Carol O'Connell - Bone by Bone

The next stop on Dave Hardy's patrol route was a small roadside bar two towns over from the county seat. It was nearly time for a liquid lunch. He liked to spread out his drinking across the day. His beer was always served in a coffee cup, and he was never asked to pay a tab-a courtesy to law enforcement.

He loved his job. Even after hours and out of uniform, he could drink for free.

The deputy slid onto his favorite barstool, the one closest to the window, to keep an eye on the parking lot. He was always on the lookout for out-of-state plates, such easy targets for tickets, but all of these patrons were local people. He turned to watch the TV set behind the bar. It was early for a news show. The banner scrolling below the picture told him that this was a breaking story. On screen, only a few blocks away from the sheriff's office in Saulburg, the parking lot for the Highway Patrol was a mob scene.

He recognized the limping man as a recluse from Coventry. William Swahn was surrounded by reporters and swallowed up whole. The television camera cut to a shot of Sally Polk amid cameras and microphones. She was answering questions on the old Hobbs case-a case that was no longer hers. This woman did not know when to let go.

Dave broke with his tradition of one beer per bar and ordered another. Sally Polk reminded him of his mother, who could smile while she stabbed him with words in all the soft places.

Oren phoned home from the bank. While he listened to the rings at the other end of the line, he stared at Ferris Monty's three portraits on the wall.

His father answered the telephone, and Oren learned that Hannah had taken the car. And so, said the judge, he was out of luck if he needed a ride. However, the old man knew the address he wanted, adding, "It's not much of a hike, maybe a mile or so from town."

Walking along the narrow back roads, Oren called up a memory of Josh returning from Ferris Monty's house after dropping off an order of prints. Though this had been a big commission, the boy had not wanted to talk about it.

After studying the original photographs in the bank, Oren understood his brother's uneasiness, and now he considered the worst scenario for Josh's death. As a CID agent, he had dealt with predator soldiers, arresting more than a few in his career. He was so well versed in this crime that he could even name the freaks who specialized in the capture and rape of adolescents.

Something about a fifteen-year-old boy had called out to the strange little man with the black toupee. That much would have registered with Josh, and it would have placed the whole subject beyond the confidence of his older brother. In those days, Oren had an ugly word for Josh's stalking activities. Consequently, his little brother would never have mentioned any incident that involved Ferris Monty, the personification of creepy.

Oren wished that he had been more understanding then. Understanding now broke his heart.

Sarah Winston mimicked bright birdcalls as she filled the feeders all along the rail of the outside deck. A few steps away, her daughter adjusted a pair of binoculars to focus on the judge's old Mercedes as it turned into William Swahn's driveway and disappeared behind thick trees.

Isabelle circled around the deck for a better view, and the car was recaptured in her lenses when it reappeared in the small clearing in front of the house down on Paulson Lane. She anticipated Oren Hobbs, but it was Hannah who emerged from the driver's side to help William up the steps to the front door. His limp was worse today.

She wondered if he knew what they were saying about him on the news.

Sarah Winston was ignorant of the latest rumors. Isabelle had not wanted to spoil a day of rare good spirits. Her mother seemed so happy in her whistled conversations with the birds flocking to the feeders.

Leaning back against the rail, Isabelle watched wild things grow tame in the older woman's presence. After passing a few minutes this way, she noticed that one of the stationary telescopes was aimed downward. She looked through the eyepiece. It was already focused to give the clear view of a window framing a desk and chair. This was no accident. Every tension screw had been tightened to fix the position and keep the lens from straying off target. She was startled when William appeared in the window.

Which one of her parents was spying on him?

The door was open to the noise of preparation for a birthday party, hammering and hollering, swearing and sawing wood.

Outside on the deck, a man in coveralls folded his ladder, having finished the chore of nailing strings of lights around the roof of the tower room.

Inside, Addison Winston stood by the bed, looking down at the face of his unconscious wife. "It's amazing that she could sleep through that racket." Though he should not call it sleep, this drunken stupor. He turned to Isabelle. "Well, now you know why she's been so cheerful today." He got down on his knees to drag an empty bottle out from under the armoire. "Where is she getting it from?"

"The maid?"

He shook his head. "Hilda gives her one drink for breakfast and one for lunch. That girl knows better than to cross me."

The workman carried his ladder down the tower stairs, and Isabelle closed the door behind him. " Addison, it's long past time to put Mom in rehab."

Worst possible timing." The lawyer walked out onto the deck. In the yard below, the workmen were breaking for lunch. Ah, peace. He was no longer troubled by the cawing and flapping of birds. They had learned not to come near him.

Isabelle joined him at the rail. "Why did you marry my mother? Was it because she was so beautiful?"

"She's still beautiful," he said, insistent on this. "But no, that wasn't it. Back in your mother's college days, do you remember how she supported you?"

"I think she had lots of different jobs."

"Well, you were only four years old. Belle, she literally sang for your supper. Such brave songs-brave because your mother couldn't sing very well. And she didn't play that guitar worth a damn. The first time I ever saw her, I was a visiting lecturer at UCLA, She was standing barefoot on the grass, and you were curled up in a little ball, fast asleep in a patch of afternoon sun. Students were coming and going all around you.

"The young can be very savage, but they never ridiculed Sarah-even though she played all the wrong chords and sang every damn note off-key. A truly awful performance, but the students dropped their loose change into her open guitar case. They weren't pity donations-more like showing respect. Sarah was so daring, hanging herself out on public display-and she even knew that she didn't have one shred of talent. I emptied my wallet into her guitar case, and that was the first time we said hello."

Addison leaned over the rail and pointed down at a long silver vehicle as it parked by the paddock near the old stable. "Keep your eye on that one.

The driver opened a door at the rear of the narrow trailer and lowered a plank. Led by a rope halter, a silver stallion emerged, tossing his head and shying at every loud sound around him as his handler guided him into the paddock and released him.

"Remind you of anyone we used to know?"

"He looks a lot like old Nickel." Isabelle picked up the binoculars for a closer look. "Exactly like Nickel." Her old horse had died the year after her mother had packed her off to a boarding school in Europe.

More trucks arrived in the yard below to disgorge lumber, long tables and round ones, linens and folding chairs. The stallion ran round the paddock, mad to escape.