Twenty-Seven Bones (16 page)

With a first murder, as with a first marriage, there are bound to be surprises. The biggest surprise for Lewis Apgard, waking up the morning after the murder, was how much it had changed him. Simply lying in wait, watching the Corefolk coming and going, and knowing in a very deep and real sense that he held the power of life and death over them, was in itself a transforming experience; the murder itself only enhanced the transformation.

The second biggest surprise for Lewis was how gifted he was at it. Things hadn’t looked any too promising at first: no singletons. A parade of potential victims marching to and from the outhouse, but always by twos and threes. Cheese-an’-bread, thought Lewis, can’t any of these people take a crap by themselves? It was almost as if they’d been forewarned.

But if his experience as a practicing voyeur had taught Lewis anything, it was the value of patience. Waiting sucked, but sometimes, indeed most of the time, you had to wait for the good stuff. You had to be very still, you had to put yourself into sort of a trance where time passed in jerks—it was now, then it was later, then it was later still, but with no real sense of transition—until the
gotcha!
moment arrived.

The previous night, it had arrived around two in the morning. Lewis had been about ready to give up when he saw Holly Gold coming up the path carrying a flashlight. She was wearing a bathrobe, and best of all, she was alone. Lewis’s legs were stiff from sitting on the damp ivy—she was past him before he could get to his feet. But she’d be coming back, he told himself, and he’d be ready.

As he was squatting there in the bushes, hefting the sap experimentally, his excitement mounting as he waited for Holly to return (it felt a lot like voyeurism, Lewis couldn’t help but notice, only better, because he was both observer and participant), he heard someone else coming up the path. He ducked deeper into the bushes and watched, frustrated and incredulous, as Fran Bendt glided past him in a sort of deep-kneed Groucho crouch, and with a practiced motion dragged a log out of the underbrush and up to the side of the building, then stood upon it to peer over the window ledge.

Of all the luck, thought Lewis. Then, an instant later: of all the luck! It was as if the only man who could link Lewis to a premature knowledge of the Machete Man was presenting himself for Lewis’s convenience. Turning his back—here, take me.

Lewis drew the machete from his belt, crept up behind Bendt, who had his right hand on the ledge and his left down the front of his pants, and swung the sap hard against the back of his skull.

Bendt fell backward off the log in a jackknifed position, landing hard on his tailbone, then toppling sideways, his right arm conveniently outstretched. Lewis closed his eyes as he swung the machete. When he opened them again he saw Bendt’s hand lying in the ivy, palm up, fingers curled. He couldn’t bring himself to pick it up, as the Epps had requested.

Instead, thanks to some sixth sense he hadn’t known he possessed—that’s what he meant about being gifted—Lewis had turned tail and raced diagonally across the clearing and into the rain forest. Moments later he heard a whistle shrilling loud enough to wake the dead; if he’d hung around much longer, he’d have been busted for sure.

And it was that same sixth sense that told Lewis to find a manchineel, to rub crushed leaves on the soles of his shoes (the runaway slaves had known about manchineel, how it made it impossible for hounds to track you) as well as wipe down the machete, the sap, and the helmet before returning them to the overseer’s house, then bury his clothes beneath the well-trodden dirt of a vacant sheep pen.

So perhaps the Epps were right, thought Lewis, upon awakening Saturday morning and reviewing the events of the previous night—perhaps it truly was the hand of destiny that the three of them had come together at that point in their lives.

Not even Marley could have slept through the police search of the Core. Both kids ended up in Holly’s bed. It was a tight fit, but that morning a tight fit was good.

Shortly after seven o’clock there came a soft knock at the door. Holly raised the mosquito net and crawled out of bed, careful not to disturb the kids. She started to reach for her bathrobe, then remembered it was up in the Crapaud, soaking in a sink. She pulled a sweatshirt and sweatpants over the cotton Lady Jockey briefs and tanktop she’d been not-sleeping in, and padded barefoot into the next room to answer the door.

It was the FBI man, Pender. “Go away,” she told him, her green eyes blazing.

“What are you mad at
me
for?” asked Pender. Though she was in the doorway and he was two steps below her, they were almost eye to eye.

“Just when the hell were you planning to warn us there was a serial killer running around?”

“I’m sorry about that,” said Pender. “It’s always problematic, trying to balance—”

“Problematic? My kids’ lives are problematic?” She slammed the door as emphatically as she could without waking the kids.

“Knock, knock,” said Pender, through the closed door.

Holly couldn’t help herself. “Who’s there?”

“Anita.”

“Anita who?”

“Anita talk to you about last night. I was hoping to do it informally, over a cup of coffee…”

Pender stopped short of adding
…but if you’d prefer, we can do it downtown.
He hated clichés even more than he hated threatening witnesses into cooperating, a technique that was usually counter-effective as well as counteraffective.

The interview began on the steps behind the cabin. The two sat side by side, sipping instant coffee out of brown Yuban mugs.

“Were you that aware that Mr. Bendt was a voyeur?” asked Pender.

“Sure—that’s why we called him Peeping Fran. Dave Sample caught him spying on Mary Ann outside the shower a year and a half ago, beat the living crap out of him. He said he learned his lesson, and we voted not to turn him in, and to let him stay as long as he behaved himself. He’s been behaving himself since then—we thought.”

“So you weren’t aware of his presence last night?”

“Of course not—I’m not an exhibitionist, Agent Pender.”

“I didn’t mean to imply—”

“I didn’t know anything until I heard him open the door,” she said. Just thinking about it gave her the shivers; she wrapped both hands around her coffee mug for warmth, though the temperature that time of the morning was seventy degrees and climbing. “You probably won’t answer this, but is that what happened to Hokey Apgard, too?”

Pender thought it over. It was becoming obvious that with the entire population of the Core in on the secret, that particular hold-back (information known only to the killer and the cops, which the investigators could use to differentiate the true killer from the phonies, the crazies, and the publicity seekers who always seemed to pop up in this sort of case) was useless by now. He was about to nod when he heard a soft noise behind him. He looked over his shoulder, glimpsed a featureless face in bas-relief pushing against the plastic screening under the rust-flecked overhang of the tin roof.

“I think we have an eavesdropper,” he whispered. They carried their coffee up the hill and reconvened sitting side by side on the same split log they’d sat on to watch Thursday’s sunset. “Now where were we?” He remembered of course, but he was hoping she’d forgotten.

She hadn’t. “Hokey Apgard—was her hand chopped off, too?”

“I’m afraid so. And now I have to ask you to do something that’s kind of unpleasant, but absolutely necessary.”

“What’s that?”

“I need you to take me back to last night, run through it again, everything you saw or heard.”

“Do I have to?”

“It would help.”

But it didn’t. Holly was willing, and had a better memory than most witnesses, but as it turned out, she hadn’t seen or heard anything unusual from the moment she drove through the gate to the moment the dying Bendt opened the outhouse door.

And what Pender was really hoping for didn’t exist: no last words from the victim, no deathbed accusations. Which was disappointing but not surprising. For one thing, Holly had already been interviewed by Hamilton—it would have been the first question he asked. And for another, as much blood as Bendt had spilled out there, it was a wonder he’d made it as far as the door.

The truth was, Pender was starting to feel flop sweat. He characteristically approached an investigation with a hearty surface confidence that he hoped was contagious, but underneath there was always the nagging possibility that this was going to be one of the big ones that got away. The annals were rife with serial killers who were known to history only by their sobriquets because they’d never been caught. Was the Machete Man going to join Zodiac, Jack the Ripper, and the rest?

Fortunately, the best way to cure flop sweat is also the best way to catch a serial killer: hard work, total immersion in the minutiae, and a determination never to give up.

And it wouldn’t hurt to be a little closer to the action, either, Pender decided. He found Julian out behind the Crapaud, helping Layla collect samples of bloodstained vegetation, on the theory that if Bendt had put up any sort of struggle, the Machete Man might have shed some of his own blood. He told Julian what he had in mind.

“Are you sure? There’s no indoor plumbing, you know.”

“I’ll rough it.”

“Your choice,” said Julian. “I’ll square things with Ziggy.”

“She won’t mind,” said Pender. “You know what they say about houseguests and fish.”