Carol O'Connell - Bone by Bone

Oren climbed the stairs to enter a circular room, where he found a shattered cocktail glass and melting ice cubes on the floor, but no sign of Mrs. Winston. A smashed answering machine lay on a rug beside the bed. He passed through an open glass door and crossed the outside deck to look over the rail. Her body lay sprawled on the terrace below, and a blood pool spread around her head.

"Sarah," said Swahn, weak and whispery, as Oren walked past him on the stairs. "I promised to-"

"Lie still," said Oren, though he doubted that this man would ever move again. "An ambulance is coming."

He ran down the stairs, skipping every second step, passing by the lawyer, who was laughing at some private joke that he had told himself. Oren sprinted across the front room and rounded the line of potted trees that hid the terrace doors. He opened them wide, and there she lay, animated by the wind lifting long strands of pale hair and playing with them, but the former soldier could not be fooled.

He would know death anywhere.

This time, the journey was longer as he made his way back up to the top of the lodge. The fallen man was no longer lying on the tower staircase. He had underestimated Swahn's mission to get to Mrs. Winston. There was no one inside the circular room. Once again, Oren stepped out onto the deck, and there lay the cane.

The man was gone.

The corpses were in body bags when the coroner's team carried them from the back terrace to the front of the lodge. They were laid on the ground side by side. This strange reunion of Swahn and Mrs. Winston was the first thing Addison saw when his gurney was carried out the door.

The circular driveway was choked with police vehicles, and a path was being cleared for the imminent flight of the ambulance. Its lights were spinning and the engine running. The rear doors hung open, awaiting the coronary patient.

A civilian vehicle was parked a short distance away. Hannah sat in the backseat of the limousine, breaking the sorry news to Mrs. Winston's daughter. As if by explosion, the car door flew open, and Isabelle touched ground at a dead run, aiming her body like a bullet and streaking up the driveway toward the gurney that held Addison Winston. The lawyer wore a maddening grin as he lifted one hand to wave to her.

Though the redhead was slender, one burly deputy was not up to the job of thwarting her forward momentum. She was only slowed down a bit when she stopped to send her knee into the man's crotch.

On the other side of the yard, Oren winced in sympathy and wisely elected to stay out of her way.

Isabelle's assault on the deputy bought Hannah time to close the distance, and now she stopped the younger woman with only one leaf-light hand and a few low-spoken words that did not carry. By some trick of flashing ambulance lights and body language, tiny Hannah seemed to grow larger in Oren's eyes, and Isabelle became smaller and smaller, shrinking to the ground in tears. The housekeeper's arms enfolded her, and Oren moved closer to hear Hannah say, "Patience, child. It won't take long."

One of the paramedics left the ambulance and ran to the sheriff. The coronary patient, earlier pronounced stable for transport, was now dead.

Spooky Hannah.

And there was no question of bringing Ad Winston back to life. The medic held one hand pressed to his own heart, illustrating his story of a body part broken beyond repair. "The second attack hit him like a bolt of lightning. The guy had to be in agony, but I swear he was laughing when he died. Weird, huh? Like he thought the pain was just so damn funny."

Cable Babitt was beyond the reach of his jeep radio, though he could hear the faint static of chatter behind him. By flashlight, he made his way to the grave at the center of the clearing. The crime-scene tape had been removed, and the hole had been filled in. He dropped the large plastic bag at his feet, needing both hands for the digging. When he steeped his shovel into the earth, he was blinded by a brilliant flash of light.

Sally Polk's voice came out of the darkness. "Can we take that picture again? I think you moved."

The next photograph caught him with one hand protecting his eyes.

Flashlights clicked on to illuminate two of the largest state troopers Cable had ever seen. Or maybe it was his fear that made them into giants. One of them relieved him of the shovel, and he heard the metallic click of locks as the other one cuffed his hands behind his back.

Sally Polk was still wearing her party dress, but she had traded her high heels for hiking boots. She bent down to pick up the plastic bag and opened it to pull out a bundle of canvas. "What a coincidence. It's the same color as my dress. Bright green. Cable, isn't that how you described it in that old missing-person report?" She placed one arm around his shoulders to pose for a photograph with her trophy suspect. "Well, Josh's knapsack gets around, doesn't it? First your toolshed, then the woodpile. Oh, and thank you so much for moving it off your property. I don't think there's a judge in this county who would've given me a search warrant for your place."

"I know this looks bad," said Cable.

"Bad or stupid-one of those things." Sally Polk said this without much conviction for either case. She held up the green knapsack. "You couldn't just throw it away, could you? No, you had to keep a souvenir."

Ferris Monty polished his final column for the tabloids that paid his wages. Soon the lost boy would disappear from the headlines, and so would the authors byline. His last contribution to the scandal sheets was a story of love and death one night in a castle made of logs.

Two bodies were found on the terrace, a man and a woman lying close together. It is said by a highly placed source that William Swahn and Sarah Winston were lovers who died in a suicide pact, a common enough event. Even the beauty-and-the-beast aspect does nothing to electrify this tragedy. Only one thing places the story beyond the pale, almost beyond credulity: A third victim, a lawyer, died of a broken heart.

He reread the words, and none rang true, though his source had been none other than Isabelle Winston, who had stopped just short of alluding to Rapunzel in her tower. However, fairy tales often passed for journalism, and he owed Isabelle this favor, this lie. In deference to her, he had scratched out the best line, stolen from the Rolling Stones, his expression of sympathy for the devil.

Done with this drivel, he turned to his unfinished book, an exercise in humility and an act of devotion to a young artist, who had felt nothing but revulsion for his biographer. The thick manuscript on his desk only needed a proper ending-the truth.

At the sound of a rap, rap, rap, he parted the drapes to look out the window. How prescient of Sally Polk to pick this moment to come knocking on his door.

Oren pulled the evidence carton from the trunk of the black Taurus. He carried it up the porch steps and set it down at the feet of his visitor, Sally Polk. The cardboard box was clearly stamped with the initials of the agency that owned it, the California Bureau of Investigation.

"You owe me," said Agent Polk. "I got all the bodies released for burial." She sat down in the rocking chair and settled a purse on her lap. "And I loaned Miss Winston a state trooper to get her through this day. That boy has orders to shoot reporters on sight."

"Thank you," said Oren. "I didn't think she'd want any help from me." He ignored the mystery box that sat between them.

Sally Polk rocked slowly, and her words were unhurried. "The judge came in to claim the remains of Mary Kent. Him and me, we had a nice chat."