The Haunted Bones (16 page)

"You knew she was freaking out."

"Yes. I followed her to your house to stop
her. I was a little delayed by the police, but she won't hurt you
anymore. Neither will Llse."

"But…what's to stop me from telling them
about you?"

"You won't." She reached into her pocket and
pulled out another one of the silver cylinders. I tried to pull
away as she pressed it against my neck. "I hope we never meet
again, McNally. Because if we do, it's because someone wants you
dead."

She depressed the needle.

And all was calm.

Twenty Five

Pink blew out all seventeen of her birthday
candles on the first try.

I took pictures as Deb and Julie handed out
pieces of cake to everyone. We were in O'Charley's, Pink's favorite
restaurant. Myself, Gerald, Pink, two of her friends who couldn't
stop talking to me, Julie, and Susan, every one of us still in our
wedding finery from the Chief Of Detective's daughter's wedding
earlier that day.

Once everyone had cake, I sat down hard and
finally got back to my coffee.

Susan put her hand on my back. "How you
doing? Feeling okay?"

"I'm good. Still sore, and my nose still
hurts." Llse Wallace could give one hell of a right and left
cross.

"Eh…makes you look distinguished."

Debbie snorted. "Makes him look like a
hooligan."

Things were semi-back to normal. I didn't
remember much at all of what happened in the warehouse. Neither did
Pink. I had weird dreams of golden-painted faces and old bones.

Vale and company found us because of an
anonymous phone call. Senator Padeaus and Llse Wallace were dead,
and Pink and I were heavily drugged on the cot. And as Julie put
it, I'd been beaten. Again.

It took a few days to sleep off the drugs
and again, I couldn't remember what happened. I did remember Mary
Smith's death…sort of. Either way, we had solved three mysteries
total. And I had jobs lining up thanks to the news article, though
not all of them were good jobs. And some of them were down right
spooky.

Vale had put in a good word
for me, and I wasn't so much welcomed back into the squad as
allowed
to participate
when I wanted to, as a crime scene photographer. I decided to get
my PI license, just in case.

Susan was happy her client had been released
on the Lanier Strangler case. But still the body count was
rising.

After the party was over and I was on my way
to my car, Julie called out and fell into step with me. "Haunted
bones."

"What?"

"You kept saying that while you were
sleeping. After Mary Smith attacked. I wanted to ask you where you
got that."

"I got it from Mary. That's what she called
her mother's bones."

"But we proved her mother wasn't in there."
She put a hand on my arm and we both stopped on the sidewalk.
"Haven't you thought about that?"

I gave her a confused look.

"Devan—why did the picture show the image of
a living woman? Poulin wasn't dead. Why didn't it show Patsy
Granger's image?"

I had asked myself the same question several
times. "It did. Vale pulled pictures of Elizabeth Poulin and Patsy
Granger and if you're just glancing…they kind of resembled each
other. But if you were riddled with guilt, like Mary had been, then
she would look exactly like Elizabeth."

"So it was Mary's self-made ghost that
caused her to make mistakes and believe the image was her mother's
ghost."

"That and someone's haunted bones."

about
the author

PM Weldon has published over 11 novels and
40 short stories. She lives in the Bible Belt with her family and a
pounce of cats.

Big
Fish, Little Fish

A Devan McNally File

ONE

The Master drilled the last screw into the
hinge and blew away the shavings with a quick breath. He carefully
replaced the drill where it hung on the pegboard of his basement
wall then turned to admire his handy work. The silver hinge was
firmly connected to the bright red bowling ball. The three finger
holes just below the addition reminded him of a surprised emoticon.
He loved bowling balls. They were round, and shiny, and
colorful…

And heavy.

He glanced at the young man on the floor,
struggling with his bonds where he lay several feet from the
Master's work table. Several layers of shiny silver duct tape
covered his eyes, and a golf ball and more duct tape kept him
quiet. The handcuffs and leg irons were chained together, making a
perfect hog-tie.

The sun should have set by now. There was no
rain forecast for the evening. And a full moon. The perfect
atmosphere for the Master's next performance.

He finished the ball with a lock and thick
chain. After removing the ball from the padded vise, the Master
carried it to the struggling man as the chain scraped along the
wood. Once he set the ball on the basement floor, he pulled the
chain to him. It brushed over the captive who increased his
struggles. The Master listened to his muffled protests and once he
had the chain's free end in hand, leaned forward and put a hand
over the tape keeping the golfball in place.

"Sshh…it won't do you any good. No one will
hear you. And tonight, it will all be over."

The captive protested louder, harder. The
Master pulled a second padlock from his pocket and fastened the
other end to the metal collar he had wielded around the young man's
neck that morning. One click and the stage was set.

His doorbell chimed above.

The captive tried to yell.

The Master sighed as he rose and looked down
at the young man. The visitor would be Mrs. Cunningham, his
neighbor, bringing him his Thursday evening chowder. He looked
forward to her weekly treat and planned on enjoying the potatoes
and salty taste in preparation for the night's festivities.

On the shelf next to the steps leading
upstairs sat a vial and several syringes. The Master had one loaded
and ready just for this moment. He gently took it in his hand and
knelt beside the bound captive before he carefully injected it into
his neck. One last muffled scream and then blessed silence.

The Master ascended the stairs, locked the
door and washed his hands before he answered his neighbor's
knocks.

"Mrs. Cunningham," he said with the
appropriate mixture of joy and happiness. Not too much. He never
wanted to appear fake.

She was a short woman, plump with middle
age. Her hair was cut at an angle to thin out her round face and
dyed a shade of red not found in nature. She smiled at him and held
the pot. "It's so nice to see you, Mr. Smith. You're fine
today?"

"Yes, yes I am. Would you like to come in
for a cup of coffee?" Standard question. She always refused.

"Well…" she looked to her right, then her
left. "Actually…yes. I would. But just for one cup."

He smiled and stepped to the side to allow
her entrance. She had been in his house before. He had paid her to
clean several times. Her change in ritual didn't alarm him, but it
did peak his curiosity. Once he closed the door, he noticed she
clutched a newspaper to her chest. "I see you still read the paper?
I thought everyone read them online nowadays?" He moved to the
kitchen with her just behind him and placed the pot on the stove.
It was still warm but he liked chowder hot.

"Oh yes," she said and laid the paper flat
on his shiny marble counter top. "I was wondering if you'd been
keeping up with the Lanier Strangler?"

He smiled. For no other reason than the name
given the cases. A series of bodies found in the water of Lake
Lanier, nude, strangled. "I heard they arrested someone."

"Oh…that's what this article's about.
Apparently they had to let him go. Another body was found while he
was in jail, so his lawyer got him acquitted."

Really? He reached out to move the paper
closer to himself as Mrs. Cunningham went about the kitchen to pour
herself a cup of coffee. He didn't mind. She was putty in his hands
when ever he wanted.

The article on the acquitted suspect
rehashed exactly what his neighbor said in a single sentence. He
read it quickly and unfolded the paper to see the full image of the
attorney Susan Lowell. She was an attractive woman. Tall.
Statuesque. And very powerful. He respected the fact she fought for
her client because obviously…he was innocent.

Mrs. Cunningham retrieved cream from the
refrigerator as he scanned down the page. The second article caught
his attention and he stared at it.

"Yeah…pretty neat, huh?" Mrs. Cunningham
said as she poured the cream in her cup next to the paper. "They
say he can take pictures of ghosts. Two murder scenes—even solved
his own case."

"His own case?"

"Article says he's that cop that got shot in
the head about two years ago. You can see some of the shots he took
if you go online."

He pointed to the paper and looked at her.
"On the paper's site?"

"Nah. You have to google Devan McNally and
magic pictures. It's spooky as hell." She sipped her coffee. "Oh,
and Mr. Max over at the dock? His nephew works downtown. Apparently
McNally's been taking pictures for the Lanier case."

He gave her a sharp look. She didn't notice.
She was looking at the paper. "What…did he find?"

"Bowling balls." She shrugged. "Or that's
what the article says."

"How are bowling balls relevant to the
strangled bodies?" He straightened up and schooled his features
into his usual mask of calm, though inside the Master railed.

"Oh I don't know. It's the only clue they're
releasing about what he's found." She patted the counter. "Well I
should be going, Mr. Smith."

"Yes…May I keep the paper? I would very much
like to read it."

"Oh, sure. But you know it's online too.
Just have to have a subscription." She waved at him. "I'll let
myself out. Night, Mr. Smith."

"Night…Mrs. Cunningham," he replied but
didn't watch her as she left. He folded the paper and held it in
front of him, his gaze locked on the picture of Devan McNally. This
was a man he wanted to get to know. "Well Mr. McNally," he said as
he pulled a spoon from the bowl of them next to the stove and
stirred his chowder. "We'll have to change things up a bit, won't
we, and test out exactly what you can do."

Tonight's plans had just been…changed.

To be continued in
Big Fish, Little Fish
.

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