Beneath the Bones (7 page)

But there was something more about the way Debbie was acting around Marshall. Not friendly, exactly, but familiar — and far too comfortable. Not only didn’t Debbie act frightened of Marshall, but from the way she kept looking at him, it almost seemed as if she were trying to draw strength from him. Interesting.

If Marshall noticed or cared about Debbie’s breach of etiquette, he showed no sign as he replied. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of everything. If you don’t want the car repainted, I’ll have it destroyed and replaced with whatever make and model you’d like.”

Marshall said this casually, as if he were doing no more than offering to pick up the check at a restaurant. For him, there was probably little difference, Joanne thought. The Crosses were wealthy, obscenely so, if County legend were true. But no one seemed to know just how the family had come by its money. Profits from the slave trade, some said, while others suggested bootlegging during Prohibition or profiteering during both World Wars. Others with a less sensational turn of mind claimed the family had grown rich by successfully investing in the stock market one generation after another. Still, the fact remained: no one knew for certain save the Crosses themselves.

“That’s … very generous,” Debbie said. “But I don’t know — ”

“Generosity has nothing to do with it,” Marshall interrupted. “Whoever did this insulted you, and an insult to any citizen of Cross County is an insult to my family. It’s our duty to take care of it.”

Marshall spoke a bit too formally, a bit too stiffly, for Joanne to completely buy his words. She had no doubt he was serious about what he said, but she thought there was more to his offer than simple noblesse oblige. Her suspicion only deepened when she saw the way Debbie’s eyes softened as she replied.

“Thanks.”

Marshall’s gaze, however, remained cold and unemotional, and he accepted Debbie’s gratitude with a curt nod.

“Sorry, Debbie,” Joanne said, “but I’m afraid you’re going to have to take a rain check. Your car is now part of an ongoing investigation, and I won’t be able to release it until we’re finished with it.” She turned to Marshall before he could protest. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Marshall, but you wouldn’t want to interfere with official sheriff’s department business … would you?”

Marshall’s ice-blue eyes seemed to glitter for an instant in the morning sunlight, and Joanne felt a mild sensation of pressure inside her head. But the feeling quickly passed, and Marshall’s gaze returned to normal. If it had ever been anything
but
normal, that is.

He sighed, the sound a frustrated admission of defeat. “Very well. But can you at least keep the car out of sight?”

Ronnie was still in the process of taking photos of Debbie’s car. So far, he’d only snapped two, not because he was dawdling, Joanne knew, but because he took his time setting up his shots so they were perfect. Ronnie only hurried in an emergency, and even then only if it was a
life-and-death
emergency. But now Ronnie paused in his work and glanced over at Joanne, as if waiting to see how she was going to respond.

“We’ll park it in the garage at the county building,” Joanne said. “Will that do?”

“I suppose it’ll have to, won’t it?” Marshall’s lips formed a humorless smile. “To be honest, it’s not so much you or your people I’m worried about. I trust you to perform your duties with due diligence.”

Right
, Joanne thought.
That’s why you made it a point to get here before I did
.

Ronnie — reassured that his work wasn’t going to be rushed, Joanne guessed — stopped paying attention to the conversation and returned to choosing his next shot.

Marshall continued. “It’s Dale that concerns me. I’d rather not see a photo of Debbie’s redecorated car splashed on the front of that bird-cage liner he calls a paper.” His brow crinkled into a slight frown. “Speaking of Dale, where is he? I thought surely your
good friend
would have gotten here by now.”

Joanne had been thinking the same thing, but she didn’t want to tell Marshall that, not after the way he’d stressed the words
good friend
as if to imply that Dale was quite a bit more to her than that. She doubted Marshall really believed there was anything romantic between Dale and her. Insinuating otherwise was simply one more way for Marshall to try to get the better of her.

She shrugged. “He’ll be along sooner or later, I’m sure. But he won’t print anything that will compromise an investigation, you know that. He’s too much of a professional.”

Now it was Marshall’s turn to shrug. “Maybe. But Dale’s been stuck in Cross County for a long time. It would be tempting to make the most out of a story like this, use it as a ticket back to the big time. It might not get him all the way back to Chicago, but maybe Cincinnati or Cleveland.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. A story about a vandalized car wouldn’t …” Joanne trailed off as the full implications of Marshall’s words sank in. “You know about last night.”

Marshall gave her a smile that was just a degree or two away from a smirk. “Does that surprise you?”

“Not really.” She mentally kicked herself for not realizing this sooner. She’d had too little sleep last night, and her brain was sludge this morning. Not that it was a good excuse. It just meant that she would have to work all the harder to focus.

Debbie had been silent all this time, merely listening while Joanne and Marshall verbally jousted. But now she spoke up.

“What are you two talking about? Did something else happen last night? Something … bad?”

Joanne knew Debbie would have to be told about the murder, and she could well imagine the poor woman’s reaction when she heard that someone had killed a boy last night using her son’s M.O. But this was neither the time nor the place for that conversation — especially not with Marshall Cross present.

“I’ll tell you in a bit, Debbie. Okay?”

Debbie’s mouth twitched, and she looked from Joanne to Marshall then back again. “Oh, God … it’s about Carl, isn’t it?”

Before Joanne could reply, Debbie turned and ran toward the café’s entrance.

“Go ahead,” Marshall said. “You need to keep her from disturbing any evidence inside. Don’t worry about my touching the car while you’re gone. I’m sure Ronnie will keep a close eye on me. Right, Ronnie?”

The deputy had taken a grand total of one additional shot since resuming his task. Now he looked away from the camera’s viewfinder, and while only his eyes were visible above his surgical mask, Joanne could see the uncertainty in them. Still, when he spoke, his voice was firm enough.

“That’s right, Sheriff. I’ll see to things out here.”

For a moment, Joanne was torn. She didn’t like the idea of leaving Ronnie alone with Marshall, but she couldn’t let Debbie be alone inside the café, either. Finally, she nodded to Ronnie and gave Marshall a last look.

“We’ll talk again,” he said.

Joanne’s jaw muscles bunched tight as she replied. “Yes, we will.” Then she turned and headed for the café.

• • •

“Hello, Tyrone. What’ve I missed so far?”

Tyrone Gantz didn’t jump at the sound of Dale’s voice, though the reporter had approached from behind as quietly as he could. It was a little game Dale played, seeing if he could sneak up on Tyrone. Though he’d been trying for years, he always failed.

“Not much. Ronnie just got here a couple minutes ago. He’s taking photos of Debbie’s car.” Tyrone’s voice was soft and whiskey-rough, and if Dale hadn’t known the man for years, he might’ve thought him ill. But Tyrone always sounded like this, and Dale figured it was because he didn’t get the chance to talk very often. Dale wondered if anyone ever spoke with Tyrone besides him. Maybe not, he decided.

Tyrone stood near the mouth of the alley between Holloway’s and Mitch Phillips’ dental clinic, Nothing But the Tooth. He wore a gray trench coat that was at least as old as he was, and which probably hadn’t been cleaned since the day it was purchased. Dale knew this wasn’t due to neglect on Tyrone’s part. The multitude of faded stains and ground-in dirt made for effective camouflage, helping Tyrone to blend in with his surroundings. It helped that the man could be as still as a corpse when he wished, barely seeming to breathe.

Tyrone was a short, stout man who could’ve been anywhere from fifty to eighty. His white hair was long and unkempt, his beard likewise, though both were clean. Beneath the trench coat he wore a white T-shirt — which Dale knew from their long acquaintance would be freshly laundered — along with jeans and tennis shoes. He looked every bit the stereotype of a homeless person, and as far as Dale knew, Tyrone might well live on the streets. But there was nothing stereotypical about this man.

Dale didn’t ask Tyrone if Joanne had spotted him. Not only did he already know the answer, but the question would’ve been an insult to Tyrone’s pride.

Dale moved up close behind Tyrone so he could look over the man’s shoulder. The trench coat smelled of decades’ worth of mildew, and Dale was forced to breathe through his mouth if he wanted to remain in proximity to Tyrone. He didn’t want to get any closer to the mouth of the alley, though. Dale was good at what he did, but he knew he was nowhere close to Tyrone’s league when it came to staying out of sight, and he didn’t want Joanne — or worse, Marshall Cross — to know he was watching them. Besides, he didn’t want to block Tyrone’s view. That would be rude.

There wasn’t much traffic this time of morning, but even so, Dale wasn’t able to make out any of the conversation taking place across the street. His hearing had never been the greatest, and it only seemed to be getting worse as the years went by. But that was all right. He could always get Joanne to fill him in later. He was here for a different reason.

“I was here last night,” Tyrone said. “Well, technically I wasn’t
here
. I was sitting in Holloways’ doorway.”

“You saw what happened.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes. But I’ve told you before, Dale. It’s my job to witness. Not to interfere.”

“I’m not asking you to interfere. I’m asking you to share what you know. Isn’t that what being a witness is all about?”

Tyrone didn’t respond right away, and while Dale couldn’t see the man’s facial expression from where he stood, he knew Tyrone was smiling ruefully.

“You always use the same argument.”

“That’s because it always works.”

Tyrone chuckled, a hoarse, almost tubercular sound. “We’re two of a kind, aren’t we? Though I watch in hiding and you in plain sight. We’re like the blind men and the elephant. We each see pieces of the whole. So how did you find out about Debbie Coulter’s car? Police scanner? Or did Sheriff Talon call and give you a head’s up?”

“This is embarrassing to admit, but as I walked out of the
Echo
office today, I saw Marshall Cross drive by. I followed on foot and saw him meet Debbie outside the café. I figured you’d be around somewhere — you always are when something interesting is going on — so I decided to poke around in some likely hiding places until I found you.”

Across the street, something had upset Debbie. She turned and ran inside the café. Joanne spoke with Marshall for a moment before following Debbie inside. Marshall didn’t leave, though. He kept standing there, watching as Ronnie continued his laboriously meticulous photography of the defaced Ford.

“You wouldn’t have found me if I hadn’t wanted you to,” Tyrone said. There was no braggadocio in his voice. He was simply stating a fact.

“I know. So … what happened?”

“You go first,” Tyrone said. “Despite your flattering portrayal of me, I can only get so far so fast on foot. I know something happened outside town last night. I saw the paramedic van leave the county building at 2:58 a.m.”

Dale had never seen Tyrone wear a watch, yet he somehow always knew the precise time.

Dale told him about the murder. Though he knew Joanne wouldn’t approve, he didn’t hold back a single detail. It was the only way to make sure Tyrone would do the same when it was his turn.

Just as Dale finished with his story, he saw Ronnie Doyle drop his camera onto the asphalt, watched plastic fragments break off the casing. Ronnie himself quickly went down after it, falling first to his knees, then pitching forward onto his hands. He crouched there on all fours, head lowered, shivering as if caught in a blast of winter air, features twisted into a mask of utter revulsion.

Marshall Cross stood with his arms folded, impassively regarding Ronnie. And then, though Dale hadn’t been able to make out anything else that had been said across the street that morning, he quite clearly heard Ronnie whisper a single word.

“Yes.”

• • •

Ronnie tried to go about his work while pretending Marshall Cross wasn’t standing there watching his every move. He didn’t glance in Marshall’s direction, made sure that the man wasn’t visible through the camera lens as he lined up his shots. But it didn’t help. Ronnie could feel Marshall’s gaze on him, tracking his every move, like a hawk perched on a telephone pole, eyeing a field mouse he’s considering making a quick snack of. Ronnie felt a slight pressure in his head, and then his skin began to itch, as if hundred of tiny insects were lightly crawling over the surface of his body. He told himself he was just feeling anxious, that the sensation was all in his mind, and he did his best to try to ignore it. But the itching grew in intensity until it became a fiery pain, as if the insects — thousand of them, now — were sinking hook-like pincers into his flesh and tearing away tiny chunks of meat.

Ronnie gritted his teeth and a soft whine escaped his throat. It was the kind of sound a small, frightened dog might make just before it squirted a stream of urine onto the ground. Sweat-beads formed on his forehead and began sliding down the slides of his face, trickling down his neck. He
hated
sweating, couldn’t stand the way it made his clothes cling cold and damp against his body. He wanted nothing more than to drop the camera onto the ground and start scratching, raking fingernails over his flesh to dislodge the maddening biting things that he knew couldn’t be real, but which he felt nevertheless.