Except for the Bones

by Collin Wilcox

  What orders, soon, would he give?

  TUESDAY,

  July 31st

  6:30 A.M., PDT

  A THOUSAND FEET BELOW, the jungle was rich, endless green, blossoming with blooms of billowing orange napalm streaked with black smoke, some of the bursts shaped like atom-bomb mushrooms. Then there was the explosion. He was engulfed by an oily, impenetrable black cloud. Flying with one hand, he opened his safety harness, tripped the door latch, kicked open the door. Smoke was choking him, blinding him, about to claim him. The Skymaster, with one of its engines in the rear, was a killer airplane to leave in the air. Alarms were warbling, shrieking over the engine’s roar.

  Alarms?

  Did the Skymaster have alarms for—

  The telephone, on the nightstand beside the bed. Groping, blearily blinking, Kane reached for his wristwatch. Six-thirty.

  Daniels. It had to be Daniels. In New York, the time was nine-thirty. Already, Daniels would have increased his net worth, made the standard multimillion-dollar deal, warming up for the day ahead.

  “Hello.”

  “Yes. Bruce. Have you found out anything?”

  “Yes. Just last night. Late. I didn’t want to call you then.”

  “Well?” Daniels demanded.

  But they were talking through the hotel switchboard. Was it a risk?

  “I—ah—did what I came to do. She’s—”

  Quickly, the other man broke in: “Has there been any contact? Any conversation?”

  “No. I didn’t think you wanted me to—”

  “There’s been a—a new development. Just now. Just a half hour ago. That’s why I’m calling.”

  Sitting on the edge of the bed now, Kane felt the sudden dryness of fear begin, deep in his throat. And, yes, he felt his bladder constricting—tighter, almost unbearably tighter. All night, he hadn’t urinated. And now this: the fear he could hear in Daniels’s voice. The fear that might match his own fear.

  He realized that he was pressing hard on his genitals, something his mother had hated: “Don’t do that, Bruce. Puleeze.”

  “It’s—” Daniels hesitated, an uncharacteristic uncertainty. “It concerns our fat friend. The one who—who was asking you questions. He just called.”

  Farnsworth. Constable Joe Farnsworth. Shrewd Joe Farnsworth.

  “Where’d he call you? At the office?”

  “Yes …” The single word was heavily laden.

  “Jesus. What’s he want?”

  “He was asking about”—now, furtively, Daniels’s voice thinned—“about that, ah, accident. Two weeks ago. The man.”

  Jeff Weston. The death of Jeff Weston.

  Now the urge to urinate was too much to bear. Had Preston Daniels ever been told to wait, while—

  “Listen. I’ve got to take a piss.”

  “But—”

  “Sorry. It can’t be helped.” Without waiting for a reply he put the phone on the pillow, walked carefully to the bathroom, emptied his bladder. Never had he felt this much relief, afterward. He raised his shorts, quickly returned to the bed, picked up the phone. “Sorry. It just couldn’t wait.”

  “It—it’s got to do with the—ah—Buick.”

  On the Cape, Daniels kept four cars. Stalking Jeff Weston, he’d used the Buick, the least distinctive of the three cars. But someone had seen the car, recognized it.

  Recognized the car—recognized him?

  “Jesus. I don’t like that.”

  There was no reply. But the silence was more meaningful than words.

  “Has—” Kane hesitated, searching for the phrase. “Has our friend made any—any connections?”

  “If he has, he didn’t say so. But I don’t think he’d say anything specific, not yet. Not even if he thought—” Stifled by the enormity of whatever Farnsworth might suspect, the rest of it was choked off, lost.

  “Shall I come back there? Is that why you’re calling?”

  “No. I mean, that’s not why I’m calling. I—I just wanted to update you. Warn you.”

  “So what now? What about this San Francisco thing, the reason I’m here? Are you going to—”

  “No. I was going out there. But now I—I don’t think it’d be wise. I wanted you to find her, and then I’d intended to come out there, to talk to her. Find out—” Once more, the words died. Then: “Find out how she fit into all this.”

  Jeff Weston and Diane … Daniels had to learn how much they suspected, how much they knew. For the first time, Kane could hear the thin note of desperation in Daniels’s voice. Desperation, and—yes—guilt. Murderer’s guilt.

  “You’ve got to know about Diane. I can see that.”

  “But I can’t contact her. Not now.”

  “I know …”

  “That leaves you, Bruce.”

  “Me …”

  “You’re the only one who can do it. There’s no one else.”

  “You’ve got to trust me, then. You don’t have any choice. You understand that, don’t you?”

  No reply.

  “Don’t you?”

  “I—” For a moment, one final moment, Daniels plainly couldn’t bear to say it, pronounce the words that meant capitulation. Meaning that Kane must force the silence to continue. Until finally, in a low, resigned voice, Daniels said: “Yes, I understand that.”

  “Good.” Another beat, another turn of the screw, one final twist. Then: “I’ll be in touch.” Without permission, he broke the connection.

  9:10 A.M., PDT

  THE MISTS WERE THICKENING, swirling; concealing, then revealing. Was the figure ahead a man or a monster? Overhead, dark clouds crossed a pale crescent moon. The surf was the only sound, a distant muttering. Face turned away, arms slack, the monster was motionless. The sand surrounding him had turned to eddying slime, putrefied by decaying flesh. Why was he coming closer, even though he still stood motionless? Why was the distance between them closing? The monster’s shoulders were scaled, his hands were talons. Now his face was visible: amorphous and scabrous, pulsating, the flesh itself as alive as a Gorgon’s cluster of writhing worms, the eyes two red coals, the nostrils two pits, the mouth a shapeless, blood-dripping maw.

  What did he intend for her? What was she meant to do? And what was the sound that suddenly suffused them, that high-pitched keening—

  —the doorbell buzzer.

  Someone at the door.

  Carley, locked out?

  The room was bright with morning light. Turning, she looked at her watch, on the table beside the couch. Almost nine-fifteen. Propped on one elbow, she felt her head begin to throb, felt the dull ache of recollection beginning. Yes, it was coming back: the cheap red wine and the Xanax. Today, she’d promised Carley, she would buy some good red wine, ten, fifteen dollars a bottle, a cupboard full. And groceries, too. And—

  Again, the buzzer sounded.

  Barefoot, wearing only panties, she stood up, waited, felt the room begin to steady. Slowly, carefully, she walked to the hallway door. With Carley gone, the door was unbolted. Latched and locked, but unbolted, a security no-no.

  She put one eye to the peephole, saw a man’s head, full-face, as, with a sudden jangling shock, the buzzer sounded again.

  Kane. Bruce Kane.

  Bruce Kane?

  In San Francisco?

  Now he was looking directly at the peephole: directly into her eye. Had he seen the movement? Yes, backlit, he could see her: see motion, see light and dark, shifting.

  “Diane? Is that you?”

  Bruce Kane … She’d never liked him, never trusted him. Bruce Kane, a schoolyard bully grown up.

  “What d’ you want?” It was all she could think of to say, a dumb question. One more dumb question; one long, bad joke. God, but her head ached.

  “I want to talk to you. It won’t take long.”

  Bruce Kane, with his flat, hard eyes and his scarred, street-fighter’s mouth and his bulging weightlifter’s biceps—and his hard, trim buns. The packaging was good, but the price
would come high.

  “Is my—is Daniels with you?”

  “No. He’s in New York.”

  Could she refuse to open the door? No. Somehow she couldn’t refuse.

  “Just a minute. I was still sleeping. I’ve got to put something on.”

  She saw him smile. His particular smile, without humor, without warmth. “Take your time.”

  “I will.”

  9:25 A.M., PDT

  “D’YOU WANT SOME COFFEE?” she asked.

  Kane shook his head. “No, I’ve already had three cups. Your—Daniels, he called at six-thirty, for God’s sake.” As he spoke, he sank into one of two director’s chairs. About to prop his feet on the battered, littered coffee table, a gesture of equality, of easy goodwill, he decided instead to cross his legs. Across the table, Diane was sitting in the nest of her sleeping bag, spread on the couch. Her running shoes and socks were on the floor in front of the couch. The socks looked dirty.

  “Did he tell you to find me?” she was asking. “Is that what this is all about?”

  “I had to come to San Francisco anyhow. As long as I was here, he wanted me to try and locate you.”

  He saw her eyes sharpen skeptically, then harden. He’d forgotten how tough she could be—how smart, how shrewd. Instead of responding, she was simply waiting for him to go on, to explain. Advantage Diane.

  “He wanted me to find you,” he said, “because he wants to know what you’re doing.”

  Her mouth twisted, mocking a smile. “It’s summer. Vacation time. I’m taking a vacation.”

  “Maybe you should’ve told your folks.”

  “I did tell them. I guess they didn’t tell you.”

  “What is it that they didn’t tell me?”

  She shook her head, waved the question away. “Never mind.”

  “Listen, Diane, you’ve got a lot of people worried. Do you know that?”

  “Yeah, well, a lot of people have got me worried, too. Do you know that?”

  “I know that something’s bothering you. Maybe I can help.”

  “I don’t think you came to help me, Bruce. I think my stepfather paid you to find me. Just like he pays you to fly him around the country. There’s no difference. He says jump, and you say how high.”

  Letting silence work for him, the policeman’s trick, he stared at her until she began to shift uncomfortably. Yes, a teenager’s uncertainty was there, buried deep. Finally he said, “You’ve got it wrong, Diane. You’ve got it all wrong. That’s the way it used to be.”

  Contemptuously, she made no response. Instead, sullenly, she stared past him, toward the big bay window that fronted on the street below.

  “Now,” he said, “when he says jump, I ask where—and why. Then I make up my own mind.” He spoke softly, one confidant to another.

  She snorted. “When did all this happen?”

  He drew a long, slow breath. It was decision time, pick-up-the-chips time. He spoke very deliberately, very precisely: “It happened just about two weeks ago.”

  She flinched. As the words registered, struck home, her teenager’s cool deserted her, leaving her staring at him warily. “You say—” She broke off. Then, cautiously: “You say two weeks?”

  He nodded. “Two weeks, maybe a little more. Just about—” A final pause before he must commit himself, push it all the way. Everything: “Just about the time Jeff Weston was killed.”

  As if he’d gone for her, threatened her, she drew away, her back pressed hard against the couch. Her eyes widened; her voice was a ragged whisper. “What d’ you know about Jeff?”

  “I know that he died. And I know that he and you were—friends.”

  “Friends—” It was a brief, bitter echo.

  “I know that you left home, left New York, the same day Weston died. And I know you’ve been running ever since.” As the words fell, he saw fear come into her eyes, saw her hands tighten on the sleeping bag that surrounded her, a runaway teenager’s nest.

  “Wh—what else do you know?”

  “I know about Daniels’s girlfriend. I know when she disappeared.”

  “His—” Clutching the sleeping bag, her fingers suddenly tightened, the giveaway. “His girlfriend?”

  “She disappeared the night before you took off. And now the police are looking for her.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” Suddenly she sprang to her feet, went to the far corner of the room, faced away from him: a child standing in the corner, arms rigidly at her sides, fists clenched, head low, braced against punishment. “The police. Sweet Jesus.”

  Also on his feet, he moved to stand behind her. He spoke softly: “I know all about her, Diane. I know her name, and I know where she lived. And you know what happened to her that Sunday night. Don’t you?”

  Suddenly she began to sob: deep, wracking sobs. Without hope, she began to shake her head. Repeating: “Sweet Jesus.”

  “I want you to think about it,” he said. “I want you to think about what you know, and what I know.”

  11 A.M., PDT

  HOW LONG HAD IT been since he’d left her? An hour? Less than an hour? Yes, almost certainly less than an hour. Yet, already, she’d caused Kane’s visit to pass into the shadows, a memory, no substance, therefore no menace. No menace, therefore no fear. No fear, no terror. One small round capsule on an empty stomach, and she’d caused Kane to cross over, dissolve, shrink into the shades beyond.

  But memory remained. She’d left the warm, secure cocoon of her sleeping bag to find him at the door. Instantly, she’d sensed danger. Yet she’d let him in. It was, she knew, Daniels, his power. Svengali. Extend his arms, fingers spread, eyes wild, compelling, Daniels’s will be done. Thy will be done, the minister’s scam. Dress up, drop a dollar in the collection plate, and Daniels’s will be done.

  Yet she’d let him in. Kane, with those flat, watchful eyes. Snake’s eyes, portrait of Kane. Pilots were heroes—pilots were killers. A burst of machine-gun fire, black smoke trailing the enemy airplane across the sky, curving down, score one more dead.

  One more dead—and Jeff dead, too.

  If Kane hadn’t done it, then Kane could have done it. Crash and burn, the hot-rodder’s creed.

  She’d been with Jeff, that Sunday night on the dunes. Kane had known it, known they’d been together. And Jeff had died.

  And Kane had tracked her down, rung her doorbell, waited politely for her to dress.

  I want you to think about it. The con man now, not the hit man.

  Hit man?

  It had been her first thought when she’d seen him on her doorstep. Yet she’d let him in.

  I want you to think about it.

  Translation: Together, they could ruin Daniels. Forever.

  Dressed in a dark skirt and blouse, funeral clothes, she would watch the judge pronounce sentence. She would watch, and she would smile. Daniels, guilty of murder. Preston Daniels, in convict’s denims, locked in a cell.

  But suddenly she saw it again: Jeff, and all the blood. Jeff, no longer human, as meaningless as a bundle of clothing discarded beside the road.

  Jeff, so curiously flattened on the bottom. When she’d stood there beside his body a wayward fragment of memory had flickered: a big blow-up water toy, a sea horse she’d once had that had lost most of its air.

  Before Daniels let her testify against him, before he allowed her to send him to prison, he would have her killed. First Jeff. Then her.

  She was sitting on the couch. Because the morning fog hadn’t yet cleared, San Francisco’s arctic summertime, she’d pulled the sleeping bag around her, as much for protection as for warmth. In front of the couch, on the floor, lay the leather tote bag. When she went to sleep at night, everything went into the tote bag: wallet, keys, contacts, whatever paperback she was reading, money, address book—and the pills, and the grass. Her stash. Herself. Whatever she had, whatever she was, it was all there, in the tote bag.

  So that now, without moving from the couch, she had a choice: she could find Alan Bernhardt’
s card, probably in her wallet. Or she could call her father, tell him she had to see him. She could tell him what happened—what could happen.

  But why did it seem so shameful, to tell her father? Why did it feel so wrong?

  Just as wrong as it would feel to tell her mother. Just as wrong. Just as lost.

  One choice—two choices—

  Leaving the third choice, the last choice: the tote bag again, and the pills. Rest in peace.

  11:20 A.M., PDT

  “WAIT,” BERNHARDT SAID INTO the phone. “Hold it, Charlie, until I get the goddamn file. Or, better yet, let me call you back. How long’ll you—” The telephone warbled: call forwarding. “Listen, Charlie, there goes my other line. I’ll get back to you before noon. Okay?”

  With Charlie Foster’s grudging approval, Bernhardt broke the first connection, took the second call. Reacting to Bernhardt’s irritation, Crusher, lying beside the desk, raised his head, flopped his tail twice, sighed, yawned, let his head fall back between his paws.

  “This is—ah—this is Diane Cutler, Mr. Bernhardt.”

  “Diane.” Squaring himself before the telephone, Bernhardt concentrated, focused on the voice in his ear. It was a softer, more tentative voice than he associated with Diane Cutler. “How’s it going?”

  “Well—ah—I thought I’d like to talk to you. Someone—something. I mean—” She broke off, began again: “Something’s happened that I—I’d like to talk to you about. I mean, it—it’s like you said, maybe if I talk to you about it—a stranger—I can make more sense out of it, out of what’s happening.”

  “We can sure give it a shot. When would you like to talk?”

  “Could—would—I mean, this afternoon. Have you got time, this afternoon?”

  “Can you come over here? Have you got wheels?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s on Potrero Hill. Do you—?”

  “Sure. I grew up here.”

  “Right. I’d forgotten. How about two-thirty? Is that all right?”

  “It’s fine, Mr. Bernhardt. Just fine. Thanks.”