down his shirt, which still happened every so often.

But not this time. Arm and hand performed flawlessly. Marley returned the glass to the table, bowed from the waist, and sat back down, to applause. Auntie Holly of course was bawling. Pender asked him if he wanted to help carve the turkey.

“Maybe next year,” said Marley.

“I’ll drink to that,” said Pender.