Bones (38 page)

"To see Ben," she repeated. "Did you talk to them?"

I lifted a shoulder. "They were there to cheer him up."

"So. . . ?"

"So I didn't talk to them."

After a moment, she said, "There were two others, weren't there?"

I thought, then said, "There was a cop, Houghton. He was Thompson's assistant, you might say. Frank told me he resigned on May nineteenth."

"The day you returned from the mountains. When everyone learned what had happened there."

"Yes. Maybe he felt bad about not being there. But it wasn't his fault."

"Maybe. Or he might have felt lucky," she said. "Sometimes, in battle, for example, a soldier will see the man next to him die, and feel lucky that it wasn't him. But even though that's a natural reaction, later, he might feel bad about having felt it."

I didn't say anything.

"Let's see," she said, "there was one more, person up there, right? The lawyer."

"You mean, Phil Newly?"

"Yes."

"Yes. Disappeared for a while."

"Why do you think he disappeared?" she asked.

"He said his sister was taking care of him while he recovered from his injuries. Parrish broke Phil's foot."

"So, there are four other people who went up into the mountains with you, but you haven't talked to any of them since then?"

"Right." I thought for a moment and said, "You think they might be having a hard time, too?"

"Do you?"

I hesitated only slightly before saying, "Yes."

"How could you find out?"

"Talk to them."

"Let's make that your first homework assignment."

"Homework!"

"Did you think therapy was going to be easy?" She laughed.

"No," I answered honestly.

"Just those four people. A phone call, a visit--just contact them. Okay? Now, let's talk about sleep and nutrition . . ."

** CHAPTER 39

MONDAY AFTERNOON, SEPTEMBER 11

Las Piernas

Parrish was humming to himself as he worked. Being in a garage workshop was not quite as wonderful as having his own hangar to himself. The neighbors were a little closer, more caution was required.

But it was just so darned great to have his hands on some real tools again! He revved up the circular saw and listened to the high-pitched sound of the motor, smiled at how little resistance it met until it got to the bone.

He wondered if Ben Sheridan had been in the hands of so fine a surgeon--he doubted it was possible--and began to sing "Dem Bones." There was a little burning smell as the saw did its work. He took a deep breath, and sang another chorus. When the saw zinged to a finish, he was at one of the "connected to" phrases. He stopped singing and smiled.

"Not anymore!" he said aloud, and had to put the saw down until he could stop laughing.

He methodically continued his work, but was disturbed to note that he was subject to a certain degree of distraction. He kept thinking about Ben Sheridan.

Ben Sheridan had tricked him!

No, no, such a thing wasn't really possible. A trick implied cunning, and Sheridan had been acting in a ridiculously sentimental fashion when he charged into that meadow.

By pure luck, the man had escaped being killed by the bullet--little higher, Parrish thought, touching the bone he was working on--a shot in the femur, through the femoral artery and--glub, glub, glub--in no time at all, the man would have bled to death. Actually, he thought, if he had hit an artery, maybe it would have sprayed blood all over the place. The image was exciting to him, and he stayed with it for a moment, savoring it, pleasantly surprised by it.

He was constantly evolving, he knew, into a more perfect, higher being. He must embrace these changes in himself.

After all, Sheridan was on his mind almost as much as Irene. He had even thought of using the knife on him! His knife, which had never been used on male flesh.

Except for one of his early kills--the childhood bully Merrick had caused him to remember--he didn't bother much with killing males. They were obstacles: accidental witnesses and the like. For men, he used guns. He shot them, got it over with. But maybe he was missing out on something.

He smiled, doing a little detail work around the knee joint of bone, thinking of the pain Ben Sheridan must have suffered. Did he scream, he wondered? Did he cry? Perhaps he would cause Ben Sheridan to weep, and lick the tears from his face.

He felt an impulse to even the man out, to take part of the other leg. Sheridan was so asymmetrical now. It was displeasing to him to see such a thing; it disturbed his sense of orderliness.

"I'm a sawbones, after all!" he said aloud, and snorted with laughter.

He made plans. She was a tricky one, this Irene. She was no longer working. Did his little engraved announcement--oh, that was a good one!--of his arrival in town frighten her away? Had she quit or had she been fired?

When he had called to see if she had received his other little message to her, he was transferred to her voice mail. But a recording said the voice mailbox was full, and the imbecile at the switchboard claimed she didn't know when Ms. Kelly would be in. He considered and rejected killing the switchboard operator. He hardly had time to kill every ignorant nobody on this earth, now did he?

He must concentrate on more important matters. He went back to making plans for Irene Kelly.

But while making these plans produced rather lovely sensations, thinking of her brought him to an entirely different state, made him taut with desire. He was a patient man, but he knew that he would not deny himself much longer.

He finished working on the bone, and laid it gently aside. The bone scent was so stimulating!

He must bring himself under control--there was a great deal of work to be done.

He bent to pick up the other leg, and put it on the workbench. As he did so, he said in a little puppet voice, "Hey, pal, thanks for the leg up," and enjoyed a good bit of amusement over that. Unable to resist another moment of fun, he held it as if it were a rattle and said, "Shake a leg!"

He recovered his composure and went back to work, fastening the leg between two vises.

For short while, he distracted himself with thoughts of the Moth. The Moth was hiding something from him. Did the little fool think he didn't see that? He was beginning to tire of the Moth. One or two more tasks to fulfill.

He turned the saw on again. This workshop wasn't nearly as large as the one he would be moving into. Neither one was as big as his hangar, but he supposed it would be quite some time before he would be able to work on airplanes again.

The sacrifices he was willing to make were phenomenal.

He thought of all of the unworthy hands that were now disturbing the remains from the meadows. That this defilement should be the price of his fame angered him.

And close to anger was passion.

The little bone-burning smell came to him.

He was almost there . . . almost, almost there.

Simply volatile.

** CHAPTER 40

TUESDAY AFTERNOON, SEPTEMBER 12

Las Piernas

Standing outside Phil Newly's door, I seriously considered bailing on my assignment from Jo Robinson.

Some perverse impulse made me decide to tackle the toughest visit first. I had already had some contact with Andy and J.C., but I had avoided Phil Newly. I hadn't had much contact with Houghton before he left the group, and because he no longer worked for the LPPD, it was going to take me a while to track him down. But I didn't have any ambivalent feelings about Houghton. My feelings about Newly were mixed.

He had been associated with Parrish, in a role that made him Parrish's champion. At the same time, Phil had made it clear that he didn't like Parrish personally. After all, Parrish had attacked him.

Although I wasn't proud of myself for thinking it, it had crossed my mind more than once that Phil Newly was fortunate to have his foot broken; a painful injury, but unlike Ben, he still had two feet. Because of that broken foot, he hadn't faced the same terrors; he had escaped before the worst of the journey began. He hadn't even seen the coyote tree. Afterward, he had cleverly dodged all efforts of the media to interview him; once it was clear to everyone that he had not been present at the excavation of either of the graves, there was little interest in him.

The police didn't seem to suspect him in the break-ins at David's house and Ben's office. They said his alibi had checked out. Still, while his sister backed up his claim that he had never left her San Francisco home during the day of the break-ins, a devoted sister might say anything to protect her brother.

But I couldn't think of anything he might have wanted at the house or university, let alone any reason for him to risk a lucrative law career to become a burglar. In fact, although I didn't know Phil well, I had never had any reason to believe he was dishonest.

I also felt grateful to him--Frank had told me about the ways in which Phil cooperated with him while I was in the mountains; he contended that without Phil's help, it would have taken him much longer to find me.

My mixed feelings stayed mixed.

I rang the doorbell.

I could hear someone approaching on the other side of the door, then there was silence.

I had called his office; I reached a recording that said the offices were closed and that he was not accepting any new clients. A little checking around led to the discovery that he had referred all of his current cases to other lawyers, and had told those attorneys that he was retiring from the practice of law.

It was already old news that a judge, considering the injury done to Newly by his client, had released him from the burden of defending Nick Parrish; a new attorney would be assigned if and when Mr. Parrish was ever back in custody. But no one had expected that Newly would end his lucrative law practice so suddenly and completely.

I didn't have Newly's home phone number, but Frank had dropped him off at this address.

Just as I was wondering if I'd get credit from Jo Robinson if Phil refused to see me, he opened the door.

"Irene," he said, "what a pleasant surprise."

It must have been etiquette lessons instilled from childhood that made him use the word "pleasant." He looked distinctly unhappy to see me. He peered nervously out at the street, and beckoned me in. I found myself almost reluctant to cross his threshold, but stepped inside.

Perhaps he noticed my reticence, because he put a determined smile on his face and said, "Come in, come in. I've thought so often of you. Is that your van out front? Frank picked me up at the hospital in a Volvo. And you used to drive--don't tell me, now--yes! A Karmann Ghia."

"Right, but the Karmann Ghia is no more," I said. "The van belongs to my cousin. He's letting me borrow it while he's out of town. I'm still in the process of shopping for a car of my own."

As soon as I said it, I realized that I had lied. I should have been looking for another car, but like a number of other things in my life, car shopping had been put off for another time.

Newly's house was spacious. If I had lived alone in it, as he did, I might have felt a little overwhelmed by its size. But as we ventured farther into it, I began to have the impression that he didn't spend much time in most of the rooms. There were no footprints on most of the carefully vacuumed carpets.

He took me to what was obviously his favorite room; a combination den and library. A few bookshelves stood along the walls, as did a stereo and a big-screen television. Across from the TV, two overstuffed chairs were positioned near a low table. Most of the books in the room were paperbacks, although one section held a lot of hardcover books. Popular fiction, for the most part. Not a weighty law tome in sight.

"Have a seat," he said, indicating one of the big chairs. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Thanks. A glass of water would be great," I said.

"Water? Nothing stronger?"

It was two in the afternoon, but it could have been last call, and I would have answered as I did. "Just water, thanks."