Bone White

by Ronald Malfi

  “That’s impossible,” he said.

  A faint vertical line appeared between Ryerson’s eyebrows. “This should be good news,” she said.

  “My DNA sample,” he said.

  “Your sample did not match any of the victims,” she said. “Mr. Gallo, your brother is not among them.”

  “Then where is he?”

  “I’ve recently checked with MPU—that’s our Missing Persons Unit out of Anchorage—and the case on your brother is still open, with no additional leads since you and I last spoke. I know that’s difficult to hear, and I understand how hearing something like this has maybe taken away any closure you might have been hoping to get, but you also should consider that this means there is still some hope for your brother being alive and well somewhere out there.”

  “Is there?” he said. “Is there still some hope? Because he’s been gone for over a year and no one’s heard anything from him. And I can’t believe that something like eight dead bodies in the woods outside some rural town where my brother also went missing is just a coincidence. How do you know there aren’t more victims out there?”

  “Mallory confessed to murdering eight people,” Ryerson said. “I was there when he did this. He even walked us up into the hills and showed us where each one was buried. Also, only eight driver’s licenses were found during the search of Mallory’s home. Everything matches up. There are no loose ends. We’ve got no reason to believe that there is anyone else buried up there in those foothills.”

  “So I’m supposed to just walk away from this thing, thinking it’s just a coincidence? That Danny disappeared up there and his disappearance is not connected to what happened—those eight murders—in any way?”

  “Missing persons cases are difficult enough back where you’re from, I’m sure, but out here they’re near impossible to solve. We’ve got over fifty million acres of wilderness out here, Mr. Gallo—we’re talking inhospitable, brutal terrain. One out of every two hundred people go missing every year out here. Those are astronomical numbers. That’s more than double the national average.”

  Ryerson leaned back in her chair and turned so that she was facing the large map of Alaska behind her. She traced a triangle that started down in the southeast region of the state, and stretched all the way up north to the Barrow mountain range.

  “Not to sound hokey, Mr. Gallo, but we refer to this section of the state as Alaska’s Bermuda Triangle. Inside this zone are areas of unexplored wilderness—expansive forests, mountain ranges, dried-up riverbeds, and uncounted acres of tundra. I’ve heard one figure estimating that sixteen thousand people have gone missing here in this region alone since 1988. Sixteen thousand. And I mean ‘missing’ in the truest sense of the word: These are people who have never been found, who have disappeared without so much as a single footprint left behind. It’s almost as if they’d never existed at all. There have also been an unusual number of small aircraft that have inexplicably crashed out there or, in some cases, vanished altogether without a trace.”

  She turned around and leaned toward him again, her desk chair creaking—reeeek.

  “I know this must sound like science fiction to you, Mr. Gallo, but it’s really not. It’s the facts of what we deal with out here. If someone picks up and wanders off into that area—we’re talking maybe weeks of hiking through rugged mountain terrain or through heavy forests, crossing glacial rivers, and whatever else—and they become lost, our hands are tied. There’s just very little we can do. I don’t mean to sound harsh about this, Mr. Gallo, and I feel for you, I really do, but I’d be doing you a disservice if I didn’t point these facts out to you. I hope you understand.”

  Paul leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face. “Let me ask you,” he said, “was one of the victims a young woman named Roberta Chalmers?”

  “Bobbi Chalmers,” Ryerson said. “You met her mother here at the station yesterday.” It was not a question.

  “Yes.”

  “Her name’s Peggy,” Ryerson said. “Peggy and Roger Chalmers. Their daughter, Bobbi, has been missing for over two years.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” he said.

  “No,” Ryerson said. “Roberta Chalmers was not one of the victims.”

  “Just another coincidence then, huh?” he said, not bothering to mask his irritation.

  “Mr. Gallo, Roberta Chalmers is never among the victims.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means that Peggy Chalmers has been to this police station three times in the past year. Once was for a car wreck on the interstate. We knew the victims involved right away, but she came up here anyway, insistent that one of them must have been her daughter. Another time was when we found a few homeless people dead in a building downtown. She’s gone down to Anchorage, and out to Palmer, too, whenever she hears about something on the news that she thinks—or maybe even hopes—might be related to her daughter’s disappearance. Point is, Mr. Gallo, she’s been making the rounds ever since her daughter disappeared. Roberta Chalmers is never one of the victims. Roberta Chalmers ran away with her biker boyfriend, and her mother just can’t deal with that. Plain and simple.”

  “Oh,” Paul said, sucking on his lower lip.

  “She said you tried to scare her yesterday. She told one of the other officers that you made fun of her and tried to frighten her with some picture on your phone.”

  “What?”

  Ryerson didn’t actually shrug her shoulders, but the expression on her face conveyed the same impression.

  “She was telling me about her daughter, then she asked about my brother. She asked if I had any pictures of him. I showed her a picture of Danny from my phone. Then she just got up and ran out of the room. She was upset, but I have no idea why. I didn’t do anything to her. Wait—here.”

  He dug his phone out of his coat and scrolled through the album of Danny’s pictures. When he found the one he’d shown the Chalmers woman, he handed the phone to Ryerson.

  “Striking resemblance,” she said.

  “We’re twins.”

  “And this is the picture you showed Mrs. Chalmers yesterday?”

  “Yes. That exact picture. The same one I sent you guys a year ago. I have no idea why she would have said I was trying to scare her. To be honest, I felt bad for her.”

  Ryerson handed him back the phone. “Don’t let it bend you out of shape. She’s got a lot of problems. My guess is, she’s had them even before her daughter took off. Roberta’s leaving has probably only exacerbated them.”

  Paul nodded.

  “There is one other thing,” Ryerson said. She opened one of her desk drawers and riffled through some papers. “Maybe you already know this, maybe you don’t.”

  She produced a manila folder from a drawer, opened it, and handed Paul a stapled packet of papers. On the first page, he noticed the words SHEPPARD PRATT HEALTH SYSTEM, along with the seal for the Baltimore County Police Department. It looked like some sort of official report.

  “What is this?” Paul asked.

  “A petition for emergency evaluation. Those papers are from a court-mandated stay at a mental hospital in Maryland following your brother’s suicide attempt.”

  “What? Danny?” He looked at the date of the report and noted that it was a few years old. “This can’t be right.”

  “He tied an electrical cord around his neck and tried to hang himself. Roommate found him in the basement of their apartment building and called the paramedics.”

  “Not Danny. Danny wouldn’t do something like that.”

  Ryerson said nothing. She turned away and stared out the window, her hands folded together on her ink blotter.

  “I had no idea.” Paul glanced down at the page of the report opened on his lap. The words “attempted suicide” leapt out at him. He closed the file. “What is this supposed to tell me? That maybe he came out here to kill himself? That we’re all chasing something that doesn’t exist?”

  “I just thought you should kno
w,” Ryerson said. “That’s all.”

  “This is wrong. Danny wouldn’t have done something like this. I would have known.”

  “Why don’t I give you a minute? I’ll be outside in the hall.”

  “That’s not necessary,” he said.

  “I need another cup of coffee. Want one?”

  He sighed. “Yeah, all right. Thank you. Thanks.”

  Ryerson left.

  Jesus, Danny.

  He flipped back to the front of the report and examined it more closely. The date of Danny’s supposed attempted suicide and his subsequent stay at Sheppard Pratt coincided with their parents’ deaths. It would explain why he hadn’t been at their funeral.

  * * *

  A few minutes later, he met Jill Ryerson in the hall. He felt shaky and unsteady, the medical report rolled into a cone and tucked into his coat pocket. He smiled wearily at her and she returned the smile with one of equal weariness, though tinged with compassion. She was holding two Styrofoam cups of coffee.

  “You holding up?” she asked, handing him one of the steaming cups.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be okay. Thank you, Investigator Ryerson.”

  “Call me Jill.”

  “Thank you, Jill.”

  They walked down the hall toward the lobby of the station, in no great rush, just savoring the silence and the taste of the strong coffee. When a door opened at the opposite end of the lobby, Ryerson froze and gripped Paul’s forearm, stopping him dead in his tracks. Paul looked up and saw a prisoner, hands and feet in chains and bookended by two burly troopers in powder-blue shirts, come shambling out of the cell block doorway. He had become intimately familiar with the black-and-white photograph of Mallory that had accompanied all the newspaper articles, yet despite it being a dated photo depicting a younger man, Paul had no trouble identifying this scarecrow-thin, gaunt-faced prisoner.

  “That’s him,” Paul said.

  “I’m sorry.” Ryerson sounded bitter. “I’d forgotten about his appointment with the medic. They need to evaluate his foot before he transfers down to Seward.”

  They were speaking in whispers and Mallory was already halfway across the lobby . . . but it was as if the sounds of their voices had reached him. Mallory’s feet—one bandaged, another clad in a white sock and a rubber sandal—ceased shuffling across the floor. He turned his head and leveled his gaze on them.

  On Paul.

  The man’s eyes were small and dark and a pinch too close together. Predator’s eyes. They were also filled with some alien intelligence that sent a chill rippling down Paul’s spine. But as he stared at Paul, something in those eyes changed. Disbelief turning toward fear.

  He knows me, Paul thought. He recognizes me.

  One of the troopers tugged at Mallory’s arm and said, “Let’s go, man.”

  Joseph Mallory’s mouth came unhinged. He looked like he was about to start screaming.

  “You,” Paul said. He yanked his arm free of Ryerson’s grasp and closed the distance between him and Mallory in the time span of a single heartbeat.

  “Mr. Gallo!” Ryerson yelled after him.

  “You,” Paul repeated, coffee spilling down his hand. The two troopers turned around and looked equally puzzled, caught off guard. Paul seized the front of Mallory’s shirt and pulled him forward—so close he could smell Mallory’s rank breath. Mallory’s head jerked on the thin stalk of his neck. “You recognize me, don’t you, you son of a bitch? I can see it in your eyes. You recognize me!”

  One of the troopers stepped between them, attempting to separate them, one hand on Paul’s chest. A strangled gurgle rose up from Mallory’s throat.

  Ryerson grabbed Paul about the shoulders and pulled him away from Mallory. This seemed to snap the troopers out of their momentary stupor, as they regained their composure and gave Mallory a jerk in the opposite direction.

  “Paul!” Ryerson yelled. “Paul, stop it!”

  The fistful of Mallory’s shirt was stripped from his hand as the troopers dragged the murderer away. Yet Mallory’s terrible gaze clung to him.

  “You think I’m him, don’t you?” Paul bellowed as Ryerson wrestled him backward. He dropped his coffee to the floor and tried to pull himself free of her, but she was too strong. “You think I’m Danny, don’t you, you bastard? You think you’re looking at a ghost.” He raised his voice and shouted, “What did you do to him? Where is he? Where is he?”

  “Get yourself under control, goddamn it,” Ryerson hollered.

  “Did you see his face?” Paul said, panting. The troopers had ushered Mallory out the door, but Paul remained staring at the spot where the killer had been just a moment before. “Did you see his eyes? He thought I was Danny. He thought I was Danny, and it scared the shit out of him.”

  “Just calm down,” Ryerson said. She was still clutching his shoulder, her fingers pressing hard into his muscles.

  “There’s your proof,” he said. “There’s your proof right there.”

  “Please,” Ryerson said. She released her grip on him. There was coffee down the front of her shirt. “Calm down.”

  “I’m calm. I’m calm.” He glanced down at the coffee cups on the floor. “I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up.”

  “Forget it. You burned your hand, though.”

  He glanced down at his hand and saw that it was a bright red from having spilled the hot coffee on it. It throbbed, as if his looking at it had summoned the pain.

  “Go clean up in the restroom,” Ryerson said. “I’ll take care of the mess out here.”

  * * *

  A few minutes later, he came out of the restroom to find Ryerson standing in the lobby, her arms folded over her chest as she gazed out the window at the highway. “How’s your hand?”

  He ignored the question. “You saw that, didn’t you? He thought he recognized me. He thought I was Danny.”

  “His head is scrambled,” Ryerson said, indifferent. “Don’t let it bug you.”

  “He did something to my brother.”

  “I’ll talk to him when they bring him back,” Ryerson said. It was the tone she might use to placate an obstinate child. “Okay?”

  “Just tell me you saw that look in his eyes.”

  Placating or not, Ryerson didn’t lie to him. “No,” she said. “I saw no look in his eyes.”

  * * *

  In the parking lot, Paul stood beneath the concrete overhang, which kept the wind at bay, while he waited for his cab. He held the police report in his hands, and glanced down at it before tucking it into the pocket of his coat.

  It no longer mattered what Investigator Ryerson said about the high number of missing persons in Alaska; it no longer mattered that she wasn’t convinced that Danny was embroiled in this nightmare; it no longer mattered that there were countless acres of undeveloped wilderness out here where someone could get lost and stay lost forever; moreover, it didn’t matter what some outdated police report said about his brother’s mental state. Paul didn’t need to search countless acres of wilderness. He knew where Danny had gone missing, and that was good enough. He knew what he had to do.

  He would go to Dread’s Hand and find out what had happened to his brother.

  PART TWO

  DREAD’S HAND

  11

  Blink and you’d miss it: a town, or, rather, the memory of a town, secreted away at the end of a nameless, unpaved roadway that, in the deepening half light of an Alaskan dusk, looks like it might arc straight off the surface of the planet and out into the far reaches of the cosmos. A town where the scant few roads twist like veins and the little black-roofed houses, distanced from one another as if fearful of some contagion, look as if they’d been excreted into existence, pushed up through the crust of the earth from someplace deep underground. There is snow the color of concrete in the rutted streets, dirty clumps of it packed against the sides of houses or snared in the needled boughs of steel-colored spruce. If there are ghosts here—and some say there are—then they are most clearly glimps
ed in the faces of the living. No one walks the unpaved streets; no one putters around in those squalid little yards, where the soil looks like ash and the saplings all bend at curious, pained, aggrieved angles. There is a furtiveness to most of these folks, an innate distrust not just of outsiders, but even of each other. Fear has reached across generations until it is in the eyes of every newborn expelled from the womb.

  If you visit, you visit alone. Some would argue that there are no visitors, that there have never been, and that there are only the waylaid, the shipwrecked, the lost. And once you leave—if you leave—this town is only remembered as a sequence of crude Neanderthal drawings glimpsed through a zoetrope, a series of snapshots all laid out of order and in random, nonsensical collages. Nightmare fuel.

  The few outsiders who come here often leave in a hurry, feeling ill.

  A contagion at work.

  * * *

  Paul Gallo departed for Dread’s Hand in the late afternoon, soon after he returned from the police station, and just as a freezing rain began to shower downtown Fairbanks. The shallow forests toward the west glowed with an almost preternatural haze, and the highway blacktop shimmered beneath a slick cocktail of rainwater and motor oil. There was a smell in the air, not unpleasant, that reminded Paul somewhat of the riverbanks of his youth, and of nights spent in his backyard, gazing at the stars with Danny, their bare feet cool in the dewy grass.

  After checking out of his Fairbanks hotel, he took a cab to the nearest rental car facility. There, a young female attendant was eager to help him, but she failed to locate Dread’s Hand on any of the standard road maps that had been filed into the kiosk beside her desk. In the end, she located a map online, and printed it out for him. If she was aware of Joseph Mallory and of the bodies that had been excavated from the woods out that way, she did not comment on it. In fact, she seemed ignorant to anything outside of her own little world-bubble, and Paul was momentarily envious of her.