The Bones Will Speak (31 page)
I TRIED TO SHOVE DOWN THE PANIC. NO. HE
wouldn't throw in a bomb. Not right away. That was too . . . impersonal.
But Dr. Hawkins wasn't going to hang around for hours. According to Aynslee, his big plans involved the Jewish Community Center. Eleven o'clock tomorrow.
If Columbine was his template, he would set up several bombs inside to kill and drive people from the building, then shoot them as they emerged.
But he said he would be able to move on, bragged that no one would catch him.
I rubbed my hands up and down my arms to warm up. Whatever his plans were, people would die. Dave knew the time, but no one knew his target. Hawkins could simply leave his dogs outside my home and go on the bombing and shooting rampage.
The dogs would attack anyone showing up to check on me. Dave would be armed, but what about Beth? Even Robert.
It was up to me.
But I needed time.
Get him to talk.
“Why me?”
His body pivoted in my direction. “It's very simple, Gwen. You have betrayed your race.”
I was right
. The thought brought me no comfort.
“We are at war. Don't you get it? Your skin color is your uniform, but you joined the enemy. Because of you, two warriors died, and a third one will be standing trial.”
“I was just doing my job.” I moved to the hallway and looked up at the attic access door. Even if I could reach it, I wouldn't be able to get the girls up there.
“You made a choice.” His voice carried clearly through all the broken windows. “The wrong choice, and like Phinehas, I am here to carry out God's righteous commandments.”
Moving to the studio, I opened the cupboard under the sink. With the plywood cover, it would take only seconds for the dogs to get through.
“The Fourteen Words, Gwen. That's all you had to know. âWe must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.' Now you must suffer the consequences. You and your seed. Your friends, dog, everything needs to be destroyed.”
I crossed to the broken window and peered out. The dogs were motionless, but Hawkins paced, hefting a rock.
“Do you really believe that?”
All three turned in my direction.
I thought about our conversations. His Nazi-like thinking had been apparent all along. He had complimented Winston on his pure breeding. And at the cow pasture, he'd spoken of survival of the fittest. I'd paid no attention at the time, thinking he was referring to animals.
I was so stupid not to put it together when I went to his church.
“Your dogsâ”
“Beautiful, aren't they?” The moon glinted off Hawkins's teeth. “They're highly trained and love to hunt.”
Turning, I raced through the house, testing each door. None of them would latch, let alone had locks. I raised my voice. “But your dogs aren't purebred. I thoughtâ”
“Oh, but they are. Fila Brasileiro. I imported them.”
I reached for the door to the office. My hand froze inches from the knob. I really didn't want to go in there. There was something deeply creepy about entering a dark room with a corpse still slumped against the wall.
Buck up, babe. You've seen dead people before
.
Yeah, but not all that many of people I knew.
“They're known for their tracking ability, used to guard and track slaves.”
Sucking up a deep breath, I turned the knob and entered. Hawkins had chucked a rock through the window, and the blinds clattered like a death rattle.
The gun was where I left it. I picked it up and stuck it into the waistband of my jeans, then returned to Aynslee's bedroom.
“They're also known for aggression. They're banned in some countries.” The dogs whined with eagerness. “Once I send them to attack, they won't stop. Trained that way. No Stop command. Thought you'd like to know that.” I could hear the smile in his voice.
I yanked out her bureau drawers, scattering the contents.
Must make it work. There. Grab it.
I assembled what I needed.
I quickly limped to the bathroom. Both girls were huddled together under the blanket.
“Mattie, Aynslee, stay in this room. No matter what happensâ” I grabbed a towel, then wedged it between the door and jamb and yanked the knob hard. The door caught, but one blow from those huge dogs would open it.
Bam!
Hawkins was using my rifle to shoot the front door open.
I turned and stumbled toward the kitchen.
Please, Lord, give me a few more seconds.
I grabbed what I needed, placed them on the table, then raced down the hall to the living room.
Bam!
Wood splintered and the door shook. I ducked, then moved to the center of the room.
Bam!
The door flew open.
I moved forward until I was silhouetted in the opening.
Hawkins looked startled, then he raised the rifle.
“Coward.” I spit on the ground.
He lowered the gun, grinned, and pointed. “Fass.”
Both dogs launched at me.
I turned and ran.
I RACED THROUGH THE HOUSE.
FASTER . . .
go faster!
The dogs bayed behind me, gaining ground. Nails churned on the plank flooring, seeking purchase.
I snatched the cans of vegetables from the table and threw them at the canines.
Startled, the dogs skidded to a stop.
Ripping open the kitchen door, I leapt through and sought Hawkins. He stood on the side of the house, near his parked truck.
Excited yelping seemed right on my heels.
I charged at him as fast as I could.
Hawkins stepped backward as if startled, then started to laugh.
Closer. Closer. One chance
. I pulled the gun from my waistband.
“No bullets, Gwen.”
I moved faster.
Wham.
The kitchen door smashed open as the dogs crashed into it.
Straightening my arm, I took careful aim.
River rocks clanked against each other as the dogs plowed through them. I could almost feel the dogs' breath on my churning legs.
“Stupid womanâ”
I shot him.
THE SPRAY FROM THE SQUIRT GUN HIT HAWKINS
in the face. The odor of lilac perfume permeated the air.
Hawkins screamed and clawed at his eyes. “What have you
done
?”
I kept running, not stopping until I'd reached the bumper of Hawkins's pickup. Spinning, I crouched and waited.
The dogs skidded to a stop and sniffed the air. Slowly turning their heads, they stared first at me, then at Hawkins. They smelled the air again.
“No. No. Get her. Attack! Fass, fass!” Hawkins, blinded, pointed as if to guide the dogs to me, but he'd become disoriented. His perfume-covered hand shot toward the dogs.
The dogs launched at the extended arm. Hawkins shrieked once before the roar of the canines took over.
I hurtled toward the truck door. I wanted to put my hands over my ears to cover the sounds. Crunching. Tearing.
With trembling hands, I grabbed the door handle and pulled.
Locked.
I heard a growl behind me.
My legs almost buckled. Slowly I turned.
The moon cast everything in a cold, blue light. My breath steamed around my face.
Both canines were glaring at me, hackles up, lips pulled over blood-blackened teeth. Hawkins wasn't moving.
One dog stepped forward, toenails grating on the gravel.
I turned and sprinted. Like a dream, my legs seemed like they were plowing through molasses.
Faster, run faster.
The panting of the dogs grew louder, nails on gravel, sharper, my breath, harsher.
Then silence. Only the sound of my breathing.
My goal was just ahead. I wouldn't make it.
Please, God, save the girls.
I passed the lilac bush and dove into the forsythia, the branches smacking me in the face. I turned.
The dogs reached the lilac bush and stopped, the smell confusing them. The scent would only slow them for a few seconds. Hopefully long enough. I took aim and pulled the trigger. A spray of perfume struck the nearest dog.
The second dog lunged for his throat.
MY FEET SEEMED ROOTED TO THE GROUND. I
wouldn't, couldn't move.
The dogs were evenly matched. They fought with a terrifying fury.
I wanted to look away, but I had to watch. If the dogs stopped fighting, they could reach me in just a few moves. What if one dog survived? Would he still be on a killing mission?
They were trained not to stop.
It felt like I stood there for hours, but it was probably only a few minutes before one dog lay motionless. The winner stood over him, watching for movement, before lifting his head.
I snapped a branch of the forsythia I hadn't realized I'd been clutching.
The dog's head pivoted in my direction.
Adrenaline shot through my system. I moved backward, away from the dog, one foot, then another.
The canine matched me, step for step, moving forward.
My back collided with something hard. Hawkins's truck. I couldn't retreat any farther.
Moonlight glinted off the dog's yellow eyes. His lips pulled up, revealing bloody teeth.
“Why won't you die?” I whispered as I raised the squirt gun.
The dog crouched, ready to spring.
Pumping the trigger, I aimed at the dog's eyes. Several blasts of perfume hit their mark.
The canine let out a roar, shook his head, then pawed at his eyes.
Quickly, find it. My only chance to keep the girls safe
. Dropping to my knees, I looked under the truck. Not there. I stood, frantically seeking my rifle. I tried to blot out the snarling.
Look at Hawkins. He held it last
.
The dog was near the prone body. Too near.
I threw the squirt gun to my left. It smacked the gravel, then skidded a few feet.
The dog pivoted toward the sound.
Racing over, I spotted an edge of the pink stock. I dropped next to Hawkins and thrust my hands under him. The rifle was slippery, but I gripped it and tugged hard.
The dog spun toward me, still digging at his eyes.
I turned and leaped toward the truck, grabbed the exterior mirror, and shoved up from the hood. The sharp bark behind me propelled me to the roof of the truck. My legs wouldn't hold me, and I sat on the cold metal.
The canine's vision had cleared. He raised his head, eyes locked on mine and muscles bunched.
I lifted my rifle and took aim. “Pink is a killer color,” I whispered.
He jumped.
I pulled the trigger.
FOUR MONTHS LATER
THE AUGUST SUN BAKED THROUGH THE STUDIO
windows, casting a gamboge-yellow glow on the walls. I held up the watercolor painting and pointed. “Do you see this edge of color?”
Mattie nodded. “So how do I keep that from happening?”
“You need to keep two edges in mind while painting wet-on-wet watercolors.” I placed a blank sheet of Arches watercolor paper on the table in front of us. “The edge you're actually painting and the edge where the pigment may end up. Take your stroke of water farther than you think the paint may bleed. Like this.”
A rap on the studio door frame interrupted the lesson.
“Have you been outside today?” Dave asked, entering. “The smoke from the forest fires is killing my eyes.”
“How close are they now?” Mattie asked, eyebrows furrowing.
“Don't worry, they're coming from central Idaho. Hundreds
of miles away.” Dave wandered over to our painting. “Really nice work, Mattie.”
She grinned at him.
I touched Mattie's shining hair. It was hard to picture the girl I'd found in the old house as this tanned and healthy teenager. Mattie wore white jean shorts under a bright-pink T-shirt. Her only piece of jewelry was a tiny silver dove hanging from a delicate chain. She smiled shyly at Dave and pointed to the necklace. “Thanks for the gift.”
“Important occasion; appropriate gift,” Dave said.
“Do you want to see my room?” Mattie asked.
“Sure.”
I followed both of them to the old office. The soft-pink walls gleamed with new paint, and fluffy matching curtains hung from the windows. A wind chime of doves gently twirled over the desk.
Dave admired the décor. “Very nice.”
“Mattie,” Aynslee called from the kitchen, “pizza's hot.”
Mattie raced from the room.
Dave waited until she was out of earshot. “Have you heard anything more?”
“The Public Health and Human Resources found some of her family, an aunt, and she is the most anxious to take her.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “They're finishing the screening and background check and will let me know. They've approved both Robert and me as foster parentsâ”
Dave looked at me quickly.
“Not together, Dave. It just means Mattie can visit either home.”
“Well then.” Dave moved toward the kitchen. “Are you ready?”
“I think so.” I followed.
“When does he arrive?”
I glanced at my watch. “Anytime now. Want some iced tea?”
“Sure.” Dave stopped. “By the way, how are you feeling?”
I couldn't help my snort of laughter. I really would start wearing that sign
I feel fine
. I touched my side. “All of us are healing well. Mattie had some testing on her last visit to the orthopedic specialist. He said that the damage to her fingers from her untreated juvenile arthritis, plus Hawkins's attack, will limit her hand functions, but you can see from her art that she can still use them.”
Mattie and Aynslee were sitting at the kitchen table eating lunch. “Dave,” Mattie said, speaking around a large chunk of pizza, “have a cookie.” She pointed at a plate piled with oatmeal cookies on the counter.
