Boneyard (14 page)

Satisfied, he climbed the ladder, slammed the top back down, and dragged the industrial matting back over the trapdoor. He coiled up the hose and hung it back on the wall next to the truck. He methodically placed the parts of a motorcycle he’d been reassembling for years on top of the matting. His wife would make a fuss, but that was kind of the point, and it would be a lot of trouble to move anything.

As he wiped his hands dry on a rag, he surveyed the garage. Aside from the mess he’d just created on the floor, everything was immaculate and in its place, a testament to his usual type-A sense of order. He nodded to himself, walked over to the fridge in the corner, dug out a beer and popped it open. It had been a long day, and a revealing one, he mused with the first gulp. He caught a glimpse of himself in the corner of a chipped mirror that hung by the garage door to help his wife back out her car. He met his eyes: they were clearer now, calmer. He tested out an easy grin, then let his features settle back into their normal configuration. “Someone’s fucking with you,” he said to the mirror. And God knows they are going to regret it, he thought as he chugged another gulp of beer.

He felt fatigue tug at his brain and pushed it away. From here on out, he had to stay sharp, he reminded himself. He’d get through this weekend, hopefully without any further surprises. Then come Tuesday, when his family returned to the city, he’d go hunting. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he pictured it. It would be different from the usual, and far more dangerous. But who knew? Maybe that would make it even more fun.

Kelly knocked again, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other as she tucked the bottle of wine under her arm and checked her watch. It read 6:35 p.m. She was pretty sure Monica had said to come at six-thirty; hopefully she hadn’t been mistaken. She knocked one more time, part of her almost hoping no one would answer so she’d be able to go back to the hotel and eat by herself.

She turned and surveyed her surroundings. Monica lived on a quiet street that was a jumble of architectural styles, right next door to the liberal bastion of Bennington College. The neighborhood played testament to that, political signs in nearly every window advocated Green Party candidates.

Monica’s house, a quaint cottage painted a fading but cheery yellow, was flanked by a neatly mown lawn. An enormous spiraling wind chime spun slowly in the evening breeze, spilling metallic notes down on an aging porch swing.

The door was suddenly thrown open. Monica was standing there, wild-eyed and covered in flour. She frantically waved Kelly inside, then dashed back into the bowels of the house, yelling, “Make yourself at home! Sorry, I’ve got a situation on my hands!”

Kelly found herself standing in a small but cozy living room. She set the bottle of wine down on a table, then picked it back up when she noticed a price tag on the side. She hurriedly scraped it off with her fingernail as she perused the room. Lots of plants everywhere, ivy tumbling down from the top of the TV cabinet, a potted palm hovering over a plush armchair in the corner. A flowered sofa facing the door was dappled with evening light, the same colors were matched by the swirling rug on the floor. Monica had good taste, which Kelly found somewhat surprising. She realized she’d been expecting something a little more eclectic, maybe an electric bull in the center of the living room and lots of horns on the walls. Everything was obviously inexpensive but well chosen. It was the kind of room you wouldn’t mind spending a lot of time in.

Mentally Kelly compared it to her own spartan living room back in D.C. Aside from a bookshelf and a matched set of wing chairs inherited from her parents, the room was bare. Of course, it wasn’t as if she spent much time there, she reminded herself. And she viewed that apartment as transitional anyway, the transfer six months ago had gone so quickly that she’d signed a lease on the first place she saw. Nearly everything she owned was still in boxes. It seemed a shame to invest in furniture when she’d be moving somewhere better the minute she found time to apartment-hunt.

There was a cry from the back of the house, and Kelly decided that despite her better instincts she should check it out. She passed through a small formal dining room with robin-egg blue walls and a table set for three, then pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen. It was large, twice the size of the living room. A center island dominated the room. At the moment, it was coated in an inch of flour.

“Crap!” shouted Monica, pulling her head out of the oven. In both hands she held the remnants of a pie, crusts smoking. “I can never seem to keep the damn edges from burning,” she muttered, setting it on top of the island and waving an oven mitt to dissipate the smoke. She looked up and smiled. “Welcome, by the way!”

Kelly smiled faintly. “Thanks for having me.”

“Hell, I’m just thrilled you could make it on such short notice.” Her face clouded over and she looked away as she said, “Howie got stuck at the state lab, and I’d hate to waste the meal. I’ve got Zach out back working on the grill. Hopefully he’s having more luck than I am.”

“I thought he was staying at a friend’s house tonight?” Kelly asked.

“He said his friend canceled.” Monica put a finger to the side of her nose and winked. “Although my highly developed police instincts tell me he just didn’t want his ma eating alone. He’s a good boy.”

As she said it, a door at the back of the house swung open and a tall, gangly teenager backed through. He was bearing a platter laden with a preposterous amount of ribs. “All right, I think they’re finished. It’s still hot as hell out there, though. Next time I vote we make gazpacho.” He glanced up and saw Kelly. “Oh, hey. You must be the FBI lady.”

Kelly laughed. “That’s pretty much what my business cards say. I’m Kelly. You must be Zach.” He definitely took after his mother, with the same unruly blond locks and blue eyes. He had a small cleft in his chin, dimples, and a smattering of acne. In his board shorts and ripped T-shirt, he looked like the prototypical all-American boy.

His face flushed red. “Ma’s been talking about me, huh? Jeez, mom, I asked you not to do that.”

Monica rolled her eyes. “Yep, that’s how I spend my days, blathering on about you. Puh-leez, like I’ve got nothing else to discuss.” She whacked him playfully on the arm.

“Watch it, you don’t want me to drop these.” He danced away from her, setting them on the one clean section of countertop with exaggerated caution. “Looks like we’re having your world-renowned burnt-crust pie again.”

“Nothing but the best for my baby.” Monica pulled the cork on the bottle Kelly had brought. “Zach, grab some wineglasses from the cupboard.”

“Three?” he said hopefully.

“Yeah right, three. You have a few birthdays I missed?” Monica snorted. “Two, unless you want to drink soda out of stemware.”

All through dinner, Kelly watched them banter. They had an easy camaraderie that dictated the rhythm of conversation, one built through years of shared dinners. She felt a twinge; it was something she’d never had with her family, at least not after her brother had been murdered. Her family had eaten in silence, seated in a row on the couch in front of the television set. In high school she had begged off family meals entirely, taking a plate to her room so she could eat while doing her homework. Her mother had initially raised a halfhearted protest but, in the end, gave in. Kelly suspected she’d privately been relieved.

She looked up to find them eyeing her expectantly, and realized she’d drifted off in a reverie. “I’m sorry, did you ask me something?”

They glanced at each other. “I was wondering where you’re from, originally.” Monica said.

“Rhode Island.”

“Yeah? Do your folks still live there?” Zach asked.

Kelly shook her head. “They died a few years ago. It’s just me now.”

“Oh honey, I am so sorry to hear that.” Monica touched a hand to her throat.

Kelly shrugged off the sympathy. “It’s fine, really. I was too busy for them, even when they were alive. I’ve got to travel a lot, doing this…” She caught the look Zach and Monica exchanged, and forced some brightness to her voice as she added, “I’ve always been a loner, pretty much. My family was never close, not the way you two are.”

“I suppose we are pretty close, aren’t we, Beenie?” Monica winked and tilted her glass toward Zach.

“You promised not to call me that in front of other people anymore, Ma.” Zach shifted in his chair, embarrassed.

“Oops, that’s right. Sorry, sweetie.” Monica tapped the last few drops from the bottle into her glass and took a swig, draining it. She wiped her mouth with a napkin, then leaped to her feet. “I’m going to grab the pie and some ice cream. Kelly, more wine?”

Kelly shook her head no; she was still nursing her first glass. She’d never been much of a drinker, and she’d driven here from the hotel.

There was an uncomfortable silence once the door swung shut behind Monica. Kelly racked her brain for something to say; she wasn’t very good at small talk with anyone, never mind a teenager. She couldn’t name a single current band, she realized, and suddenly felt unbearably old.

“My mom likes you,” Zach noted, breaking the silence.

Kelly nodded, then realized that wasn’t really an appropriate response, and said awkwardly, “Your mom’s a great cop. She’s been a big help in this investigation.”

“It’s been tough for her. She’s not sleeping again, nights.” Zach seemed to debate whether or not to continue. He cocked his head to the side, listening to the banging sounds coming from the kitchen, before continuing, “You know anything about this Howie guy?”

“Dr. Stuart?”

Zach nodded.

Kelly cleared her throat. “Not personally. He’s supposed to be the best at what he does. But other than that…I mean, this is the first time I’ve worked with him,” she concluded.

“Yeah, I figured as much. Thought I’d ask anyway.” He scraped a fork absentmindedly across the tablecloth in front of him, organizing a few stray pieces of pasta salad into a mound. Kelly started to stand, clearing her plate. Zach jumped to his feet and grabbed it from her. “Here, let me get that. Mom’ll be all over me if I let a guest clean up.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks.”

He vanished into the kitchen and Kelly took another sip of wine. She was sorry to hear that this case was affecting Monica so badly. It had been a while since one had gotten to her. Probably too long, she mused. She wondered if she was desensitized now, if she’d inadvertently handed over some of her humanity. Listening to the voices on the other side of the door, she was suddenly overwhelmed by a pang of loneliness so intense she had to set her glass down on the table and draw a few deep breaths. As the door to the kitchen swung open, she pasted a smile back on her face.

Dwight whistled a few bars of The Farmer in the Dell as he swung his nightstick in a looping circle, then grimaced. Damn tune had been stuck in his head for a few days now. He wondered if that happened to other people. For him, it was almost a daily struggle, one song or another winding through his brain on an endless reel. Some days were better than others, like the month his mind latched on to Eric Clapton, that was tolerable. But lately it had been the strangest scraps, things he couldn’t even remember having heard recently. I mean, what the fuck, he thought, The Farmer in the Dell? Where the hell did that come from?

Dwight ran the nightstick along a length of boxes. The last few weeks he’d had the same assignment, working as a night watchman at the local cardboard box storage warehouse. It was a dream gig, no one to keep tabs on him, so he could duck out whenever he needed to. Because who the hell was going to steal a bunch of cardboard, anyway? He scoffed. He’d be sorry to lose the job once Mario got back from his triple bypass; after that it was back to answering calls from panicky residents whose cat tripped their fancy alarm system. This was a much better gig. Maybe he’d get lucky and Mario would kick. Then he’d get to hold on to this cushy assignment indefinitely—at least until his application to the CIA got processed. It was taking a hell of a long time, he thought, shaking his head. If he didn’t hear from them this week, he’d make a few phone calls, make sure it hadn’t got lost in the mail.

Dwight stopped in his tracks. There was a noise, sounded like it came from behind him, at the far end of the warehouse where he’d just patrolled. He deliberated; it was probably nothing, just a rat that had gotten in. He’d had to reset a few of the traps last week when he found some pellets in the break room. Dwight checked his watch; he was almost halfway through his shift. If he ignored the noise for another few hours it would become the day worker’s problem. And he was really looking forward to the ramen soup he had waiting for him. He strained his ears, listening hard—there was a scrabbling noise about fifty feet behind him. He sighed. Might as well check it out, he thought, reminding himself that this was just the sort of dirty job he’d be expected to undertake once he got in the Agency.

He turned around and proceeded cautiously, treating this the way he would any other operation. The boxes were stacked in pallets that extended up to the ceiling, creating a labyrinth that shifted slightly from week to week, depending on deliveries. To conserve energy they kept the lights off, so he relied on a flashlight. He paused at one fork and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember which of these terminated in a dead end. That happened sometimes, one night he’d gotten panicky, he seemed to keep getting trapped in the same cul-de-sac. The air was thick with the smell of cut paper. But the maze hadn’t shifted in a week now, he had it down. He turned right and edged along. In some sections the towers of boxes seemed to lean together, almost closing over his head. This particular passage got narrower and narrower, but if he remembered correctly it ended at the long aisle that spanned the back of the warehouse.

Dwight emerged from the aisle and drew a deep breath, calming his nerves. His hand was gripping the top of his gun holster, he realized with surprise, looking down. He debated for a minute, then shrugged and withdrew his weapon. Couldn’t hurt to have it on hand, even if he was just on the trail of vermin. He edged forward, holding his Beretta in both hands. There was a strange chittering sound a few aisles down. He eased forward, keeping his back to the pallets, then whipped around a corner. Caught in the glare, a raccoon froze. Dwight squeezed off a few rounds as the animal regained its wits and scampered away. He charged after it, pausing at the spot where it had just been. His lips curved upward: blood, just a few drops but he’d tagged the little beastie. Now he could spend the rest of his shift tracking it down, maybe toying with it a little. It would be just like the other night, he mused. He’d thought it would be harder, killing the boy, messing with the body. He had speculated in advance that he might even get sick. All the other bodies he’d handled had already been dead, some of them for a long time. They were more reminiscent of the skeleton hanging in science class back in high school. But last night, man, that had been different than he’d imagined.