Except for the Bones

by Collin Wilcox

  6:30 P.M., EDT

  ON THE THIRD RING he heard Daniels pick up the phone, his private line.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Bruce.”

  “Yes …” The inflection had shifted guardedly.

  “The—ah—nose wheel. It could be a problem, getting it fixed by Sunday.”

  “Then you’ll have to find us a charter.”

  “All right. I’ll let you know.”

  “Is that the reason you called?” It was a haughty question: the emperor, interrupted during his dinner hour. Unthinkable.

  “There’s—ah—something else.”

  “Something else?” Another change of inflection, this one plainly apprehensive. The emperor, faltering.

  “I’m at the airport. I talked to Holloway. He’s the manager. He said that a private detective wants to talk to me. His name is Bernhardt.”

  “Bernhardt?”

  “Alan Bernhardt. And he—he comes from San Francisco.”

  “San Francisco …”

  “Right.”

  “What’s he after?”

  “It’s about …” Should he say it? Was the line secure? He was in a phone booth at the airport parking lot. But Daniels’s line could be—

  “It’s all right.”

  Always, Daniels knew what he was thinking, a mind reader.

  “It’s about Carolyn.”

  “Ah …” The single word was spoken very softly. The emperor, wounded. Flicked by a sword point, blood on the silken sleeve. The first wound of many.

  “Does he want to talk to me?” Daniels asked.

  “I don’t know. All Holloway said was that Bernhardt wanted to identify Carolyn—wanted to find out her name.”

  “Her name …”

  “Right. And Holloway told him that I’d probably know. So—”

  A police car was turning into the parking lot, coming closer. Chief Farnsworth. Unmistakably, Joe Farnsworth behind the wheel.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s Farnsworth.”

  “Looking for you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If he’s talked to Bernhardt …”

  “I know.”

  “Call me back—” A pause, for calculation. “Call me about ten-thirty.”

  “What about Bernhardt, though?” As he spoke, he saw Farnsworth’s car stop at one of the parking lot’s intersections. “Holloway knows where I live. He told Bernhardt, gave Bernhardt the phone number on Sycamore. What if—?”

  “I’ve got to go. Call me at ten-thirty.” The line went dead.

  He hung up the telephone and stepped clear of the booth. His car was parked in the small licensed lot adjoining the airport’s main parking lot. It was a Buick Skylark, the same car he’d driven the night he killed Jeff Weston.

  To get to the Buick, or to return to the terminal, he must cross Farnsworth’s line of sight. It was as if the policeman had taken up a position calculated to command two fields of fire, trapping him.

  Meaning that he must walk down the aisle, pass Farnsworth’s car, nod pleasantly to the fat man behind the wheel, and cheerfully continue walking to his car.

  Daniels’s car, really.

  6:40 P.M., EDT

  IN THE MIRROR, FARNSWORTH watched Kane come closer—closer.

  Killer Kane … Where had he heard that name? Was it an old comic-strip character? Buck Rogers, was that it?

  With his hands resting on the steering wheel, he waited for Kane to pass in front of the squad car, waited for the pilot to look at him. When it happened, Farnsworth smiled, nodded, crooked a forefinger. He saw Kane stop, stand motionless for a moment, then come to the car, bending down.

  “Get in,” Farnsworth said. “There’re a couple of things I want to talk to you about.”

  “Sure …” Kane was nodding, putting on a smile, opening the passenger’s door, sliding inside.

  Farnsworth put the cruiser in gear. “Have you got a few minutes?” He let the car move ahead, toward the parking lot’s exit. “Something I’d like to ask you about.”

  “Sure …” Kane spread his hands. The knuckles, Farnsworth noticed, were scarred.

  “I’ll drive down toward Knickerbocker’s Pond.” Fine.

  “Good flight?” Farnsworth asked.

  “Very good. Except for the traffic, getting into Barnstable on a Friday afternoon.”

  “I understand the FAA’s thinking about doing something to take care of the problem.”

  “They’re trying to limit touch-and-go’s—training flights—during the summer months.”

  “Would that help?”

  Kane nodded. “It’d help a lot. But it’ll take a year, at least, to get the damn thing approved. It’s got to go through channels.”

  Affably, Farnsworth chuckled, then stepped on the brake, brought the cruiser to a stop on the shoulder of a narrow road that led down the dunes toward Knickerbocker’s Pond. He switched off the engine, set the parking brake, then laboriously levered his body until he faced the other man, who was turning toward him. “The reason I want to talk to you,” he began, “has got to do with a private detective. His name is Alan Bernhardt.” He waited. Then: “Does that name ring a bell?”

  A frown, then a puzzled nod. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, Holloway—the airport manager—said something about that.”

  “Have you talked to Bernhardt?”

  “No. I just landed. And I’ve got a mechanical problem. A shimmy in the goddamn nose wheel.”

  Farnsworth decided to say nothing, decided to let silence work for him as he stared at the other man. Finally: “You remember that missing-persons circular I showed you a week or so back, don’t you? The woman named Carolyn Estes, who was last seen here during the weekend of July fourteenth?”

  Kane’s face froze as he nodded. “Sure. Carolyn. Did she ever show up?”

  “No,” Farnsworth answered, “she didn’t.”

  “Hmmm.

  “And in the meantime, two other people died. And they were both connected to Daniels, one way or the other.”

  Kane swallowed. “Two other people?”

  “Yeah. His daughter died in San Francisco. She OD’d. A week ago, I think it was.”

  “Th—that’s right. God—” Kane shook his head. “I can’t say I was surprised. But …” He let it go somberly unfinished.

  As if he hadn’t heard, Farnsworth said, “And then there’s Jeff Weston, the punk that Diane was apparently screwing. Jeff was killed the day after Carolyn Estes turned up missing. So you can see, they were all connected to Daniels, one way or the other.”

  Kane was nodding. “I thought about that, too. Of course, it could all be coincidence.”

  “Oh, sure.” Smiling, Farnsworth spoke affably. “No question about it. No question at all.” He held the smile for a moment longer. Then, gently: “Of course, that’s not the way this fella Bernhardt sees it. I understand he and Diane spent some time talking, out in San Francisco. And the way Bernhardt’s got it figured out, Preston Daniels killed Carolyn Estes on the night of Sunday, July fifteenth. Apparently Diane was fooling around with Jeff Weston, out on the dunes near where her father lives, and the two of them saw Daniels haul the body out of the beach house. They followed him when he drove away from the beach house and buried the body.” As he said it, he saw Kane stiffen, saw his eyes suddenly sharpen. Was it surprise? Shock?

  “So the next night,” Farnsworth continued, “Jeff Weston gets killed while he’s delivering dry cleaning for his mother. Bernhardt figures Jeff tried to blackmail Daniels, and Daniels had him killed. In fact—” Farnsworth’s mouth twitched in a small, playful smile. “In fact, Bernhardt figures that you killed Jeff, on Daniels’s orders. That’s—”

  “But—”

  “That’s probably because your car was seen at the scene. That Buick Skylark you drive.”

  “My car? But—”

  “Please.” Still smiling, he held up a hand. “I’m almost done. Bear with me. Okay?”

  Kane m
ade no reply.

  “Still according to Bernhardt,” Farnsworth said, “Diane got spooked, and ran away that night. She went out to San Francisco, where her father lives. Bernhardt thinks you followed her out to San Francisco. He thinks you tried to kill her out there. You missed your chance, but she was so shook up, the way Bernhardt figures, that she OD’d, that same night.”

  “But that—that’s bullshit. Total bullshit. I saw her in San Francisco, but I sure as hell didn’t try to kill her. Christ, I went out there—Daniels sent me out there—to get her to go back home.”

  “You were seen with a club—an iron pipe, maybe, just about to attack Diane Cutler. Come to think of it—” Farnsworth paused. Then he nodded reflectively, as if an idea had just occurred to him. “Come to think of it, Jeff Weston was killed by a pipe, probably.”

  “I don’t think I have to listen to this crap.” Kane’s voice was harsh, defiant. Approvingly, Farnsworth saw the pilot’s eyes harden, saw his hands involuntarily clenching into fists. Yes, Kane was up to the job.

  Ignoring the other man’s response, Farnsworth said, “This fella Bernhardt, he’s been all over the Cape, yesterday and today, asking about Carolyn Estes. He’s trying to find out her name, of course. If you want to find someone, pick up someone’s trail, you’ve got to have a name. Then—” Meaningfully, Farnsworth paused. “Then, once you’ve got a name for the computers, then you’re in business. So far, I don’t think Bernhardt’s got much. Everyone knows about Daniels’s blondes, but no one knows them by name. Which is, I’m sure, the way Daniels arranged it. You’d fly the two of them in, and they’d go right out to his place, and have their fun. Then they got back in the airplane, and you flew them to New York, or wherever. The housekeepers didn’t even know Carolyn’s name. So that means—” Another meaningful pause, a final turn of the screw. “So that means that, besides me and Daniels, maybe you’re the only one on the Cape who knows Carolyn Estes by name. Which means that, when Bernhardt finds you, and questions you—and if you give him the name—then it’s Katie-bar-the-door. Bernhardt’ll have a name. He already knows where the body’s buried. So I won’t have any choice but to get a crew together, and tell them to start digging around. And if they find anything, then, for sure, the state attorney is going to issue a warrant for Daniels’s arrest.”

  After careful calculation, Kane spoke cautiously: “That’s if I give Bernhardt a name. But suppose I don’t.”

  “He still knows where the body’s buried. He can take that to the state attorney.”

  A silence fell as they stared at each other, each searching, each probing. Finally Kane spoke: “You know where it’s buried, too—don’t you?”

  Farnsworth smiled, but made no reply.

  “If you think Carolyn was murdered,” Kane said, “why aren’t you digging for the body?”

  Still smiling, mock-playfully, Farnsworth continued to eye the other man. Finally he spoke softly, gently:

  “Can’t you guess why, Kane? You’re a smart guy. You’ve been around. You’ve even had a little trouble with the law, I understand. Can’t you guess why I’m not looking?”

  No reply. Only Kane’s eyes, boring into his.

  As if to prompt a reluctant student, Farnsworth said, “You got well paid, I’m sure, for killing Jeff Weston and trying to kill Diane Cutler.” He let the words linger between them for a final moment. Then: “And if you’re smart, you’re still getting paid—to keep your mouth shut.”

  “Jesus …” Incredulously, Kane shook his head. “You, too?”

  “There’s so much money there,” Farnsworth said. “What’s a million or two, compared to Daniels’s neck? He pays that much every year just to keep up his goddamn yacht. I read that in one of those magazines. You know, the ones on the checkout stands, at the supermarket.”

  “Jesus …” Contemptuously, Kane snorted. “I should’ve known.”

  “Well,” Farnsworth answered, speaking more briskly. “Well, now you do know. So let’s get on with this.”

  “Yeah …” Another incredulous shake of the head. Then, more assertively, partners now: “Yeah. Right.”

  “You’re the cutout,” Farnsworth said. “The messenger boy, in other words. You go to Daniels, and you tell him that I want a million dollars to keep quiet.”

  “A million dollars? Are you serious?”

  As if he hadn’t heard, Farnsworth said, “It’ll be in two parts. A half-million now, up front, and a half-million exactly a year from now, when there’s no chance of anything going wrong. Daniels and I don’t see each other from now on. That’s important. You carry the money. You take messages back and forth. Got that?”

  Silently, Kane nodded.

  “There’s also the problem with Bernhardt.” He waited for Kane to nod again. Then: “As far as I know, Bernhardt and I are the only two people who know where Carolyn Estes is buried. Maybe Jeff Weston left a letter, or something, but if he did, I haven’t heard about it.” Kane frowned. “Is Bernhardt a one-man operation?”

  “I think so. He hires people, probably. But he’s the principal.”

  “What if Bernhardt goes to the state attorney? What then?”

  “Ah.” As if he were encouraging a promising student, Farnsworth nodded. “You’ve put your finger on it, you see. Bernhardt came to me yesterday. I stalled him. Private eyes’re used to that. But sooner or later he’s going to find out Carolyn Estes’s identity. And that’ll be that. He’ll get a missing-persons circular, and he’ll find a dozen people who saw her at Carter’s Landing. And then he’ll start pounding my desk. And if I don’t start looking for the body, then he’s going to go to Boston. And that’ll be the end of everything. Daniels goes to trial, and we lose our meal ticket.”

  “So what’ll we do? Bribe Bernhardt?”

  Regretfully, Farnsworth shook his head. “I don’t think so. Daniels might try it, if and when Bernhardt talks to him. But, sure as hell, Bernhardt’d take that as an admission of guilt.”

  “So what’s the answer?”

  “The answer,” Farnsworth said, “is that you’ve got to get rid of Bernhardt. And you’ve got to do it soon. You’ve got to do it tonight.”

  “But—Christ—you’re talking like I’m a—a contract killer. I—Christ—I hit that Weston kid too hard, that’s all I’ve done. And now you—”

  “So far, Bernhardt hasn’t gone any further than me, and I was able to stall him. But by tomorrow, I figure he’ll be on the phone to Boston. And when that happens, and my phone rings, the first thing I’m going to do is arrest you for the murder of Jeff Weston. Then I’ll start working on Daniels. Hell—” Suddenly Farnsworth guffawed: a wet, clotted laugh that ended in a long, racking cough. Recovering, he said, “Hell, I’ll be a hero. I’ll be on TV. Nationwide. I’ll be famous. “The straight-arrow cop who arrested Preston Daniels.” Pleased, Farnsworth nodded. “Yeah, I can dig it, as the kids say.”

  “You’re fucking crazy, Farnsworth. You know that?”

  Farnsworth shrugged. “Everyone to his own opinion.” He draped a fat arm over the seat back and pointed behind them. “There’s a paper sack on the floor back there. Get it.” He watched Kane obey, saw the other man reach inside the sack, saw him withdraw a blue-steel revolver.

  “In the trade,” Farnsworth said, “that’s called a cold gun. Meaning that it can’t be traced. Use that. Use it tonight. Bernhardt’s staying at The Gulls, that’s a motel out on Twenty-eight. Unless I miss my guess, you won’t have to go looking for Bernhardt. He’ll come looking for you. That could be your chance, if you handle it right.”

  “Jesus …” As if in utter disbelief, Kane shook his head. “Jesus, this is unreal. I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “By the way, before I forget—” Farnsworth pointed to the sack. “There’s a pair of surgical gloves in there. Be damn sure you wear them. You’ve been arrested. Your prints are on file.”

  Mechanically nodding, Kane said, “How many times’ve you done this?”

  “Three, mayb
e four times, over the years. But this is the first chance I’ve had to really score.”

  “I mean murder. Having someone killed.”

  Sunk deep in the glowing pink flesh of his cheeks, Farnsworth’s small mouth curved in a prim Cupid’s smile. “No comment.”

  “I’m going to talk to Daniels first. I’m not going to do anything until I talk to Daniels.”

  “No problem.” Farnsworth smiled again, his china-blue eyes sparkling. “We’re the Three Musketeers. Right?”

  In silence, Kane returned the revolver to the brown paper sack. It was a large sack, allowing him to fold it over the gun twice, for safety. “I don’t suppose,” he said, “that you’ve got any idea how I’m supposed to pull this off.”

  “I’ve got the whole thing figured out,” Farnsworth answered promptly. “I bet I didn’t sleep more than a couple of hours last night. But I’ve got it all laid out for you. Everything.”

  7:15 P.M., EDT

  KANE DIALED THE PAY phone, waited through four rings.

  “Yes?” Daniels’s voice. Abrasive. Plainly irritated.

  “This is Bruce again. I know you don’t want me to call until ten-thirty. But something’s come up. I’ve got to talk to you. Now. Right now.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Definitely, there’s a problem. A big problem.”

  “All right. I’ll meet you—” A moment’s calculation. “On the Bridge Road, north of Miller’s Pond. You know where I mean. At eight forty-five, let’s say.”

  “It’s got to be sooner than that. It’s got to be now.”

  “We’re just sitting down to dinner.”

  “I promise you—you’ll be sorry, every minute you put this off.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “No. Not me.”

  Not me … The two words, ominously suspended, echoed. Not Kane. Someone else.