Carol O'Connell - Bone by Bone

"That was actually pretty smart. Evelyn gets a tax write-off by using the cabin for business purposes." The sheriff turned onto a private road of hard-packed dirt, slowing to a roll when the roof of the log house came into view. While he still had trees for partial cover, he stopped his vehicle, cut the lights and let the engine idle. "I'm not supposed to be here. Evelyn's got an injunction to keep me off her property. She says police harassment ruins the ambiance. So I've got to get this jeep out of here real fast."

Yet his passenger remained in his seat, patiently waiting for more, and of course more was owed to him.

"Swahn was right," said Cable. "Evelyn's the one who gave you that alibi. She told me you spent the day in the cabin with her. She said Josh went deeper into the woods by himself."

"Who was the other one? Swahn said two women came forward."

"Well, what does it matter now? And son?-just how many women were you sleeping with? You weren't too talkative as a teenager."

Silent then, and silent now, Oren opened the passenger door and stepped out.

"Hold on." The sheriff rummaged through his glove compartment and pulled out a flashlight. "Can't remember the last time I changed the batteries. Use it sparingly. If you're smart, you'll start out for home while it's still light."

Oren reached through the open window and took the proffered flashlight. "Thanks."

"If you get caught spying on these people, don't tell Evelyn I was here. That's all I ask."

"I won't get caught."

"One more thing, Oren. On your way out, stay clear of traffic on the road. Evelyn drives the hotel's shuttle van." Cable leaned toward the passenger window. His voice was in the low warning notes. "Son? I know you found your way home from this place more than once, but don't go taking any shortcuts through the woods."

He was talking to the air. Oren Hobbs was gone.

The sedatives had worn off, and Sarah Winston reached for the whiskey bottle held just beyond her outstretched hand.

"Dinner's ready." Using the liquor as bait, Addison coaxed her out of bed and down the tower's narrow flight of steps. As they walked along the second-floor landing to descend the grand staircase, he placed one arm around her shoulders, forgetting for the moment that his wife was merely tired, no longer drunk and in danger of falling.

Well, soon enough.

They entered the dining room, arm in arm, and a drink-a reward- was poured for her.

Isabelle was already seated at the table, head lowered, but not in prayer. She had no religious faith. However, she did believe in walking evil.

"Hello, Daddy."

Long ago, she had called him that to please her mother. These days, the sarcastic tone of this salutation could only be read as Drop dead.

Throughout the evening meal, Isabelle watched her mother toy with food and drink her dinner. The older woman was in a stupor by the time dessert was served. Her husband and daughter talked around her body while she remained upright. When Sarah laid her head on the table and closed her eyes, they conversed over her bowed back. Their argument was an old one.

"I take care of your mother," said Addison.

"You're more like her jailor," said Isabelle. "You killed off every plan she ever had for getting back out in the world."

"Your mother didn't need another college degree. She's beautiful, and beauty is power. I gave her whatever she asked for… just for the pleasure of looking at her." He stared at his wife's sleeping face, her open mouth, the bit of spittle on her lips.

Sarah was awakened for the postprandial brandy, another lure. Steadied by Addison 's arm, she was led to a couch in the cavernous front room, where a window spanned thirty feet to a pitched roof and offered a view of darkening woods.

When an hour had passed, and his wife was at the point of passing out, Addison gently lowered her head to the pillow of his lap. "Tomorrow the weaning begins," he whispered in her ear. "Only a little booze for breakfast and lunch, none for dinner."

When her eyes had closed in sleep, he smoothed the hair back from her brow. He looked up to see Isabelle glaring at him, hating him, and so, of course, he smiled. "One year, I cut her off on the day of the ball. Huge mistake. That was the first visit from the spiders. Three days is about right."

Isabelle's hands curled into fists, a good sign that she was paying attention.

"By the time your mother's birthday rolls around, she'll be able to go all night without a drink. Do you think Oren Hobbs will come to the ball this year?"

"Why should he? He hasn't been here since he was twelve."

Addison doubted that she would be disappointed if Oren never came to another birthday ball. Though Isabelle liked to nurse her grudges, even she could not carry this old obsession for so many years. However, it was worth a dig. "There's a rumor that Oren always had a thing for older women, married women." He looked down at his sleeping wife.

"And you think he slept with Mom?" Isabelle was incredulous.

Or was she jealous?

"Well, I know he didn't sleep with you." He saw heat rising in her face to color it with a flush. "I know what you did, Belle-all those years ago. It's going to come back and bite you."

Isabelle rose from the couch and stood over her sleeping mother. "I don't know why Mom stayed with you. But I know why she drinks. The alcohol dulls your sharp little teeth when you nip at her ankles."

What a roundabout way of calling him a son of a bitch. Isabelle was normally so direct. He looked down at his wife, the woman who shared his house if not his bed. In a stage whisper, he said, "Oh, look. She wakes."

Sarah Winston lifted her head in the manner of a timid animal peering out of a burrow and finding the world unsafe. Her head dropped. Her eyes closed.

Isabelle sank to her knees and stroked her mother's hair. "This is torture. Why do you let her go on like this?"

"Oh, I don't know." He leaned forward with a smile, something between a tease and a leer. "Because I love her madly?"

Rising to her feet, Isabelle crossed the room with long strides and no wave or word of good night.

Addison caressed his wife's sleeping face. He loved her madly.

Deputies Dave Hardy and John Faulks had done a poor job of removing bloodstains from their uniforms. The pink blotches were not the only evidence of a fight. They had been caught on film. Waiting for the fallout from their skirmish on the streets of Saulburg, they stood before the window of an appliance store and watched the images of ten television sets tuned to different channels.

"We're screwed," said Dave Hardy. "If that fight makes it to the evening news, we'll get suspended."

John Faulks was equally worried, and this carried in his voice, but he was also a man in denial. "That guy was just a cameraman, not a reporter." He turned his eyes from screen to screen. "I wish I could remember the name of the news show. I know the station call letters were printed on that camera."

Dave pointed to a TV set at the top of the display. "What the hell is that?"

The screen showed them the still image of a window set in a brick wall. A banner of type ran across the bottom of the screen, telling them what they already knew: the bones of a lost boy had been found in Coventry. And now something different: the hunt for a fugitive was under way.

"I wish we had sound," said Deputy Faulks.

The camera pulled back to show more of the building.

"It's the library in Coventry," said Dave. "Those stupid reporters believed you. They went to the library."

"I'm sorry," said the man beside him. "It was just a joke. How was I supposed to know they'd actually go there. Nobody in Coventry ever goes to the libra-"

"Don't ever say that again." Dave Hardy's fist was raised and promising more than a nosebleed this time.