Disembodied Bones (29 page)

“Well,” Leonie said slowly. “That’s part of
the reason I left, as you well know.”

Babette had lost her momentum and said
nothing.

“You remember, of course. Not like the other
little children. Scarred face. Scarred soul.” Leonie winced and
wished she hadn’t said anything at all. She relented. “A child was
missing,
Maman
. She was in danger. Would you have me condemn
her because of the family?” And there was the part she wished she
could communicate silently to her mother, that another child had
been taken, and that child was in danger because of her, perhaps to
spite her. Leonie couldn’t turn her back on Keefe Grant, whoever he
was.

“
Non
,” Babette protested angrily.
“
Non
. Of course not. Oh. Leonie, you make me as angry as a
hive of bees disturbed by a black bear.”

“You’ve been getting some troubling messages
lately from members of the family.”

“
Oui
,” Babette answered, a little
amusement trickling into her voice. “You’d think we’d never risked
exposure before in a thousand years. And you are right. The story
does paint you rather black. A real fiend, you.”

“There you go,” Leonie said, forcing herself
to not to sound brittle. “Nothing to be worried about.”

Babette hesitated. Her mother sense was
working overtime. “What’s wrong,
p’tite
?”

“Nothing much,
Maman
.” Leonie bit her
lip. She had never liked lying, much less to her own mother. As she
had gotten older, it had never gotten easier, even to people she
disliked. It was simply better to keep her mouth shut. “People
don’t like to know that their neighbors might be something like
what is portrayed in the story.” The truth was that, but that
wouldn’t bother Leonie. What her neighbors thought about her was
moot at this point. She didn’t want to impact the Gingerbread
House, but she thought Dacey would understand. Dacey would never
allow anyone to denigrate Leonie because of what she’d done for
Olga. But Leonie didn’t know how Dacey would react when she found
out that it was most likely because of Leonie that Olga had been
targeted in the first place.

“Bah,” said Babette after a moment. “It’s
their loss,
non
?”

“
Maman
,” Leonie said, thinking of the
pack sitting outside with tiny drops of blood marring its surface.
“There’s something I need to do.”

“All right,
oui
.” Babette hesitated
again. “The elders are upset, but well, what can they do but warn
you. As long as you’re not proclaiming yourself to be the most
wondrous psychic this side of the Mississippi. I think they’re
irritated. Silly old men. Well, most of them are anyway. They’ve
got their knickers in a wad. Only the Lord Almighty knows-”

“I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize
the family,
Maman
.”

“Of course, you’re not. You’re clever,
intelligent, beautiful,” Babette proclaimed proudly. “When are you
going to get married to a nice family boy?”

“I’m dating an outsider.”

“Oh, merciful
Dieu
,” Babette said
piously. “That won’t last.”

Leonie shrugged. Probably not.

After Leonie hung up on her mother without
definitively agreeing or disagreeing, she showered and changed. She
was so surprised that the phone wasn’t ringing off the hook,
considering that she had practically slammed the receiver down in
her haste to get off the phone with her mother.
Death by
parental questioning. God, what a way to go.
But that backpack
was still sitting ominously on her front porch, damning Leonie
silently.

He is patient. He controls. He wants
anxiety. Pain. Agony. He won’t kill the boy yet.

The words popped into Leonie’s head, just as
if someone had spoken them to her. For a scant moment, she was
reminded of her father reassuring her mother years before, telling
her over and over that their only daughter would be all right, that
she was alive and moving.

It wasn’t like that precisely.

Leonie pulled the remainder of her T-shirt
over her body, letting it drop to the tops of her thighs, covering
the waist and hips of one of her most ragged pairs of jeans. Frozen
into place, she wasn’t sure what was happening to her. It seemed
like a distant dream, something that happened to someone else.

And the thoughts in her head answered her
silent questions and fears.
I’m not exactly sure either. It’s
like the sun suddenly rose. Rose into the sky and I could hear you,
feel you, but you couldn’t do the same for me. Then you could. It
was as if you were drugged and now you’re not. Your eyes were shut
and now they’ve opened.

Leonie stood in front of the bathroom, afraid
to move, afraid to burst the illusion. Someone was speaking to her,
telepathically, just as if she were a normal member of the family.
The words themselves were tinged with interest, regret even, but
the patterns hinted of masculinity and innate strength.

Who are you
? The words slipped out of
her mouth as well and made her jump. The low sounds rattled around
the short hallway.

Don’t you know? I thought that this was why
you could suddenly “hear” me. I need your help desperately. I think
that you’re the only one who might be able to find the missing
boy.

Leonie realized that someone was moving
around in her little living room. She could hear the rustling
movement of someone’s clothing moving against each other. She
wanted to take the few steps that would show her who was speaking
to her this way. It must be a member of the family. It must be
someone she knew, but why now? Why not a decade and a half ago?

Not family. Not one of the people you grew
up with.

Finally able to move, she stepped forward.
“How can that be possible? Only people within the family are…” She
froze when she saw who was standing in her living room. “You.”

He stood about six feet tall. Brown hair
spilled over his head, appearing as though he had just climbed out
of bed, some of the wild strands wouldn’t stay down. His angular
face showed strain as he stared at her in return. Broad shoulders
flexed minutely as he withstood her silent scrutiny. Leonie was at
a loss for what to say.

Finally, the man she knew as G. Lily nodded
with a grim smile. “My name is Gideon. Gideon Lily,” he said
calmly. “And we have to find my nephew before it’s too late. His
name is Keefe and he’s only seven years old. Forty-five minutes
ago, my sister called to tell me that someone had taken him from
his bed while he slept. There was a broken window in the den and
none of his clothing is missing except the pajamas he was wearing.
But we don’t need the police to tell us that the one you’re so
afraid of, is the one who took Keefe, do we?”

Leonie went white. Gideon was momentarily
alarmed that such a pale woman could have even more color leached
from her flesh. Her slight figure wavered and he almost stepped
forward, but pulled himself back. “No, we don’t need the police,”
she answered finally. “They wouldn’t believe me anyway. But you
know about him. The one who wants me. He wants me to suffer and he
wants the people around me to suffer as well.”

Gideon nodded again. Keefe is drugged, but
the images are like washed out signals from an old television set.
A man with hate in his heart. A man who doesn’t like you very
much.

Her gold eyes stared at him.
How can you
know so much? Who are you? And why target your nephew? Who are
you?

Gideon smiled grimly again. “This isn’t the
first time we’ve met, and I don’t mean the times I’ve come to the
Gingerbread House.”

-

In daytime I lie pooled about,

At night I cloak like a mist.

I creep inside shut boxes and

Inside your tightened fist.

You see me best when you cannot see,

For I do not exist.

What am I?

I am the deepest of darkness.

Friday, July 26th

Never ahead, ever behind,

Yet flying swiftly past:

For a child I last forever,

For an adult I’m gone too fast.

What am I?

Early afternoon found Scott Haskell and three
of his sheriff’s investigators outside a house. Originally built in
the early part of the twentieth century, it was constructed in
Craftsman style. Scott knew the term because most of the people in
Buffalo Creek, including Sue Hewitt, were hung up on area
architecture. Every house had a history, usually dating from the
century before or even from the nineteenth century and some even
were reputedly haunted. Since tourism was a large part of the
town’s revenue, some of the information had sunk into the sheriff’s
unwilling brain.

He had to admit, he hadn’t seen this one
before, but it was a fine place. Sitting on what was once a large
farm, it was an old house situated off Highway 287. Scott knew that
most folks had grown cotton in the last century, but the larger
consortiums had taken over and individual owners were rare. At one
point in time, this farm had obviously belonged to one of those
people. He knew if he asked Sue, she could probably name the owner,
the owner’s children, and most likely the names of the owner’s
pets. She and her Historical Preservation cronies would know if
Orville Wright had slept in the upstairs bedroom in 1910 or if
Bayou Billy had once shot holes shaped like a heart in the side of
the privy just for fun as he was driving hell-bent out of Buffalo
Creek.

Scott looked around slowly. County cars were
parked in the drive and one on the lawn itself. Two deputies were
positioned around the back of the house, assuring that the occupant
didn’t flee off into the fields or parts unknown. They had checked
but it didn’t seem as though the name on the warrant in Scott’s
breast pocket had any guns registered to him. Not that it mattered
to their routine, he would be considered dangerous until they had
his wrists handcuffed behind him and he was firmly under their
control, preferably in the back of a patrol car.

But the wraparound porch was empty except a
few wrought iron chairs and a gently swinging porch chair. It
didn’t seem as though anyone were around and Scott took a moment to
study the house.

This particular Craftsman was called an
American Foursquare style, usually constructed in a square, or
sometimes a rectangle, with two full stories and a hipped roof. The
eaves were wide and exposed. The dormers on the second floor had
open double-hung windows; ghostly pale curtains were slowly
twisting in a southern wind. He had to admire the quality of the
house. The use of natural materials available in the area was what
had made the house somewhat economical. River rocks had been used
to construct the pillars and bottom of the porch. Oak and cedar had
been used in the exterior. Painted pristine white, it probably
looked like the day the last painter completed his last
brushstroke. Someone had babied this house or spent an inordinate
amount of money bringing it back to its original glory.

The house sat at the end of a dirt road that
split off from Highway 287 with only a simple mailbox to indicate
that anyone lived down this way. The road dodged clumps of trees
and cotton fields that still contained active cotton growth before
twisting back to reveal the house at the top of the drive as it
straightened out. Closer to the house, huge cottonwoods grew along
the sides of the road; their size indicated they had been here
almost as long as the house itself.

For all its beauty, it seemed a lonely place
with only a barn and some other smaller buildings off to one side.
Or, as the cop inside of Scott would think, an isolated place for a
criminal to do as he pleased. He glanced over his shoulder and
wondered how far the nearest neighbor was located. A mile as the
crow flew? Two miles? A little girl could scream her head off and
no one would hear. No one would hear a solitary gunshot, either.
Nor would anyone see a fella take a little body wrapped in a
blanket and a shovel to bury it with. He could walk out into the
field and no one would ever know.

“You all right, Sheriff?” Sue asked, chewing
deliberately on gum in her mouth as she regarded the house. She had
her riot gear on. Body armor made her tan shirt look bulky. The
helmet fitted snugly over her blond hair, and a Remington police
shotgun was held capably in her arms. She added, “You got a look on
your face, like you might explode.”

“I hate child molesters,” Scott muttered.
“They’re the worst kind of human being.”

Sue shrugged. “Put the sonuvabitch in
lockdown. Prison justice will take care of it.”

“Let’s do this,” Scott said quickly.

•

Motionlessly Gideon stood on the opposite
side of the small living room. The only sign of life was the
regular rising and fall of his chest as he breathed. He appeared
oversized in the tiny house. The doorways and ceilings seemed
stunted even to her, but in comparison his length seemed
particularly uncomfortable and ill at ease, as he waited for her to
come to a decision. He was doing his best to appear
non-threatening, neither moving closer nor making any abrupt
actions, and he seemed so incongruous that she didn’t know what to
say.

For a moment, Leonie only took stock of him.
Dark brown hair tumbled over his ears in a casual mess. His
long-sleeved shirt was rumpled as though he had snatched it from
the laundry basket without regard to how clean it was. He had
managed to get all the buttons in the right holes, but one side was
tucked in carelessly as if he had been in a great hurry to dress.
Same worn jeans she’d seen before with half-tied blue Skechers on
his feet. Was he a man who didn’t give a damn how he looked or
perhaps a man who was so worried about his nephew that he didn’t
care what he dragged onto his body in his rushed hurry to get to
the one person he knew might be able to find the child?