Carol O'Connell - Bone by Bone

"Compared to Horatio, that dog is a freaking genius," said Hannah. "He knows when to be still."

Oren entered the gated plot and sat down tailor fashion. By the light of the moon, he watched his father's face. The judge woke from the dream to see that it was not day but night, and he wore the same shy expression Oren had seen at the close of the last episode. The judge stared at his wife's headstone and then discovered his son seated beside him. This time, there could be no retreat into sleep and forgetfulness.

Finally, wits gathered, the old man said, "When will they give Josh back to us so we can have a proper funeral?"

"It won't be long," said Oren.

"I guess you believe me now." Hannah stood behind the judge, arms folded in a pose of I told you so. "You were walking in your sleep."

"I suppose that would explain a lot." The judge fished through the pockets of his jacket.

Hannah ended this search by producing two cigars and a pack of matches from thin air. After handing over the whiskey bottle, she further amazed them by opening her hands to reveal a tiny glass standing on each palm. All of the housekeeper's clothes had deep pockets, the props of her best magic act: producing what was needed at the moment, be it bandages for a boy's skinned knee or shot glasses.

Oren took a proffered cigar from his father and unwrapped the cellophane. "I've never smoked one before."

"Nothing to it." The judge bit off one end of his own cigar, and his son did the same. He struck a match and lit both stogies, warning, "Don't inhale, boy. Just let it run around your taste buds, and then let it out." He opened his mouth to blow a perfect smoke ring in the still air. And then he blew a ring within a ring, a thing that had once delighted his son.

And it still did.

"Hannah can do three," said the judge. "But she never upstaged me in front of you and Josh."

"You talk in your sleep, sir." Oren filled his mouth with smoke and exhaled it with his next words. "You asked for another miracle."

"Well, that can't be right. I'm opposed to all things mystical. I most particularly do not hold with miracles." The judge looked around to see that Hannah had wandered away to visit the gravestones of old friends. He poured whiskey into the shot glasses and handed one to his son.

"Sir, you asked for another miracle."

"But there never was a first-" The judge, lost in thought, stared at his wife's gravestone. "No, I'm wrong. There was a miracle-more like a joke. The miracle of the rain-it happened right here. I know you remember the Reverend Pursey."

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Anointing you as a teenage archangel-that wasn't the craziest thing he ever did. But I had a few words with him over that." The judge smiled at this memory. "That loony old bugger. Oh, but what a showman. He packed his church every Sunday. One time, he accused Ad Winston of being the devil himself. Addison was so pleased. A lawyer can't buy advertising like that."

"Sir? You went to church?"

"No, I never do. But I'm not your typical atheist, either." Henry Hobbs absently stroked the dog's fur, and the animal loved him back, nuzzling his hand. "The way I see it-it doesn't matter if God invented man or man invented God. It's a done deal, and you might as well try to un invent the isosceles triangle. But a bona fide miracle defies logic in both camps. A man-made god precludes miraculous acts. And a true god wouldn't allow them. Why shake man's faith in sweet reason? Take the Reverend Pursey. He was shaken witless by the miracle of the rain."

Oren exhaled a blue cloud and sipped from his shot glass. In faraway places, this was something he had imagined time and again, sharing smoke and whiskey with his father and listening to the old man's oral history of family and town.

The judge slapped the ground with one hand. "Pursey's miracle happened right here on this very spot. It was the day of your mother's funeral. Well, the sky's clouding up. The rain's coming any minute, and everybody knows it-umbrellas at the ready everywhere you look. And the Reverend Pursey's building up to the high point in his eulogy. Then the first raindrops fell. Oh, how that pissed him off. He looks up at the sky, a real nasty look like a warning. Then it begins to pour-a solid wall of rain. Well, Pursey's drenched, and people are surprised he doesn't drown when he opens his mouth. His eyes roll up toward heaven. He shakes one fist and yells, 'Knock it off!'

"And the rain-just-stopped.

"Damndest thing, a rare thing, but not unheard-of. You see, the rain didn't taper off. It was more like a giant faucet in the sky got turned off." The judge snapped his fingers. "That quick. So the miracle of the rain figured into a lot of church sermons after that. And then it became the punch line to a joke on a crazy old fool. Every time it rained, you'd see people stop on the street to shake their fists and yell at the sky and laugh- how they laughed. Now, if that's a miracle in your book, I'd have to say your standards are really low."

Father and son smoked cigars by the light of the moon and shared the whiskey for as long as it lasted.

Addison Winston aimed his flashlight beam at a patch of ground behind the stable. He held out the shovel to Isabelle. "Shall we dig it up?"

"You put it there."

"Ask your mother who buried it. Oh, that's right. You can't, can you? It might send her poor fragile mind right over the screaming edge. Belle, you have a first-rate brain, and this is simple logic. If I had evidence to hide, why would I bury it on my own land? I would've thrown it into the sea. But your mother's clearly an amateur in all things criminal. Or maybe her mind wasn't working right the night she buried it."

Isabelle sank the shovel a few inches into hard ground. "All right- logically -it shouldn't still be here." She used one foot on the metal edge to sink it deeper. "Why didn't you dig it up and get rid of it?"

"Well, it helps if you think like a lawyer. It's evidence that goes to your mother's state of mind-insanity. I thought it might come in handy if, by some miracle, Cable Babitt ever got to thinking like a real cop. He might wonder why you'd fake an alibi for Oren Hobbs. I wondered about that myself when you were sixteen. There's two ways to look at it-from the law's point of view. Either you killed Josh and you needed an alibi for yourself-or you knew for a fact that Oren didn't do it… because you knew who did. Sorry I can't help with the digging or the disposal. That would make me a material witness. I wouldn't be able to represent your mother if it comes to a trial."

"Mom would never hurt Josh." Isabelle lifted a shovelful of dirt and then another. "They were friends."

"Her friendships end badly. Look at poor William. After you left town, he'd drop by for dinner at the usual time, and your mother would lock herself in her room. No apology, not one word of explanation. That was shabby."

The shovel clinked against a metal object. Isabelle knelt down to scoop the dirt away with her hands. She could hear her restless horse moving in his stall on the other side of the stable wall.

"And now," said Addison, "back to your phony alibi for Oren Hobbs. How could you know he was innocent? You must have seen your mother when she came home from the woods that day-the day Josh disappeared. She was all sweaty and exhausted. Burying a corpse is hard work. You might recall all the blisters on her hands."

Discarding the shovel, Isabelle lifted a camera from the hole. It was crusted with dirt, and the metal was pitted like a sponge. Every mechanism was jammed. She set it on the ground and wiped her hands. "I can't open the back."

"Looking for a roll of film? You think maybe the boy had time to snap a picture of your mother?" He handed her the flashlight and stooped to pick up the shovel. "Good thinking, Belle. No telling how long film might hold up." He made a swing with the shovel and brought it crashing down on the camera.