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Authors: Connie Flynn
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A shaman's words, Lily thought. A shaman's deed. All
creatures are one in the eyes of Quetzalcoatl.
She nodded. "Sebastian will leave now," she said.
"There will be no more werewolves in Ebony Canyon." Then she had
another thought. "What happened to White Wolf Woman, Tony, after she drove
the wolves from the wild forest?"
Tony grinned. "She returned to the deer people, and
lived the rest of her life as an ordinary doe respected by all."
Lily smiled brightly at the words she'd been longing to hear.
Then she turned and led Tony away from the fallen bodies
toward his wickiup. He called for Shala, who came running quickly, and arm in
arm the three of them walked across the village center.
"Will we go to the Disney lands now, Lily?" Shala
asked.
"Yes, sweetheart. First thing after we get a bath and
some new clothes."
For some reason they all thought that was funny and laughed
in unison. Still feeling like laughing, Lily looked up at the blue, blue sky.
Much remained the same. She still had the magic of White Wolf Woman, Tony was
still a shaman, and shaman's blood still ran through Shala's veins. But a
shining future lay ahead of them, one that promised the opportunity to live as
ordinary people.
At least for now.
# # #
ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED
BY
The Penguin Group
Copyright ©1998
Shadow of the Wolf
Copyright © 1998, 2011, 2012 by Constance K. Flynn. All rights
reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic,
electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any
information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the
publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles
and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Portions of the original text have
been deleted or changed. All of the characters, names, incidents,
organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
OLD BONES
A Short Mystery,
Suspense & Romance Story
by
K.C. Flynn
E-Book edition Originally published by Red Coyote Press in the
MAP OF MURDER Anthology: Copyright ©2007
Old Bones
Copyright ©2007/2011 Constance K. Flynn
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or
reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system
without the written permission of the author/publisher except in the case of
brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Acknowledgement:
My warm and heartfelt thanks to Susan and Sue, the dynamic
women behind Red Coyote Press, for supporting me through my first short
story.
K.C. Flynn
“What?” Ivy Chandler shouted into the phone even though she
knew better. The racket of the crane demolishing her Park Ridge tear-down was
interfering with her hearing, not Todd’s.
“We gaga ta, ” Todd repeated.
“Bones! Piles of old bones!” The construction worker's shout
came through Ivy's window.
Dead silence followed and Ivy’s brain went into translation
mode. The shout meant
no work was
getting done. At these rates? Todd meant let's discuss our relationship. With
their issues? Both statements required immediate action and Ivy sorted her
priorities.
“It's over between us, Todd. I'm sorry. And I can't talk right
now. I have a crisis outside.”
“No, wait. We really have to—”
“Not now. The men are yelling about some kind of bones.”
She hung up the phone, dashed outside and found the foreman
in all his bare-chested glory standing near the southeast pylon that had
supported the crumbling house. “Steve!” She rushed toward him like an eager
lover. “Why have your men stopped working?”
“Have a look.” He pointed to a hole behind the pylon, a spot
that had been inaccessible when the house still stood. Dirty lengths of discarded
and rotting lumber jutted from the earth. Steve moved aside to give her a
better look, but she'd preferred her first one. Now that his tall body wasn't
shadowing the hole, she saw the curves and knobs that suggested the lumber was
really bone.
Despite the lovely afternoon breeze, she felt sweat form on
her forehead and neck. She heaved a sigh. “What does this mean to me?”
Steve echoed her sigh. “Not good. Some of these Park Ridge
properties have archaeological value. If so, your tear-down will be put on
hold. Archeologists and anthropologists will snoop around, making all kinds of
observations that could take forever.” His grin turned devilish. “On the
brighter side, if a killer once lived here and these are the remains of a
victim, well, my crew will be up and running in no time. Police never linger,
they just swoop in and leave a mess for us to clean up.”
Any delay was too long for Ivy. “Then I’d better burn
incense and pray for a murder.”
“Not a bad idea.” Steve shook his head and a lock of shiny brown
hair fell onto his forehead. Ivy stared at it for a second, momentarily
distracted. “Actually,” he continued, “this could amount to nothing. The bones
look like they came from animals. Regardless, babe, I’ve got to call some
authorities.”
Babe? Maybe her fantasies about the sexy foreman weren’t
impossible after all.
Later, back in the converted and drafty garage she
temporarily called home, she forgot about Steve and the construction work that
wasn’t going on and concentrated on developing her presentation for the
morning. Hopefully she’d win over the director of a prestigious mental health
clinic and give her fledgling family counseling practice a boost.
The next day was nonstop, leaving no time to check
voice-mail until that evening. Todd left some half-threatening messages, which
she chose to ignore. Besides, she was more intrigued by the other messages. The
first was from Melanie Powell of the Field Museum of Natural History. “We have
a situation,” she said. “The bones submitted by Steve Carruthers were stolen
from the museum in the late eighties—the main thing is it's urgent we talk.
Please call as soon as you’re able.” Melanie left a number, which Ivy dialed,
getting a greeting that said the museum closed at five p.m. sharp and Miss
Powell would be available in the morning.
Apparently urgency didn’t extend to after-hours.
Ivy left a return message, then moved on to her next, a
disappointing response from the clinic director’s assistant, who wanted to let
Ivy know they’d decided her wellness model wouldn't work for them when they had
their hands full with ill clients.
Lastly, Steve Carruthers’ resonant voice briefly lifted her
spirits. His message dashed them. “Sorry, Ivy. The bones count. Your
tear-down’s on hold until a team has scoured the grounds.”
What a hell of a day! As if building her practice wasn’t
already straining her finances, now she had stolen bones on her property and
might even have to hire a lawyer. Oh, God, those archeology guys were going to
be harder to get rid of than her old boyfriend. Ivy shook her head, sent the
bad news messages to the message archives, and went off to practice what she
preached to her clients. Namely, get her mind off the pissy day and onto more
pleasant things, like watching her favorite television show.
The diversion didn’t work, so after wolfing down dinner, she
headed for the back yard. Which was technically her front yard until the new
house was built. And, God as her witness, the house would be built. She would
not endure a winter in that cramped, poorly insulated garage while a pack of
stuffy archeologists took over her property.
She stepped into a night heavy with humidity. Insectoid
critters—she thought they might be cicadas—hummed so loudly she barely heard
the traffic on Touhey. Porch lights dotted the neighborhood. Close by, a dog
barked and the owner commanded it to hush. Otherwise, all was quiet, as
befitted a suburban Chicago neighborhood populated with the upwardly mobile.
Flashlight in one hand, a small garden spade in the other,
Ivy illuminated the hole where Steve had discovered the bones, uncomfortably
aware she was tampering with some kind of crime scene, but determined to use
the old “I didn't know” defense if someone complained. Kneeling, she stretched
her short frame as far inside the hole as she could go without falling and
probed softly with the spade.
She had no idea what she was looking for. Oh, hell, when
would she ever get over her denial mechanism? She did know. Morbid or not, she
hoped to find evidence of a murder scene. So she kept on digging and was about
to call it a night when she saw the dusty gray surface. Ignoring a
trip-hammering heart that warned about the dangers of tumbling head-first into
a deep narrow hole, she twisted and stretched until she finally brushed the
object with her fingers.
Smooth. Hard. Ridged.
It had to be bone. Maybe a skull.
The hammering in her chest now came from excitement. She
bounced up and went for a shovel and a hoe. Crossing her fingers that this
marvelous find didn't turn into a petrified soccer ball, she prodded gently
until the domed curve came into full view.
It was a skull! She lifted it out, jerking back when she
felt movement. The places that once held sinuses and brains now undulated with
worms and the occasional scurrying beetle. She shuddered as she shook dirt and
vermin—hopefully all, but definitely most—back into the hole, then held the
head away from her body as she carried it to the unfinished section of the
garage.
Inside, she placed the skull on a battered workbench, found
some soft brushes among the tools the previous owner had abandoned and started
brushing away the grime, only vaguely aware that she wasn't much creeped out
about handling the remains of a dead person. The residual bugs actually
bothered her more. A short time later, she examined what might prove to be
evidence of a crime. A long crack bisected the frontal ridge above the left eye
and the eye socket itself had several missing chunks. It looked like the person
had died from several violent blows to the face. Yeah, as if she was an expert,
but this was what she'd hoped for and she wanted to believe it was true.
She had to talk to Steve. Although it was late, she phoned
anyway, surprised when he answered, considering how early construction people
got up.
“Tell you what,” he said, after she explained her call.
“I'll get hold of my contact at the Field Museum and meet you there tomorrow.
You might have talked with her. Melanie Powell.”
“Not in live conversation, but our machines are becoming
buddies.”
Steve chuckled, then gave her the address and room number.
“Melanie's on the first sub-level. Come after four. We'll catch her near
closing time when she’s not busy.”
* * *
Ivy traveled Lake Shore Drive nearly a dozen times,
wistfully eyeing the inviting park filled with bronzed horsemen and stone
fountains in hopes of finding an empty space to park near the Field Museum.
Finally, someone eased away from a metered spot and Ivy pulled in, jumped out,
fed the meter, then raced toward the museum. It was well after four o’clock
when she reached the ticket office. “Sorry,” the young guy behind the glass
said. “No admittance after four.”
“I have an appointment with Miss Powell.” Ivy gave her name
and lifted the large tote that only hours before had housed her patient files.
“About a possible artifact.”
“Yeah?” The guy checked a book on his desk, looked up. “Go
on through.”
She entered on the ground floor. Steve had said Melanie's
office was one floor down, so she looked for a stairwell sign. This was her
first time in a natural history museum, a place she always thought would be as
boring as Wonder Bread, but as she walked past the exhibits she realized this
was pretty fascinating stuff.
SUE UPSTAIRS — STANLEY HALL — said bright posters that hung
on the wall. According to the fine print, Sue was the largest, most complete
and best preserved T-Rex fossil ever discovered. The visiting exhibit,
Tutankhamen and the Golden Age of the Pharaoh, also had its fair share of hype.
On this floor was Ancient Egypt with its emphasis on
mummies. A giant earthworm that so resembled the crawly things she'd brushed
from the skull last night pointed the way to Underground, a place she certainly
didn't want to go. And a lion that was as tall as her
held center stage in the Man-eater exhibit.