The Summer Bones (15 page)

Victoria made a small sound, a gasp of protest. It snapped the moment into splinters of movement; his own sudden, convulsive lunge, Ronald's body being flung against the wall, the spin of a blue dish as it wobbled under the impact of the quaking wall and fell from the cabinet. Damon's hands twisted in Ronald's shirt. He could feel the fine material twine around his fingers and knuckles and the pound of the other man's heart against his forearms. He pressed hard.

“Jesus!” Ronald coughed and tried to raise his knee. Damon shoved again, avoiding the blow to his groin, his own breathing harsh and loud. Ronald's head bounced backward on the wall.

“Shut up,” Damon said, his own voice nearly unrecognizable.

From behind, he heard a thin whisper, “Damon … please.”

“Go to hell,” Ronald managed to get out.

Damon was younger. Taller. Stronger
. This
is what Sims wants
, he told himself in a haze of fury,
a fight, down and dirty
. He'd prodded, found the right nerve, just because he wanted it. Fist to fist. Man to man. Sweat and blood and bone crunching bone.

As quickly as it came, the rush of rage drained away. Damon was suddenly acutely aware of Victoria, standing in horrified audience behind them—of the comfortable, civilized room, which made violence seem even more ridiculous than it was.

Ronald's pale eyes bulged; his lips hissed breath outward. The odor of alcohol was unmistakable.

Damon said unevenly, “No, I'm not going to give you the damned satisfaction. If you want to hate me, fine. But it won't be because I punched you in the mouth like you deserve. I've never done a damned thing to you and I never touched Emily.”

He let go and stepped back. The older man sagged against the wall, his rumpled shirt rucked upward and bearing smears of dirt. Ronald didn't look good. His face was the color of paste.

Damon was dimly aware of Victoria going to kneel by the remains of one of their grandmother's antique dishes. Bits of porcelain were scattered all over the floor. She started to pick each piece up, carefully cradling the debris in her palm. Face averted, she said, “Ronald, can't you see that Damon is telling the truth?”

Her brother-in-law straightened away from the wall. He was still breathing with labored effort, his trembling hands going to pull at his shirt, tucking it back into his slacks. He lifted his head and looked at her. “Your sister is a slut.” The bitter words were enunciated carefully. “And I don't care if she ever comes back.”

Victoria turned her head in shock. Ronald didn't spare her, or Damon, another glance. He stalked toward the door, slamming the screen open with a smack of his palm. Seconds later they heard the roar of the Mercedes and the spurt of gravel under departing wheels.

Silence. Sunlight. The smell of dying flowers and baking earth. The whole thing had taken only seconds.

“This won't mend, will it?” Victoria said.

She was holding the shattered shards of plate. More carnage glittered around her knees. Damon said, “Tori.”

She frowned, concentrating on the pieces in her hand, “Too bad, isn't it? Gran will be heartbroken.”

“I'm sorry about the plate.”

She picked up another gleaming bit of blue glass and dropped it into her hand. “Was Emily having an affair, Damon?”

He felt his chest tighten. Ronald had done this. Ronald had accused. Ronald had spewed his ugly suspicions. He said, hoarsely, “I don't know.”

Her head lifted. “You saw her. She came here often”

“Yes.”

“She never confided in you? There were no signals, no signs of major problems?”

“Emily talked. She didn't always say much of value. I guess I can say that it wouldn't surprise me if she was seeing someone else, but I don't know who. I swear it.”

Her head went down again, a quick graceful movement. Damon studied the top of her head.
Is it better to address the rest of it now? Or let it go
. Indecision made him clench his hands.

“Tori.”

She didn't look up.

Let it go then.
He said gently, “You can have the shower first.”

Some things, Danny knew, couldn't be left behind. They stayed with you forever and ever, haunting your life. Memories that jarred sharply, like the first time he'd ever rounded a corner in downtown Indianapolis and seen a body lying in the street. Not the most horrible homicide he'd ever investigated, but certainly the one that stuck in his mind—gunshot wound to the head, some blood, mostly puddled on the asphalt, the smell of exhaust and feces, upflung arms, slack jaw, and torn jacket—just a dead seventeen-year-old girl and no witnesses. Welcome to the world of police work, Danny boy. Here you go, a senseless murder, enjoy yourself.

There was more, of course—the incessant stench that seemed to seep into your very pores, the inhumanity of handling someone's body without their consent or knowledge, the waxy, unnatural skin, the grayish lips, the ensuing rigor. There were the other police officers who joked, smoked cigarettes, or just didn't seem affected because they had been on the job a lot longer and it wasn't their first dead body.

He
had
been affected. He'd done the job, no question of it. But after he was home, he found himself in the bathroom, vomiting his dinner into the toilet and picturing the gaping, glassy eyes of a young girl who couldn't see a thing and would never do so again. To his grave, he would carry her, that girl from Washington Street.

She was with him now.

It was a beautiful day. A soaring sky was hung with wispy carefree clouds that seemed so far away they were mere washes of white in that sea of blue. Danny squatted on his haunches, careful to not disturb anything. His gaze raked over piles of dry leaves, bits of twig and branch, tiny rotting pieces of cloth. The bones seemed quite a part of the scenery, as natural as the scraps of old cornhusks and discarded walnut shells that sifted between them. A tiny delicate fern had grown inside the rib cage. Ligaments stretched taut wires between joints, like puppet strings.

The sun felt warm on his back, but a sudden chill made him shiver and sit back on his heels.

“Didn't take much to see it was human,” a voice said.

Danny looked up. “Did you touch anything, Raymond?” His voice sounded unnaturally loud. “Be honest with me now, it'll just help us.”

The old man shook his head. Even in midsummer, Raymond Keller wore a patched flannel shirt, dirty denims, and a battered hat that proclaimed Funk Seeds across the brim. His boots were cracked and gray with dust and a filthy handkerchief dangled from his front pocket. “Nothin' on purpose. Just that,” he said, pointing. “I kicked it when I was walking past here. Gave me one hell of a start when I realized what it was.”

He was pointing to a long bone, intact as far as Danny could see, that was at a ninety-degree angle to the rest of the body—a leg bone, most probably, the tibia. He could see the scrape in the dirt and the disturbed leaves where Raymond Keller's boot had dislodged it from where it had lain, most probably for months. The fragile bones of the skeleton's right hand were in perfect formation, and as far as Danny could tell, the rest of the body seemed fairly intact. Anatomy hadn't been his best subject back in college, but crime scenes were only too familiar.

He exhaled slowly and looked around. “What were you doing out here anyway?”

“Looking for my dog,” was the prompt reply. “She's a setter bitch about to have pups. I can't find her anywhere. She keeps wandering farther and farther from the house. She's a good dog. I ain't interested in losing her.”

Danny surveyed the soybean field to his right. The shimmering plants gave the illusion of a mirage. There were no structures in sight, unless you counted the distant lopsided hump of a long-abandoned barn. Beyond the soybeans, Raymond Keller had a field of corn, and beyond that, more soybeans. They were at the far edge of Keller's property, and the body lay in a small patch of sycamore and maple trees that stood guard at the flanks of a disused railroad trestle. The mossy arch of concrete had small trees and grass growing on the top, the rails long since gone, any hint of the trains that used to roll through eaten up by smooth fields. There was no particular road, but Keller had driven his pickup truck along the edge of the field where it was decently level. Danny had done the same with his patrol car.

“I need to contact the coroner's office,” Danny said heavily. He stood up, wiping his hands on his pants, although he hadn't touched a thing. He walked back to his car and got in the front seat, switching on his radio. He told the dispatcher to put him through to the Rush County sheriff's office and requested a crime scene search unit, photography unit, and the coroner. The words tumbled from his lips in a remembered litany of professional phrases and commands that he had thought once he would not have to say again.

After signing off, he walked slowly back to where Raymond Keller was leaning against the fender of his truck. “How often you come out this way, Raymond?” he asked conversationally. It would be twenty minutes at least before anyone would arrive.

The older man considered the question, his fingers fumbling in his pocket for a package of chewing tobacco. Extracting a crumpled red and white envelope, he took out a gob of brown stuff and shoved it into his mouth, positioning it expertly with his tongue. The tobacco packet went carefully back into his pocket. “Not often. No need.” The words were barely slurred by the wad in his cheek. “I plant right up to the trees around that damned trestle, but I just go by. I never walk around here.”

The trees were thick enough to conceal the body easily, especially to someone just passing on the seat of a tractor. Danny nodded and narrowed his eyes. A trickle of sweat was beginning to migrate down the center of his back. “Do you ever see anyone out here? Lights at night?”

“Too far from the house.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Kids might park here sometimes. Never seen ‘um.”

That was interesting. “Why do you think they might park here, then?” Danny asked. His left temple had begun to beat in a way that signaled an old pain.

“Heard it. In town.”

“From who?”

“People talk, Danny, you know that. Half of them don't make sense. I don't remember.” A shrug. That was that.

Danny switched tack. He squinted in the sunlight. “How old is that trestle, do you know?”

“Eighty years. Maybe a bit less. Costs too much to tear it down.”

“I could see that.” It was a simple explanation for leaving it in the middle of a working farm. Danny began to hope this wouldn't be one of the bad headaches, the kind he had learned to actively dread. He ignored the throbbing in his temple and prayed for the best.

“Hey, Danny.” Raymond gave a nod in the direction of the copse of trees and the silent resident. “You have any idea who that might be?”

His reply was evasive. “I can't speculate or draw conclusions. The medical examiner will have to determine the identity of the body.”

“How'n the hell? It's just a bunch of bones. Some scraps of clothes but not much, I'll tell you.”

“Dental records. Teeth molds. The autopsy will show the general age, sex, and height. They might even call in a forensic anthropologist, but I doubt they'll have to unless they think the skeleton is really old.”

Raymond spit a brown, thick stream into the dust. Luckily, they were far enough from the crime scene to keep Danny from objecting. “Is that right?” Raymond asked, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully.

“That's right.”

“A miracle of modern police work?”

“More like modern forensics.”

Raymond didn't look obviously impressed. He shifted the tobacco in his mouth to the other cheek and shook his gray head. “I'll tell you what I think.”

“What's that, Raymond?”

“I think that pile of bones is the little Helms girl. It'll be a damned shame if I'm right, but I'm telling you, that's what I think.” It was said with conviction.

Unfortunately, that's what Danny thought, too. Good God, his head was beginning to hurt.

* * * *

Michael's voice was patient. “You sound like you don't want me to come.”

“It isn't that.” Victoria examined the side of an antique china cabinet full of Spode dishes, the receiver pressed to her ear. “It's just such a bad time.”

“Two days. A weekend. I need to see you.”

“No one in my family is prepared for company.” The image of Ronald rose in her mind, his face livid with rage and accusation. And then, it was quickly replaced by Damon, losing his temper, at least in her presence, for the first time in years. What an ugly moment. The tension was stretching all nerves to the breaking point.

“I'm not company,” Michael lobbied expertly. “I'm your future husband. This will give me an opportunity to meet everyone. To help, if I can.”

“Michael—”

The faint wail of sirens came over the wire, reminding her of what she wasn't missing about Chicago.

He raised his voice. “Sweetheart, I'm not going to beg, but I'm worried about you. I miss you.”

“I know …” A falter, fatal to her argument. “But—”

“I've rearranged my whole schedule.”

She pictured him—brown hair, serious eyes, strong jaw, impeccable clothes. He took her silence as assent.

“I'll come Friday night, then, if that works out for everyone. I'm in court at noon, but should be free at three or so. That's puts me there about … when?”

“Seven.”

“Right. Seven. I'll see you then.”

He would complicate everything. She didn't want to deal with it. “Friday,” she agreed, reluctantly.
Day after tomorrow.

“I love you.”

She hesitated, and then hated herself for it. Why was it so hard? “I'll see you Friday.” Victoria gently replaced the phone receiver in the cradle. The setting sun outside made the lawn look like a jeweled blanket, ripe with emeralds.
It's Emily's disappearance,
she told herself wearily.
It makes it hard to think about anything else, especially the future.