Dry Bones

by Carole Morden

  Single minded of purpose, I charged into the room to call Scott. It took a minute for my mind to register Rachel sitting on the bed, rocking back and forth and hugging her knees, tears streaming down her face.

  “What’s wrong, Rache? What happened?” I raced over to the bed and put my arms around her.

  “He called.” The words came out in a low moan.

  “Who called?”

  “He found out I’m here and he called.” More rocking.

  “Who?” I asked again.

  “Phillip House. He called and said if I said one word to anyone about us, I would end up just like Ms. Stewart or Tim. He said ‘about us’ like it was mutual. Like I liked it and it was my idea as well as his.” Her low moan turned into high-pitched hysteria, and with the speed she talked I only heard about half of what she said.

  “Slow down and tell me again.” I patted her back in what I hoped was a soothing rhythm. I reverted to full mother mode.

  “The minute I heard his voice, I panicked. So long ago and I still recognize the voice. Like I’m sitting in government class and nothing’s changed.” Sobbing now, Rachel couldn’t quit talking between hiccups.

  I kept patting, staying calm.

  “The room got so small, so menacing. I couldn’t even look out the window because I was afraid he would be there. How did he get this number? I can’t go to breakfast. I can’t go anywhere! What if he’s out there? What if he’s watching the door?”

  “I just came in the door. No one’s outside.”

  “Jamie, I know he meant it. He’ll kill me in a second if he thinks I’ve told anyone.”

  I didn’t know what to say to reassure her, so I didn’t say anything. I just held her and let her talk. I pushed the chase with Volvo lady to the back of my mind.

  “I feel all slimy. I’m so scared—scared that I’ll have to keep living like this.”

  “Rache, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” I still didn’t have anything to say, but I couldn’t stop opening my mouth.

  Rachel kept talking like she hadn’t heard me. “I’m afraid that everyone is like him and Dad and afraid that it’s not really them, it’s me. Afraid that when anyone looks at me, all they’ll see is a pile of garbage—just filth to step over.”

  I felt helpless. No easy platitudes would fix Rachel’s pain.

  “I need a drink. I . . . I really do. I can’t do this sober.” Her eyes pleaded.

  “I’m so sorry, Rache. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you, and I’m sorry the creep called, but trust me, you don’t need a drink. You need to stand up and fight. You’re stronger than he is. You have more guts than he’ll ever have, and you don’t need to keep living like this.”

  Rachel eyed me with a look that was a cross between disbelief and anguish.

  “Call Scott. He’ll know what to do,” I urged.

  “No, no, no. I can’t call Scott. I can’t make this public. My parents . . . it will look like I’m, like I’m, well you know. Please . . .”

  “Okay, Rache, okay,” I conceded. “But you’re forty-eight. How long are you going to let Phillip House control your life? Now’s the time to take a stand. The Cliffhangers are all here. We won’t let him hurt you again. He’s a two-bit thug, and we can nail him. But we need your help to do it.” We can nail him? I obviously watched too much TV.

  Rachel bit her thumbnail.

  “Why don’t you go take a shower?” I suggested. “I’ll be right here. If the phone rings, I’ll get it.”

  I gave her a hug and pushed her toward the bathroom. I had such a hard time understanding Rachel. Protecting the very people who destroyed her life. How hard could it be to stand up against this scum? How hard could it be to turn her father in for molesting her, or her mother for letting it happen?

  You’ve never been there.

  Volvo Lady and Phillip House. Were they connected? Where did this all lead? What did they have in common? Were they working together? The thoughts swirled in my head, causing fear to squeeze my guts into knots. Tim was dead. Someone was following me. Rachel’s life had been threatened. What did I think I was doing? This wasn’t some kid’s game—this was for real. I grabbed the phone and started to dial Scott’s number. Suddenly, my dad’s face came into view. Vincent Waymire—a man who never backed away from anything in his life.

  One Sunday morning we were driving home from church when we saw smoke billowing out of a house. Dad stopped the car and ran into the house looking for people. In about two minutes he’d rounded up a mother and two children and brought them out to safety. The woman kept screaming that her baby was still in the house. Dad ran back in and found the baby. Bringing her out, his back caught on fire. He handed the screaming, but unhurt baby girl to her mother before he dropped and rolled on the ground putting the fire out. He was hospitalized for a week with smoke inhalation and second-degree burns on his back.

  Two weeks after being released from the hospital, the Anderson Fire Department held a dinner in his honor and gave him a citation for bravery. When we returned home from the dinner, I asked what made him so brave. He smiled. “I’m not brave, Jamie. It’s just that when something scares me, I face it and charge.”

  I looked at the phone in my hand and decided it was time to charge. Sounds of water running assured me that Rachel was taking a shower. Hands shaking, I reached inside the dresser and pulled out the Anderson phone book. There were several Houses listed, but only one Phillip. I dialed the number quickly before I could change my mind.

  “I’d like to speak to Phillip House please.”

  There was a long pause before the voice on the other end replied, “It’s early and I doubt he’s even here.”

  “Yes, I know it’s early, but he just called. I know he’s home. He’s the speaker for the graduation this weekend and for my class reunion, so don’t give me the runaround. I know he’s there. Please put him on the phone.” My anger made the words come out clipped and bitter.

  “I can’t promise you anything, but I’ll go check.” The person behind the voice sounded irritated at my insistence.

  “Thank you, I’ll wait.” My palms were sweaty. Anger twisted my insides in knots.

  “Hello, this is Phillip House.”

  “Hi. This is Jamie Storm.” I continued in a rush of loud, heated words. “I have a message for you. If you so much as touch one hair on Rachel’s head, I will take you down. I will go to every media outlet that will listen with all your slimy, little misdeeds. I will find every girl you ever molested, and we will take out huge ads in every Washington, DC paper and every newspaper in Indiana. With any luck you will be in prison for life. If I were you, I’d get out of town, because the minute I figure out how you killed Tim, I’m going to the police.”

  My voice shook as I spoke, and I could feel my face getting hotter.

  “Who is this? What are you talking about?” Surprise and apprehension danced in House’s tone.

  “I’m Jamie Storm. And you are a murdering child molester, and if you so much as come near Rachel—or try calling her again—you will regret it! In fact, if I were you, I would find some urgent reason to leave Anderson now. I’d forget about your speeches to the reunion class and your daughter’s graduation. Because if you don’t, I might have to make my own speech, highlighting your proclivities for underage girls.” Proclivities? Evidently, my vocabulary raised a notch when I was spitting angry.

  “Now, listen here. You can’t threaten me. I am the Speaker of the House of the United States. I have bodyguards. I will not listen to the ranting of some hysterical woman and neither will the media,” he warned.

  “You don’t intimidate me. Your position in the government doesn’t intimidate me. Your bodyguards don’t intimidate me. I can and will threaten you. And my threats aren’t empty. So if you think you’re so tough, you just hang around and make your speech. I guarantee . . . you will regret it. I’m quite sure your wife and daughter will be intrigued to hear about the sleazy activities you’ve engaged
in.”

  With that, I slammed down the receiver. My whole body was shaking. I’m not sure I scared him at all, but I felt better. I marched over to the window, then back to the desk, back to the window, back to the desk. Adrenaline rushed through me like a gust of wind. I grabbed a pillow off the bed and threw it against the wall. It wasn’t enough. Energy coursed through me, making me feel tough. If my pastor’s wife conscience was trying to get my attention now, it would have to wait its turn.

  The ringing telephone stopped my arm in midair just as I was going to throw the pillow again. I picked up the receiver. “What?”

  “Hey, hold it there, pal. You sound like you’re ready to kill somebody. What’s going on?” It was Scott.

  “Oh, it’s you.” I tried to calm down. “Sorry, I thought it was someone else. I’m just a little tense. I need to talk to you. Can you come over to the motel before our breakfast meeting?”

  “Sure. Can you give me a little clue on the uptight phone voice?”

  “No, I’ll just talk to you when you get here.”

  “Sure thing. Rachel all right?”

  “No, she’s not. I can’t talk about that now. She won’t let me. I’m not all right either, but I can talk about that, so just get over here.” I lowered my voice and added, “Please.”

  Without waiting for a response, I hung up the phone. The bedside clock read 6:57. I had hung up on two people already, and the day had barely started. Dorothy, you’re not in Kansas anymore. This was the first time since marrying a pastor that I’d ever hung up on anyone. And boy, did it feel good.

  Rachel walked out of the bathroom towel drying her hair. She was dressed in blue jeans, a lime-green knit top, and sandals. Still no makeup, but the effect was dazzling. Rachel really was beautiful.

  “I feel better. You’re right, Jamie. I’m ready for this to be over. I can’t keep taking showers and never feeling clean. I’m done living like this. Will you call Scott for me?”

  Her voice and eyes were resolute. She walked over to the window and looked out at the city she had learned to hate. “Maybe I can reclaim my life. Maybe I can find some way not to despise myself. Do you think that’s possible?”

  “I know it is.” I was going to say more when someone knocked on the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I stepped over to the door and looked through the peephole. Craig Haskell, gripping a book, looking like he’d rather be any where but at the Holiday Inn face-to-face with room 123. After unhooking the chain and unlocking the deadbolt, I opened the door and ushered him in.

  Craig glanced around the room, giving Rachel a curt nod. “I won’t be here long. I needed to bring Jamie something Tim left at my house. I thought she might want it.”

  His eyes were looking for something from Rachel. Approval maybe?

  “Don’t hurry on my account,” Rachel said. “What I said last night wasn’t personal. I don’t think you killed Tim. I just don’t understand all the deaths in your life.”

  He shrugged. “You and me both.”

  He looked at me. “Anyway, I’m staying in town long enough to present the diplomas to the graduating class. Then I’m off to take an extended vacation. I don’t know when I’ll get back, but I assume you’ll be gone by then. When Tim and I first started talking about Dacia’s death, that’s all we did. As we worked together our friendship changed. We got closer. Eventually, we shared a lot with each other about our lives. Several weeks ago he told me about his love for you.”

  I inspected the carpet, careful to avoid his eyes.

  “Last month he brought his senior yearbook over to show me what you’d written. He also showed me the graduation present you gave him. It’s here too. He left the stuff at my house because we were going fishing that Saturday, and then he forgot to pick it up. It wasn’t a big deal. We saw each other several times a week. He could get it anytime, or so we thought. How wrong we were.” He frowned and sucked in a deep breath.

  Silence permeated the room.

  I cleared my throat. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “There’s nothing to say. Tim is gone. I just wanted to bring you this stuff. I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again. I hope you find the answers you’re looking for.”

  “Thanks.”

  He shoved the yearbook into my hand and turned toward the door. He stopped at the threshold, eyeing Rachel. “I’m sorry we didn’t meet under different circumstances.”

  “Me too,” Rachel said, her words carrying a whisper of longing.

  “Oh, and Jamie, I hope you find Tim’s killer. Good-bye.” He walked out, closing the door behind him.

  “Did I just see what I thought I saw?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “He was making a pass at you.”

  Rachel grinned. “You’re crazy.”

  Rachel sat on the bed, and I plopped down beside her. I rubbed my hand over the front cover of the yearbook, almost afraid to open it. I had no memory of what I’d written to Tim—or anyone for that matter—but did remember the counted cross-stitch bookmark I’d given him and all the Cliffhangers for graduation.

  At the top of the bookmark I had stitched the Einstein quote: “Life is a mystery—not a problem to be solved.” And then in all my teen, Christian fervor, I added, “But if you want to solve it, follow Matthew 6:33.” It had taken three months to finish all six of them, but I was proud of the effort. It was a gift of time from my heart, not just a memento that could be picked off the rack at Walmart. Now it was just plain corny.

  “Come on, let’s see what you wrote,” Rachel said.

  “Good segue off you and Craig.”

  “There is no ‘me and Craig.’ Now come on, I want to see if you wrote anything gushy.”

  “No, of course I didn’t. I was already in love with David, and I didn’t have any idea how Tim felt about me. He never told me.” Would it have changed anything if he had? I tossed the mental question aside to revisit another time.

  I gingerly opened the front cover and saw the bookmark. It had seen better days. It looked like Tim had used it for more than a bookmark. The edges were worn and raveled. The ivory background was a grayish, dirty color, and some of the embroidery thread had come apart.

  A wave of shame washed over me as I realized he must have carried the bookmark with him everywhere. I, on the other hand, scarcely thought of him in the midst of raising the boys, putting on women’s retreats, and building a life with David. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about him, I was just busy, and the occasional e-mails to and from him were sufficient contact for me. Now more than anything, I wished they hadn’t been sufficient.

  Rachel’s arm draped casually across my shoulders in an I-can’t-wait-to-see-your-secrets hug. I flipped to the back of the yearbook and was startled to see a big, red heart outlining the sentiments of one seventeen-year-old to another.

  “I did not put that heart there.”

  “Me thinks the lady doth protest too much!”

  Holding back the chuckles, Rachel read the long-ago words out loud.

  “Tim, can you believe we made it? We did it! I think the only thing that kept me sane was you and the Cliffhangers. I will never forget the last four years as long as I live! Thanks for always being there for me. You’re the best! I am going to miss you so much! I know you’re going to do great in life! Just think: no more Lousy Housey, no more cafeteria fish sticks, and no more mysteries to solve. At least no more mysteries as soon as we find out why Ms. Stewart disappeared! Then we can begin a whole new adventure in this pony ride they call life. Luv ya, Class of ’85, Jamie.”

  “Tim must have put the heart on it. I sure didn’t.”

  Rachel grinned. “You’re right. This isn’t mushy at all. The only thing that could sort of be interpreted as love is all those exclamation points you used. You might have been a little emphatic for simple friendship.”

  “I put exclamation points on everything back then. Let’s see what you wrote.”

  I turned a couple of
pages back and found Rachel’s inscription. “Tim, it’s been great. Have fun in all you do. Forever, Rachel.”

  “You always were such a talkative thing,” I said. “I don’t think I can keep up with you.”

  “I didn’t have much to say. Hey, let’s go back to the faculty pages. I want to see what Ms. Stewart looked like. I barely remember.”

  Turning the pages back toward the front, we perused the faculty. It was weird looking at Ms. Stewart now. She looked like one of the kids. Her photo showed an infectious smile, short dark hair, and sparkling eyes. It was strange to think she never grew old. Never changed her hairstyle, never got out of that 80’s mode. Death had made her forever young.

  “Why would anyone kill her? She looks so innocent,” Rachel said.

  It was a rhetorical question, but I answered anyway. “Who knows? Killers aren’t the most rational people around.”

  I turned back another page. “I want to get a look at Phillip House too.” I looked at Rachel for permission or understanding, I wasn’t sure which.

  Rachel didn’t move. “It’s okay. I’m fine. I would rather not ever see him again as long as I live, but I don’t think a picture is gonna hurt me.”

  Phillip House looked into the camera with an arrogant tilt to his head. Black hair parted on the right and long sideburns. He had a stern mustache that made me think a caterpillar had crawled under his nose and decided to take a snooze. His eyes held no light at all. They were dark and foreboding like his character.

  Rachel stiffened, but she didn’t move away, or quit looking at the page.

  My eyes caught sight of the teacher next to him. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I turned the book sideways. I pulled it closer to my face. I swallowed hard. “Volvo Lady. That’s Volvo Lady! I knew I’d seen her before.” My finger pointed down to the young woman in the photo to the left of House.