Except for the Bones
An Alan Bernhardt Mystery
Collin Wilcox
This book is dedicated to the six of us.
SUNDAY,
July 15th
9:10
P.M., EDT
A
S HE WATCHED HER
come slowly down the staircase, a provocative upward view that enhanced the flare of faded blue jeans molding flanks and pelvis, Daniels felt himself tightening, involuntarily responding to the way she looked, the way she moved. She was thirty years old. Had she always moved like this, so sensually, so self-sufficiently, so disdainfully? Some women pandered to the male ego, titillated the male libido. Not Carolyn. She challenged men with a thinly veiled contempt for the weakness that made them want her.
Them that had, got.
And Carolyn had.
Meaning that her first impulse would be to throw the envelope in his face. Her reaction, her initial response, was predictable.
But it was her secondary response that would be definitive: the thrust that would follow the feint.
At floor level now, she put her canvas tote bag on the floor and unslung her leather shoulder bag. He’d bought the bag for her in Geneva, less than a month ago. He’d known she would love it. He’d been right.
“The fog’s coming in,” she said. “Will that be a problem for Bruce?”
“No. I called him when you were in the shower. He said it’s clear at Westboro. Taking off in fog is all right. It’s the landings that can be a problem.”
“I wish you were coming.”
“I can’t. I’ve got to be here tomorrow. And you’ve got to be in New York.” He shrugged.
As she strode toward him, her eyes searched his face. She’d sensed a difference, sensed that something had changed. “Shall we go to the airport, then? Is Bruce there now?”
Daniels nodded. “He’s there. He’s ready, and the airplane’s ready.”
“So let’s go.” As she spoke, she came a last, significant step closer. She would kiss him good-bye. She would work her body against his, promises made, promises still to keep.
But this was the final scene, followed by fade-out. Good-bye to Carolyn.
Ultimately, everything ended. Even the sensation of her flesh naked against him, exploring, demanding. Finally exploding, the two of them.
The blank envelope lay on the arm of the sofa, within reach. As boardroom maneuvering must be meticulously choreographed, so must this moment of parting.
He shook his head. “I’ve got to stay here. You take the Jeep, leave it at the airport. Give Bruce the keys.”
“Oh—?” She raised one tawny eyebrow. Did she pluck her eyebrows? Had he ever asked her?
“Oh?” she repeated. Standing motionless, hips loose, shoulders slanted, head cocked, she frowned, studying him carefully. Did women like her live in constant dread of this moment?
Women like her …
God, it was a Victorian phrase: “a certain kind of woman.” Yet the distinction applied. Some women fucked for hearth and home, some for the money and the mink. Leave love for the poets.
“Carolyn …” As he said it, he could hear the equivocation in his own voice. It was a flaw. In both business and love, the offense always won. Take the initiative, take home the prize.
He reached for the envelope, held it out to her. “Here. Take this.”
Eyes steady, mouth hardening, body tightening, she used thumb and forefinger to take the envelope. It was a nicely calculated gesture signifying a wry puzzlement, a gathering disdain. Carolyn, in control.
“What’s this, Preston? Should I guess?”
“It’s a check, Carolyn.” He spoke softly, carefully measuring the words, gingerly monitoring the cadence. An hour ago, she’d been doing coke. The coke could set her off, running wild. It had happened at Hilton Head. Only a five-figure check had persuaded the management not to file assault charges.
“A check, eh? Another check?” Yes, she, too, was thinking of Hilton Head. They’d always been so remarkably in sync. “A check for how much?” Beneath the icy words, behind the cold gray eyes, rage was beginning to boil.
“Twenty-five thousand.” He was satisfied with his voice, with the tone he could command. His business, after all, was manipulation.
“You son of a bitch.” Suddenly she stepped close, swung, struck him on the side of the head, high. And then, as the envelope fluttered to the floor, she was on him. Her body was a wild, writhing knot of fury; her carmine-tipped fingers were talons. Her lips were drawn back to expose her teeth, as if she would tear at his exposed throat. Once she’d asked him for rough sex. He’d laughed at her. Uneasily.
Off balance, he staggered, momentarily recovered, then fell to his knees. Still she clung to him, ripping, tearing. How could he transact business, the man in command, with adhesive patches on his face? Behind his back, they’d snicker.
He rolled away, felt his shoulder strike the coffee table, a huge slab of natural slate. She was on him again. With his left hand he grasped her hair as he struggled to his knees. He jerked her head sharply aside, exposing her face, her jaw. He struck her with all his strength. Instantly, her eyes went blank, her whole body went slack. From an animal crouch, knees flexed, arms going slack now, she suddenly collapsed, fell backward. Her head struck the corner of the coffee table: a melon sound, splitting open.
In the savage silence that followed, only the sound of panting remained.
His panting.
Not hers.
P.M., EDT
A
HEAD, ON THE RIGHT
side of the two-lane road, on the shoulder, red and blue and white strobes blinked and blazed: a police car parked behind another car. The police car was white. Was it the state police, or the locals? Was it Constable Joe Farnsworth, doing his duty? Fat, waddling Joe Farnsworth, pistol dangling beneath his paunch, a play-actor’s spoof of a policeman. Two summers ago, the bastard had come up behind her, pressed against her, cupped her buttocks in his sausage-fingered hand. Vividly, she remembered the sour smell of his breath on the back of her neck. When she’d turned on him, he’d smiled. She remembered the smile, too: small, cupid’s lips pressed between rosy cheeks. Narrow-set, hot little pig eyes. Constable Joe, Carter Landing’s bad joke.
But the car had the state police shield painted on the door. Massachusetts’ finest: a slim, trim state trooper examining his victim’s driver’s license in the glare of the patrol car’s headlights. The victim was a teenage boy about her age, unsteady on his feet. Driver’s license, good-bye.
When Diane had first seen the strobes she’d decelerated, downshifted. Yes, the speedometer needle was on fifty-five. Drunk or sober, sky high or belly-scraping low, she could always drive. She and the BMW—what else was there?
Ahead on the left, Diane’s headlights swept over the chain-link fence of the school-bus yard: a half-dozen yellow and black buses, parked for the summer. Followed on the right by the familiar green sign with the white lettering:
CARTER’S LANDING, POP. 3,754.
