Kathy Reichs: Bare Bones

Boyd put a paw on my knee, raised his snout, and snapped at the air. Gotta go.

“Is this on the level?”

Boyd dashed across the room, spun, snapped, and twirled the eye hairs.

I checked the time. Ten-fifteen. Enough.

Killing the computer and lights, I headed for Boyd’s leash.

The chow danced me out of the den, thrilled at the prospect of one last sortie before bedding back down.

The darkness in the annex was almost total, relieved only by heat lightning flickering through the trees. Inside, the mantel clock ticked. Outside, moths and June bugs fought the windows, their bodies making dull, thudding sounds against the screens.

When we entered the kitchen Boyd’s demeanor changed. His body tensed, and his ears and tail shot up. A short growl, then he lunged forward and began barking at the door.

My hand flew to my chest.

“Boyd,” I hissed. “Come here.”

Boyd ignored me.

I shushed him. The dog kept barking.

Heart pounding, I crept to the door and pressed my back to the wall, listening.

A car horn. June bugs. Crickets. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Boyd’s barking was becoming more urgent. His hackles were up now. His body was rigid.

Again I shushed him. Again he ignored me.

Over Boyd’s barking, I heard a thunk, then a soft scraping just outside the door.

My insides turned to ice.

Someone was there!

Call 911! my brain cells screamed. Run to the neighbors! Escape through the front door!

Escape from what? Tell 911 what? A bogeyman is on my porch? The Grim Reaper is at my back door?

I reached for Boyd. The dog twisted from me and continued his protest.

Was the door locked? Usually I was good about security, but sometimes I slipped. Had I forgotten in my hurry to let Boyd out?

Fingers trembling, I felt for the lock.

The little oblong knob was horizontal. Locked? Unlocked? I couldn’t remember!

Should I test the handle?

Don’t make a sound! Don’t let him know you’re here!

Had I engaged the security system? I usually did that just before going upstairs to bed. My eyes slid to the panel.

No flashing red light!

Damn!

Hands shaking badly now, I lifted a corner of the window curtain.

Pitch-black.

My eyes struggled to adjust.

Nothing.

I leaned close to the glass, shot my eyes left, then right, peering through the tiny opening I’d created.

No go.

Turn on the porch light, one rational brain cell suggested.

My hand groped for the switch.

No! Don’t tell him you’re home!

My hand froze.

At that moment the sky flickered. Two silhouettes emerged from the darkness.

Adrenaline rocketed through my body.

The two silhouettes were standing on my back porch, less than two feet from my terrified face.

32

THE FIGURES STOOD FROZEN, TWO BLACK CUTOUTS AGAINST Apitch-black night.

I dropped the curtain and shrank back, heart pounding in my throat.

The Grim Reaper? With an accomplice?

Barely breathing, I stole another peek.

The space between the figures appeared to have shrunk.

The space between the figures and my door appeared to have shrunk.

What to do?

My terrified brain came up with variations on the same suggestions.

Phone 911! Throw on the porch light! Yell through the door!

Boyd’s barking continued, steady but unfrenzied.

The sky flickered, went black.

Was my mind playing tricks, or did the larger silhouette look familiar?

I waited.

More lightning, longer. One, two, three seconds.

Sweet Jesus.

She looked even bulkier than my recollection.

My hand brushed the wall, found the switch. The overhead bulb bathed the porch in amber.

“Hush, Boyd.”

I laid a hand on his head.

“Is that you, Geneva?”

“Don’t be setting no dog on us.”

Reaching down, I grasped Boyd’s collar. Then I unlocked and opened the door.

Geneva had one arm around a young woman I immediately recognized as Tamela, the other thrown up across her face. Both sisters resembled frightened deer, their eyes blinded by the unexpected light.

“Come in.” Still holding the chow’s collar, I pushed open the screen.

Clearance having been granted the callers, Boyd’s barking gave way to tail wagging.

The sisters didn’t budge.

I stepped backward into the kitchen, dragging Boyd with me.

Geneva opened the screen door, nudged Tamela inside, followed.

“He won’t hurt you,” I said.

The sisters looked wary.

“Really.”

I released Boyd and turned on the kitchen lights. The chow hopped forward and began sniffing Tamela’s legs, his tail doing double time.

Geneva stiffened.

Tamela reached down and tentatively patted Boyd’s head. The dog twisted and licked her fingers. They looked so delicate, the hand could have been that of a ten-year-old child. Except for the bloodred nails.

Boyd shifted to Geneva. She glared at him. Boyd shifted back to Tamela. She squatted, rested one knee on the floor, and ruffled his fur.

“A lot of folks have been searching for you,” I said, looking from one sister to the other. I tried to mask my surprise. After all this time, Tamela was actually standing in my kitchen.

“We’re OK.” Geneva.

“Your father?”

“Daddy’s fine.”

“How did you find me?”

“You left your card.”

My surprise must have broken through at that.

“Daddy knew how to find you.”

I let it go, assuming Gideon Banks had obtained my home address through some university source.

“I’m very relieved to see you’re safe. Can I get you a cup of tea?”

“Coke?” Tamela asked, rising.

“I have Diet.”

“OK.” Disappointed.

I gestured to the table. They sat. Boyd followed and put his chin on Tamela’s knee.

I didn’t want Coke, but popped three cans to be sociable. Returning to the table, I placed a soda in front of each sister and took a chair.

Geneva was dressed in a V-necked UNCC Forty-niners jersey and the same shorts she’d worn the day Slidell and I visited her father. Her limbs and belly looked bloated, the skin on her elbows and knees cracked and wrinkled.

Tamela wore a backless red halter that tied behind her neck and ribs, orange and red polyester skirt, and pink flip-flops with rhinestones on the plastic band. Her arms and legs were long and bony.

The contrast was striking. Geneva was hippo, Tamela pure gazelle.

I waited.

Geneva looked around the kitchen.

Tamela chewed gum, nervously scratched Boyd’s muzzle. She seemed skittish, unable to remain still for more than a second.

I waited.

The refrigerator hummed.

I waited long enough for Geneva to collect her thoughts. Long enough for Tamela to settle her nerves.

Long enough for the entire five movements of Schubert’s Trout Quartet.

Finally, Geneva broke the silence, eyes now on her Coke.

“Darryl off the street?”

“Yes.”

“Why’s he in jail?” Heat lightning pulsed in the window behind her.

“There’s evidence Darryl’s been dealing drugs.”

“He gonna do jail time?”

“I’m not a lawyer, Geneva. But I would guess that he is.”

“You guess.” For some reason Tamela directed the comment to Geneva.

“Yes,” I said.

“How do you know?” Tamela canted her head sideways, like Boyd studying a curiosity.

“I don’t know for sure.”

There was another long silence. Then, “Darryl didn’t kill my baby.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“It weren’t Darryl’s baby. I was with him, but it weren’t Darryl’s baby.”

“Who is the father?”

“White boy named Buck Harold. But it don’t matter. What I’m sayin’ is Darryl didn’t do that baby no harm.”