Except for the Bones

by Collin Wilcox

  “Where’re you going?” Daniels’s voice was flat, his CEO’s voice. But his eyes were different. Here—now—his eyes were different. It was as if, for the first time, he was really looking at her. Really seeing her.

  “You can ask my mother where I’m going. She’ll tell you. On the way to the party, when you’re having your little chitchat, she’ll tell you where I’m going.”

  “What little chitchat is that?”

  “You’ll find out. It’s about last night. I told her to ask you about last night.”

  Still facing each other across the roof of the car, she saw his eyes change again: murderous eyes, cold and steady and deadly, boring in, impaling her. Thank God for the car, her shield.

  His voice was hardly more than a whisper: “Where were you last night, Diane?”

  “I—” Her throat closed. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t reply.

  “Were you on the Cape last night?”

  She was shaking her head, involuntarily backing away. But her buttocks touched a car in the next parking stall. If he came for her, she would move in the opposite direction, keeping the BMW between them. When she was a child, it had been her first hint of power, keeping the dining room table between her and her mother, avoiding a spanking.

  But Daniels wasn’t coming for her. Instead, still speaking very softly, he asked, “Were you with Jeff Weston last night, on the Cape?”

  “I—I—” Even if she could speak, she couldn’t have found the words. God, it had started as a spaced-out prank, trick or treat, Halloween in July. Did he know that? Should she tell him?

  “You were there.” It wasn’t a question; it was a calm, calculated statement. He knew. Looking at her face, he knew.

  She saw him draw a deep, decisive breath, then glance down at his watch. Preston Daniels and his watch, the inseparable duo. How much was a minute of his time worth? It was a problem for a computer. His net worth, someone had said, was more than some small countries.

  When he spoke, his voice was dispassionate: “I’ve got to change. I’m running late.” He let a beat pass, his eyes locked with hers. Then, very softly: “We’ll talk later. In the meantime, don’t talk about this. To anyone.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he picked up his attaché case, turned his back on her, walked quickly, decisively, to the elevator.

  6 P.M., EDT

  SHE OPENED HER ADDRESS book on the scarred shelf of the phone booth, punched zero, punched the area code and the number, then punched in her credit card number. Along with the BMW and a sound system and a closetful of clothes, Daniels had given her a private phone and a calling card.

  On the Cape, the phone was ringing.

  Where were they now, her mother and Daniels? Were they in the town car, on their way to the museum? Had Daniels—

  “Cape Cleaners.” It was Mrs. Weston’s voice.

  “May I speak to Jeff, please?”

  “He’s out on deliveries, and we’re just closing here. Who’s this speaking?” It was a suspicious-sounding question. She could imagine Mrs. Weston, petulantly frowning, with the phone on its long cord propped in the hollow of her shoulder as she waited on a customer, or sorted through tags.

  “When’ll he be back, do you think?”

  “Who’s this, please?”

  “I’m a friend of his. Just a friend. I’ll call back. Thanks.” She broke the connection, tucked the address book in her purse, stepped out of the oven-hot phone booth; momentarily leaned against the glass sides of the booth, eyes closed. She could hardly remember leaving the parking garage, fighting her way through the midtown rush-hour traffic and up to the New England Expressway, where she’d finally found a service station with a pay phone that worked. Then she’d taken two Valiums, just enough to steady her. Then, already feeling better, she’d made the call.

  But now, instead of driving west to California, she must drive north, to the Cape. Because only when she’d talked to Jeff, only when he’d told her what happened, could she leave for San Francisco.

  9:15 P.M., EDT

  AHEAD, THE PANEL TRUCK was turning off the blacktop road and into a narrow, cypress-lined lane, no more than two tracks in the sand. Now the truck’s brake lights winked. The truck came to a stop, the lights went out, the engine died. Was Weston making yet another delivery, this late? How many cottages could there be in the lane? Three? Four? Kane drove slowly beyond the entrance to the lane, turned off onto the shoulder of the blacktop road, switched off the engine, let the Buick coast to a stop, lights out. As far as he could see in either direction, from one low rise to another, the blacktop road was deserted. Overhead, shreds of low-lying cloud cover crossed in front of a pale half-moon.

  Wrapped in black friction tape, the pipe was on the car’s floor, on the passenger’s side. But first he must decide about the keys. Should he leave them in the ignition? It would save a few seconds, afterward. Yes, he would leave the keys. Here, now, during the next few minutes, the risk that the car would be stolen was nonexistent.

  He’d unscrewed the Buick’s courtesy light, so when he swung the door open there was only darkness. He stooped, got the pipe, hefted it, held it in his hand while he carefully closed the door. Across the dunes, in the direction of the ocean, the lights of a few scattered cottages shone. To the east, toward the airport, a corporate jet was turning onto the ILS approach for Barnstable. The blacktop road was still deserted. He turned to face the row of cypress trees that defined the nearby lane—and concealed the panel truck with CAPE CLEANERS printed on either side. From the lane, he could hear voices. Could one voice be Jeff Weston’s?

  At eight o’clock—more than an hour ago—driving at random, he’d first seen the panel truck at Tim’s Place, the bar on Route 28 frequented by locals. If he’d been ready, he could have done it then, in the dimly lit parking lot at Tim’s Place. It would have made sense: a barroom argument settled in the parking lot. Two men struggling silently, viciously, until one of them picked up a tire iron.

  But he hadn’t been ready then, hadn’t prepared himself.

  Slowly, his footfalls muted by the sand on the road’s shoulder, he drew closer to the lane—closer to the van. Now, once again, he heard voices, one of them a man’s. Weston’s. During the past two years, flying Daniels to the Cape, spending time at Carter’s Landing, at the house on Sycamore that Daniels kept for his hired help, he’d occasionally seen Weston at the dry-cleaning shop. And, yes, he’d once seen Diane and Weston together, riding without helmets on a chopper, a wise-ass biker and his wild-haired girlfriend, riding out to—

  “Good night,” the male voice called out. “And thanks. I’ll ask about the slacks.”

  Weston. Unmistakably, it was Weston. Coming closer—suddenly closer.

  Quickly, Kane strode forward. The rear of the van came into view, then the whole van—then Weston, standing beside the van, reaching forward to pull his driver’s door open.

  “Weston.” He spoke softly, cautiously, just loud enough for the other man to hear. “Shhh.” Holding the pipe with his right hand, concealed behind his leg, he raised the forefinger of his left hand to his lips. Repeating: “Shhh.”

  “Wh—what?” Startled, instinctively crouching, on guard, Weston turned toward him, hands raised.

  “Be quiet.” As if they were fellow conspirators, he spoke urgently, sibilantly. In the moonlight, he saw Weston’s face change as he straightened slightly, relaxing out of the self-defensive crouch. Weston had recognized him.

  “You’re Daniels’s pilot.”

  “Right.” He gestured back toward the road. “Come here. I want to talk with you.” Careful to keep the pipe concealed, Kane turned, strode back to the blacktop road, walked halfway to the parked Buick. He turned to face Weston, who was cautiously following him. From the east came the sound of an engine. Headlight beams were glowing from behind a low hill, then topping the rise, lowering, coming toward them, fast. As if they were reacting to the same unspoken command, both men turned away from the road, averted their fa
ces. For this roadside meeting there must be no witnesses—no one to remember, to identify them.

  Facing Weston again, still holding the pipe concealed, Kane spoke conversationally: “Mr. Daniels wants you to know that he got your note. That’s why I’ve come. I want to talk to you about that note.”

  “Ah.” As if he were relieved, reassured, Weston nodded. “Yeah. Good.”

  “He wants me to tell you—” As he said it, Kane brought his right hand away from his side, brought the pipe up enough for Weston to see. “He wants me to tell you that this is just for openers, just the first installment. First a pipe. Then, if you keep fucking with him, it’ll be a gun. And you’ll be dead. Have you got that? Do you understand what I’m saying, you miserable piece of—”

  Weston lunged forward, swung his right fist, struck Kane high on the head, a glancing blow. Kane crouched, swung the pipe, felt the pipe strike the top of Weston’s hip, enough to throw him off balance. But, recovering, Weston threw himself forward, a wild, desperate tackle. Kane stepped back, brought up his knee into the other man’s chest, broke Weston’s grip on his legs. As Weston staggered, off balance, the pipe came crashing down, once striking the left collarbone, once striking the shoulder, once striking the base of the neck. Suddenly Weston’s knees buckled. As he fell, the final blow struck just below the left ear. Weston fell on his right side, facing the road. He tried to speak, but could only gurgle. Blood was pouring from his mouth.

  Kane straightened from his crouch, stepped back. Dropping the pipe in the sand beside the road, he examined his hands for blood. There was nothing. From the west, another car was approaching. Dropping to his knees, Kane gripped Weston’s clothing, rolled him into the shallow drainage ditch beside the road. The car’s headlights were sweeping toward them. Still kneeling, Kane forced himself to remain motionless, facing away from the road. His heart was hammering; blood was pounding in his ears. The car was coming closer—closer. Then the engine’s note dropped; the headlight glare was gone, leaving only the darkness. Kane found the pipe, picked it up. As he drove past Hampton’s Pond, he would throw the pipe into the water. Then he would drive to the house on Sycamore Street. Quickly, he would shower and change. Then he would call Daniels.

  But first he must bend over Weston, satisfy himself that, yes, Weston was still breathing. Gurgling and choking, yes, but still breathing.

  12:20 A.M., EDT

  AT TIM’S PLACE SHE’D learned that, yes, Jeff had been there earlier. Hours earlier. Driving the Cape Cleaners truck, someone had said. Still making deliveries, because he’d gone to Boston earlier, and his car had broken down. Not the van, but Jeff’s Camaro, almost ten years old. But now the Camaro was parked beside the dry-cleaning store, and the van was gone.

  At random, she turned on a blacktop road, driving away from the lights of Carter’s Landing. Had she been on this road before—maybe only minutes before? In the darkness, she couldn’t be sure. On the highways, the interstates, there were the lights, the billboards, the signs. Hold the steering wheel, press down on the accelerator, and the interstate did the rest. The interstate, and the motion of the car and the beat of the music. And then, once she’d gotten to Carter’s Landing, one Xanax, the topper, after the two Valiums.

  But all of it together, the combination, still wasn’t enough to shut out the contempt in her mother’s voice telling her so plainly to leave them alone with their millions. And millions. And millions.

  Her mother’s words, followed by his words:

  “You were there.”

  The three words had seeped into her consciousness. The three words, the sound of Daniels’s voice when he said it, the look in his eye—all of it had begun to fester, as if—

  Ahead, she saw red and blue and white strobes flashing. Police lights. Ambulance lights. And now the policeman with a flashlight was waving her around the official cars and vans strung out along the road, blocking the right-hand lane.

  As she braked, downshifted, turned out, she saw Constable Farnsworth eyeing her closely. Now he was waving to her. Did he want her to stop, was that why he was waving? Uncertain, she pressed the brake pedal harder, downshifted to first gear, crawling now.

  And then she saw it: the Cape Cleaners van. It was parked between two rows of trees that bordered a narrow lane leading to a scattering of weekend cottages.

  The van’s door was standing open, as if Jeff had carelessly abandoned it.

  FRIDAY,

  July 27th

  3:30 P.M., PDT

  AS BERNHARDT TWISTED THE key in his front-door lock he heard the telephone inside the flat begin to warble. On the other side of the door, Crusher, Bernhardt’s newly acquired Airedale, sixty pounds of pure kinetic energy, began a steady barking. It was the first phase of Crusher’s frenetic welcome-home celebration. The barking wouldn’t cease until Bernhardt went inside, gave Crusher a hug.

  The lock released: the door swung open. As Bernhardt put his attaché case inside the door and knelt to hug the ecstatically wriggling Airedale, he heard a woman’s voice on the answering machine. As Bernhardt straightened, Crusher’s next phase began: wild, random leaping on his master, a bad habit that Bernhardt blamed on Crusher’s previous owner.

  Using arms and legs to fend off the dog, Bernhardt went through the flat’s long, turn-of-the-century hallway to the rear door. Now the dog began leaping against the back door, demanding to be let outside. As Bernhardt opened the door and Crusher bolted through, Bernhardt heard the beep signifying that the caller had left her message and disconnected. He walked back to the front door, locked it, picked up his attaché case, and stepped into the front bedroom that he’d converted into an office. Pencil and notepad ready, he switched on the answering machine.

  The first four messages were routine. Two were from Terry Tricomi, the computer whiz who needed more information on a circus acrobat who’d jumped bail after a wife-beating indictment. The third call was from a wrong number who apparently hadn’t listened to Bernhardt’s recorded message.

  The fourth message was the last one, recorded while Crusher was celebrating Bernhardt’s safe return. It was a woman’s voice—a young, unformed, unsure-sounding woman’s voice. But nevertheless a determined voice:

  “Mr. Bernhardt, my name is Carley Hanks. Caroline Hanks, that’s my full name. You don’t know me, but you know my mother, Emily Hanks. You directed her in two plays, and I’ve heard about you ever since I was about fifteen years old. I even met you once, at a party at our house. They’re divorced now, my folks. My mother is remarried, and lives in Santa Barbara. My father lives in Los Angeles now. I’m eighteen, and I’ve been here in San Francisco almost a year. I’m studying design at the Dexter Academy, but I’m working now, for the summer.” There was a pause. From the small garden in the rear of the flat, Bernhardt heard Crusher barking, demanding to be let inside. Reflexively, Bernhardt glanced at his watch. Yes, it was Crusher’s dinner time.

  “The reason I’m calling,” Carley Hanks was saying, “is—well—it’s about a friend of mine. Her name is Diane Cutler, and I think she’s in trouble. My mother says that you’re a very good private detective. And she also says that you’re very sensitive about people, very—” She broke off, searching for the word. “Very caring. So I was wondering whether I could talk to you about Diane. I live in Noe Valley, and I see by the phone book that you’re on Potrero Hill. So I could be at your place in fifteen minutes. So—” She hesitated. “So I’ll hope to hear from you.” She slowly recited her phone number, and hung up. Bernhardt copied down the number, double-checked his appointment calendar, then dialed the number.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Alan Bernhardt, Miss Hanks. I just got your message. It was playing when I came in the door.”

  “Oh, yes, I—I just called.”

  “Would you like to come over now? Four-thirty, say? Is that all right?”

  “Oh, that’s—yes—that’s fine. Just fine. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll see you at four-thirty
.”

  4:35 P.M., PDT

  BERNHARDT WAS AT THE sink shredding lettuce when the doorbell rang. He put the lettuce in a plastic bag, put the bag in the refrigerator, dried his hands. In the rear garden, having heard the doorbell, Crusher was loudly barking, demanding admittance. Whereupon, by way of greeting, the Airedale would jump up on Bernhardt’s guest—any guest. Ignoring the dog, Bernhardt called out, “Just a minute, please.” He walked to his office, where his corduroy jacket was draped over a chair. He was a tall, lean, angular man, slightly stooped. His face was unmistakably Semitic: a high-bridge, slightly beaked nose, a broad forehead, a full mouth. Like the body, the darkly pigmented face was angular, deeply lined in a pattern that suggested both reflection and sadness. The dark, perceptive eyes were also reflective, also sad. In his mid-forties, Bernhardt had thick, unruly hair that was flecked with grey. The rhythm of his movements was neither graceful nor without grace. But he moved purposefully, meaningfully. He wore a soft button-down tattersall shirt without a tie, slacks that needed pressing, and loafers that needed polishing. His corduroy jacket was creased for comfort, not style.

  He took a sheaf of files from his visitor’s chair, considered, decided to place the files atop a bookcase, precariously balanced. Then he went to the front door, drew the bolt, and greeted Carley Hanks. She was a small woman, a blue-eyed blonde with a shy smile and a soft, hesitant voice. She wore an oversize cable-knit white cotton sweater, khaki safari pants with expanding patch pockets, and scuffed running shoes. Her shoulder-length hair was loose; she wore no makeup or jewelry.