Break No Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  “I thought of that. Winborne might have picked up police transmissions concerning the discovery of the body, but he couldn’t have learned about the ID that way.”

  “An insider at the coroner’s or sheriff’s office?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Morgue staff?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Unless . . .” Pete let the word hang.

  A hushpuppy stopped halfway to my mouth. “Unless what?”

  “What about your friend Emma? She have an agenda you don’t know about?”

  I’d thought of that. I’d remembered how Emma spoke up for Winborne, argued that his presence on Dewees would do no harm.

  I said nothing. But Pete had raised a very good point.

  What about Emma?

  We ate and chatted about other things. Katy. Pete’s mother’s hip replacement surgery. My family. A trip we’d made to Kiawah twenty years earlier. Before I knew it, my watch said 5:45.

  Ooooookay.

  Pete insisted on picking up the check. He paid in cash. No plastic at the ole Wreck.

  “Want to help me go through Cruikshank’s files?” Pete asked, pulling in at “Sea for Miles.”

  “Wish I could, but it’s crunch time for my field school exams.”

  “They can’t wait one more day?”

  “Tomorrow is the deadline for grade submission, I have to write at least a preliminary report on the Dewees dig for the state archaeologist in Columbia, and who knows what else could pop up.”

  “Looks like I’m on my own.” Sad Pete face.

  I smiled and punched Pete’s shoulder. “Use a lifeline. Call your buddy Rejewski.”

  Climbing to my room, I dialed Emma’s number. Her machine answered. I left a message.

  By eight I’d finished the last exam, calculated grades, and e-mailed the list to the department secretary at UNCC. She’d agreed to walk the form over to the registrar for me.

  Again, I tried Emma. Hearing the same recording, I hung up.

  By ten I’d composed a brief statement concerning the Sewee burial site on Dewees, including my opinion as to its value as a cultural resource. I e-mailed the document to the Office of the State Archaeologist, and sent copies to the South Carolina Institute of Archaeology and Anthropology, to the South Carolina Department of Archives and History, and to Dan Jaffer at USC-Columbia.

  Then I sat back, debating. Dickie Dupree? The man was a weasel. No. That probably wasn’t being fair to weasels. But the site was on Dupree’s land, and my evaluation could affect decisions he might have to make. And, God forbid, Dickie’s bottom line.

  Birdie was curled on the desk to my left.

  “What do you think, Bird?”

  The cat rolled onto his back and stretched all four legs as far as they would go.

  “You’re right.”

  Using the Internet, I found an e-mail address and fired a copy off to Dupree.

  Pete and Boyd were again in the den. The tube was on, though neither appeared to be watching. This time it was an old Bob Hope film.

  Pete was on the couch, bare feet crossed on the coffee table, the Helene Flynn file open in his lap. He was making notes on a large yellow legal pad.

  Boyd lay flopped on his side, back paws resting on his master’s knee.

  The file carton and eighth box sat side by side on the window seat.

  On-screen, a man was describing zombies as having dead eyes, following orders, not knowing what they do, not caring.

  “You mean like Democrats?” Hope inquired.

  Pete threw back his head and laughed.

  “Not offended?”

  “Humor is humor,” replied Pete the Democrat.

  The chow opened a sleepy eye. Seeing me in the doorway, he slunk to the floor.

  Pete jabbed his pen at the TV. “This movie has some of Hope’s best one-liners.”

  “Title?” When Pete and I first met, and during the early years of our marriage, old films had been one of our passions.

  “Ghost Breakers.”

  “Wasn’t that the Bowery Boys?”

  Pete made a buzzer sound. “Nnnnt! Wrong. That was Ghost Chasers.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. It felt so natural.

  Seeing Pete at that moment, lamplight softening the lines of his face, it suddenly hit me. Though we’d been apart for some time, led largely separate lives, there wasn’t a day I didn’t think, at least fleetingly, about my husband.

  The laughter died on my lips.

  “What’s the plot?” I asked, detached, forcing blasé.

  “Paulette Goddard has inherited a haunted castle. Hope’s lines are classic.”

  “Any progress with the code?”

  Pete shook his head.

  Crossing to the window seat, I collected Cruikshank’s belongings and settled on the couch. With the box between my feet, I disengaged the flaps and began rifling.

  The first thing I removed was a trophy featuring a tiny capped figure holding a bat. A plaque on the wood base read: LEAGUE CHAMPIONS, JUNE 24, 1983. I put the trophy on the coffee table.

  Next, I pulled out a baseball, its outer surface covered with signatures.

  I set the ball beside the trophy, wondering if the two items were related. My mind began drifting.

  Cruikshank had played in a league. Where? What position? Had his team been consistently good, I wondered, or did the ball and trophy represent their one championship season? What had it been like on that June day? Hot? Rainy? Had the score been lopsided? Had Cruikshank’s team won with one heart-stopping hit?

  Did Cruikshank have the game ball because he drove in the winning run? Had his teammates pounded his back? Had they all gone for beer and rehashed the game?

  Had Cruikshank relived that moment in the years that followed? Alone with his bourbon, had he seen the pitch, felt the bat’s grip in his palms, heard the crack as the ball ricocheted from the sweet spot?

  Had the man marveled at how life had gone so terribly wrong?

  On-screen Hope was quipping, “The girls call me Pilgrim, because every time I dance with one I make a little progress.”

  Pete was chuckling as I pulled a pair of framed photos from among Cruikshank’s belongings. The first showed five uniformed soldiers, smiling, arm-draping one another’s shoulders. The photo’s owner was last on the left.

  I studied the small figure. Cruikshank’s hair was short, and he was squinting, probably facing into the sun. The crags in his face were softer, but already foretold the older man he’d become.

  More drifting.

  Had Cruikshank done a hitch in the army? The National Guard? He’d been too young for Vietnam. Where had he served?

  The second framed photo showed darkly uniformed men stacked in formal, straight rows. I guessed it was Cruikshank’s police academy graduating class.

  A round metal tin held other police memorabilia. Collar brass from the different units in which Cruikshank had served. Colored bars that I assumed were departmental recognition awards. A duplicate shield.

  A corrugated brown folder held a police academy diploma, several certificates from specialty training courses, and more photos. Cruikshank shaking hands with some high police official. Cruikshank with three men in suits. Cruikshank and another cop standing in front of a church with Billy Graham.

  I fished some more.

  A Zippo lighter with a CMPD logo. A key chain, pocketknife, and tie tack with the same logo. A CMPD badge. Handcuffs. Keys. A frilly garter. An old Sam Browne belt buckle. A scuffed holster. A speed loader for a revolver.

  Everything went onto the table.

  At the bottom of the box lay a book and several envelopes. Choosing a large brown one, I unwound the string and dumped the contents into my lap.

  Snapshots. Grainy and fading to sepia at the borders. Scooping them up, I worked my way through.

  Every photo included the same blond woman. Upturned nose, freckles, a classic Little House on the Prairie face.

  In some shots, th
e woman was alone. In others, she was with Cruikshank. In a few, the two were part of a larger group. Christmas party. Ski trip. Picnic. Based on hairstyles and clothing, I guessed the photos had been taken in the late seventies or early eighties.

  I checked the back of each print. Only one had writing. In it Cruikshank and the woman wore swimsuits and lay side by side on a blanket, chins propped on their fists. I read the notation: Noble and Shannon, Myrtle Beach, July 1976.

  I picked up the last photo. Noble and Shannon, smiling like the world would always be young. I was not smiling. My mind was circling to a very dark place.

  This Kodak moment captured Cruikshank and Shannon facing each other, hands outstretched, fingers intertwined. She was wearing a short white sundress and flowers in her hair. He was in a pale blue jacket. Above their heads, a banner identified the Viva Las Vegas Wedding Chapel. In front of them, down on one knee and mugging for the camera, was a faux Elvis, complete with shades and sequined white satin jumpsuit.

  I stared at the image, a frozen moment at the birth of a doomed marriage. Once a treasured memento, the picture had become nothing more than a memory packed away in an old brown envelope.

  My eyes wandered to Pete. I felt my lids burn. I wrested my gaze back. It fell on Cruikshank’s possessions. Small comfort.

  These items represented a life, a man who had enjoyed friendship, served his country, been a cop, played baseball, married. A man who had, in spite of it all, chosen to end that life.

  Or had he?

  My eyes dropped to the Myrtle Beach photo. Shannon and Noble. A marriage lost. A life lost.

  On-screen, someone asked Hope if he thought Goddard should sell the castle.

  “My advice is to keep the castle and sell the ghosts.”

  The sound of Pete’s laughter pierced the armor of my phony nonchalance. How many times had he laughed with me? Clowned for me? Bought flowers when we had no money? Done the underpants dance when I was angry? Why had the laughter stopped? When?

  Looking down at the heartrending collection spread before me, I was overwhelmed by the ruin of Noble and Shannon. By the finality of Cruikshank’s death. By the calamity of my own lost marriage. By the confusion of emotions churning inside me.

  I lost it.

  Chest heaving, I pushed from the couch.

  “Tempe?” Pete. Confused.

  I stumbled over Cruikshank’s box and lunged from the room, mindless of where I was going.

  Ocean air. Stars. Life.

  I threw open the front door and raced down the steps.

  Pete was right behind me. In the front yard, he grasped one of my shoulders, spun me, and wrapped me in a hug.

  “It’s OK. Hey, Tempe. It’s OK.” Stroking my hair.

  At first I resisted, then I yielded. Pressing my cheek to Pete’s chest, I let the tears come.

  I’m not sure how long we stood there, me sobbing, Pete making comforting noises.

  Seconds, maybe eons, later a vehicle rolled up Ocean Drive, paused, then turned in at “Sea for Miles.” I looked up. Silvery white moonlight illuminated the interior enough to show that the driver was alone.

  The vehicle came to a stop. Maybe a Jeep? A small SUV?

  I felt Pete tense as the driver’s door opened. A man got out and circled the hood. I could see that the man was tall and thin.

  And something more.

  Oh, God!

  The man froze, a silhouette in the headlights.

  My heart flew into my throat.

  Before I could call out, the man retraced his steps, slid behind the wheel, threw the car into reverse, and gunned down the drive.

  I watched the beams swing wide.

  Tires squealed.

  The taillights shrank to tiny red specks.

  15

  HEART BANGING, I DOUBLE-STEPPED THE STAIRS, raced into the house, grabbed my cell, and hit a speed-dial key.

  The phone rang four times, then an answering service cut in.

  And delivered a message in French and English.

  I punched again, missed, fingers clumsy with agitation. Repunched.

  Same result.

  “Pick up, damn it!”

  “Just tell me who he was.” Pete was following as I paced from room to room. Boyd was trailing Pete.

  I hit the R on my speed dial a third time.

  A mechanical voice informed me that the subscriber I was attempting to reach was unavailable.

  “Go ahead. Turn yourself off!”

  I hurled the phone. It bounced from the couch to the floor. Boyd ran over to sniff the offending object.

  “Talk to me.” Pete was speaking in that tone psychiatrists use to calm hysterical patients. “Who was that?”

  Deep breaths. Steady. I turned to face him.

  “Andrew Ryan.”

  A moment of mental Rolodexing. “The cop from Quebec?”

  I nodded.

  “Why would he show up then split without saying a word?”

  “He saw us together.”

  More cerebral linking. Synapse. “So you two are—” Pete raised both brows, pointed to me, then toward the driveway where Ryan had been.

  I nodded.

  “Looked bad?” he asked.

  “What do you think?”

  I dialed Ryan twice more. His cell remained off.

  I performed my nightly toilette with robotic detachment. Cleanser. Moisturizer. Toothpaste.

  We’re not sophomores going steady, I told myself. We’re adults. Ryan is a reasonable man. I’ll explain. We’ll both laugh.

  But would Monsieur Macho allow me the chance?

  Lying in bed, I felt the weight of doubt in my gut. I took a long time to fall asleep.

  * * *

  By nine the next morning I wanted to turn my own cell off.

  No. I wanted to pulverize it, then flush the plastic and metal bits into the sewer system of some remote Third World country. Bangladesh would do. Or maybe one of the Stans.

  The first call came at 7:55.

  “Morning, ma’am. Dickie Dupree.”

  That was it for Southern pleasantries.

  “Just checked my e-mail.”

  “You’re up early today, Mr. Dupree.”

  “Found this report of yours. Now I’m looking toward dealing with a pack of dimwit bureaucrats.”

  “You’re welcome, sir. I thought you’d appreciate a copy.”

  “What I don’t appreciate is your telling folks up at the state capital that I got priceless relics on my land.”

  “That’s not exactly what I told them.”

  “Comes damn close. Report like this can cause me delays. And delays can cause me a world of hurt.”

  “It’s unfortunate if my findings adversely affect your project,” I said. “My job was to describe honestly what I found.”

  “This country’s going to hell ’cause of crap like this. Economy’s in the toilet. People are screaming there’s no work, nowhere to live. I provide jobs, put up decent housing. What do I get for my efforts? Horse-shit like this.”

  On Dewees, Dupree was putting up million-dollar beach homes for the overindulged. I didn’t say it.

  “Now some cracker-ass fool with more degrees than brains is going to come down here and declare my property some kinda heritage site.”

  “I’m sorry if my findings inconvenience you.”

  “Inconvenience? That how you see it?”

  The question seemed rhetorical, so I didn’t reply.

  “Your meddling could hand me a damn sight more than inconvenience.”

  I used my steely voice again. “You might have requested a cultural resource assessment before agreeing to develop the land.”

  “We’ll see who’s inconvenienced, Miz Brennan. I, too, have friends. Unlike your pals, these boys ain’t paper-pushing eggheads.”

  With that he was gone.

  I sat a moment, considering Dupree’s last statement. Was the little toad implying he might order someone to hurt me?

  Right. Maybe
send Colonel to gnaw me to death, though any harassment of me would be stupid and ineffective. It would not solve his problem.

  I dialed Ryan. His phone was still off.

  Throwing back the covers, I headed for the bathroom.

  The next call came at eight fifteen. I was in the kitchen, drinking coffee and eating one of Pete’s cranberry and pine nut muffins.

  Cranberry and pine nut? My reaction, too, but that’s what they were. I’d read the label twice.

  Birdie was at his bowl crunching small brown pellets. Boyd was in begging mode, chin on my knee.

  “Gullet here.”

  “Good morning, Sheriff.”

  Gullet, too, skipped preamble. “Just left Parrot. Took some memory jogging, but the gentleman finally recalled a box that might have gotten separated from the main stack.”

  “Might this box have contained a computer and camera?”

  “Parrot’s a little hazy on contents. Vaguely remembered some electronic equipment.”

  “And what might have happened to this errant box?”

  “Seems his son might have accidentally carried it off.”

  “Kids.”

  “I gave Parrot an hour to discuss the matter with sonny. I’ll call when I hear from him.”

  I dialed Emma. And got her recorded voice.

  I dialed Ryan.

  “L’abonné que vous tentez de joindre . . .” The mobile customer you are trying to reach. . .

  I wanted to reach across the line and throttle the woman. In two languages.

  I tried Ryan at eight thirty and again at eight forty-five. No go.

  I clicked off, misgivings still firmly lodged in my innards. I wondered where Ryan had gone. Why he’d come here. Why he’d kept his visit a secret. Was it surveillance? Trying to catch me with Pete?

  At nine, I called Emma a second time. I was on a voice mail roll. The same recording asked for my name and number.

  Odd, I thought, rinsing then placing my cup in the dishwasher. I’d phoned Emma twice the night before, at six and at eight, and twice this morning. It wasn’t like her to ignore my messages. Especially now, when I was so concerned about her health.

  I knew that Emma often monitored calls, dodged conversations she didn’t want to have. But she’d never done that with me. At least, not that I knew of. But then, when wrapped up in normal life, I called so rarely. Was she now ducking my calls because proximity made me a threat? An annoyance? Was my worry causing her discomfort? Did she regret taking me into her confidence? Was she avoiding me to avoid the reality of her disease?