Dry Bones

by Carole Morden

  Even as I let my mind slide back into reality, I knew David and I would need to have a real talk when he got back from Alaska. Somewhere in the shuffle of church duties, baby bottles, T-ball, puberty, graduations, colleges, and the marriages, we quit talking about real things. Or at least real things that mattered to me.

  I couldn’t remember a single conversation about my goals, my dreams, and my life for years. And maybe that’s the way it is when you raise kids—the way it has to be—but it couldn’t be that way for me anymore. I couldn’t be the good little pastor’s wife anymore. I had to become an active participant in life. The sense of shame I felt for being swallowed up in my own daily events without a thought to the rest of the world threatened to engulf me.

  “Bingo!” Rachel yelled. “I was right. That social was registered to a Trista Echo who died May 11, 1980 at the age of 14. Let me check real quick and see if I can find out how she died.”

  Using her access to the police department database and the obits in the Marion County registry, she went to work. It didn’t take long to find an answer.

  “She died of an overdose of Valium—apparent suicide,” she said. “The Valium was prescribed for her mother. She left no note, but her obit has one piece of information that might interest you.”

  “What?” I said, impatient at Rachel’s attempt to drag out the suspense.

  Rachel read one sentence out of the many that made up the obituary of a short-lived life. Just one, but it had the weight of a ticking time bomb.

  “She was survived by an uncle, Phillip House, a schoolteacher at Highland High.”

  Rachel read it flatly, like the name was just another name, any name. Not the name of a molester of young girls, not the name of the monster who added to Rachel’s descent into a world of drugs and booze, nor even the name of the Speaker of the House of the United States.

  This news almost made me dizzy. So many pieces of a puzzle I couldn’t put together. I’d try to process this information on the way to Geist Reservoir. My main priority now was finding Scott.

  “Let’s go, Rache. We’ll deal with that later. We need to find Craig and pray that he hasn’t killed Scott.”

  Rachel looked at me intently for a minute and then said, “I understand your fear, but I keep thinking about all of this and I can’t help but come back to the same thing—motive. What is Craig’s motive for killing all those people? He wants to die the world’s most lonely man? All of the deceased were close to him in one way or another. Aren’t most crimes of passion limited to a spouse or lover? If we assume that you’re right, then he killed his fiancé, wife, unborn child, psychologist, best friend, and adopted parents. Why? Did he benefit financially?”

  “I don’t know . . . I don’t know. Could we take this discussion on the road? Maybe I am way off base, but I’m not going to sit idly by while one of my friends is in trouble.” I softened my voice. “I’ve already done too much of that in my life. I won’t do it again.”

  Rachel looked straight into my guilt-ridden eyes, gave me a quick hug, and said, “Okay, you’re the boss.”

  Just as I reached to open the door, a loud, persistent pounding on the other side echoed into the room. I rolled my eyes at Rachel and swung open the door. What now?

  “You’re going to the banquet dressed like that?” Billy said, his voice playful with mock disgust. Next to him, Shawn, Todd, and Scott grinned in unison. Each wore a suit and tie and looked like they had been freshly scrubbed. Their colognes and aftershaves were having a little aromatic war, not entirely pleasant, but it didn’t matter one whit to me.

  My legs went weak with relief. “Scott, where did you come from? Are you all right? I’m so glad to see you.” I bent and hugged him so tight, I doubt he could breathe.

  Pulling my arms from around his neck, he said, “I’m glad to see you, too, but I kind of expected to. It is our class reunion, remember? What in the world happened to your eye?”

  Before I could answer, Shawn—usually the quiet one—said, “I hope the other fella looks as bad as you.”

  I felt tears welling up behind my eyes. Not so much as a result of their voiced concerns about my eye, but because Scott appeared alive and well. The pent-up tension of the last hour whooshed out of me in a babble of words.

  “I’ll explain it later, guys. Give us a few to get ready. We’ll meet you there. And by the way, I’m happy to see you all. I thought Scott was with a killer. I didn’t know if he’d make it back alive.”

  Scott made a choking sound. “You thought what? Are you crazy? I went fishing with Haskell. I think you might want to give this case a rest. You’re getting a little paranoid.”

  “I know but—”

  Todd came to my rescue. “Come on, guys, let’s go and save a table. These girls look like they need a minute or ten to freshen up. Our wives aren’t coming until the banquet starts at eight-thirty. They don’t want to hear all our high school memories. Can you imagine? Free entertainment and they turned it down.”

  I mouthed a silent thank-you to him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The parking lot at the sprawling, red-bricked Highland High School was filling up rapidly as I nosed the yellow Escape into one of the few remaining slots at the front of the building. Rachel and I looked up at a giant Scotsman with sword drawn above the entrance. Arced above the red-and-white tam perched on the head of the swordsman were the words HOME OF THE SCOTS. Underneath it read: PRESENTED BY THE CLASS OF 1982. COMPLETE RESTORATION BY THE NATIONAL HONOR SOCIETY AND THE CLASS OF 1998.

  I felt a surge of pride as I eyed my alma mater. I knew that as much as I loved this place, Rachel hated it and all it represented, so I said nothing. The old gym/cafeteria was decorated in Scottish themes with plaid tablecloths. Kilts, tartan wall hangings, and bagpipes were displayed at one corner of the gym. Color copies of the senior pages of the yearbook were scattered liberally on the tables. Classmates I hadn’t seen in years milled around looking at pictures, laughing, drinking, and in general enjoying the cocktail hour. I thought most spouses must have opted for the route of coming later to the banquet because there were very few people I didn’t recognize.

  As we walked to the table the male Cliffhangers had commandeered, the four guys let out appreciative wolf whistles. So politically incorrect.

  They stared at Rachel and rightly so. She wore a simple black dress that complemented her features. It was short, showing off her long, slender legs. The capped sleeves and scoop neckline added to the elegance of the dress. She had borrowed a pearl necklace and matching earrings from me and had even used a touch of mascara, eye shadow, and almond lip glaze. While completely out of character for her, she was a knockout.

  I wore my usual Sunday fare. An ankle-length red skirt, cream tank top underneath a red jacket, matching earrings, and two-inch red pumps. With an eye nearly swollen shut, I felt a little like the ugly duckling next to Rachel, but I enjoyed her moment in the sun.

  “Where have you been all my life?” Billy quipped, looking straight at Rachel.

  “Shut up,” Rachel said.

  “Seriously, you look good.”

  I laughed. “If she has two legs and two arms, any woman looks good to you.”

  “I’m hurt,” Billy said.

  I sat down and tried to resume my conversation with Scott. “I uncovered more information about Craig. He has some serious mental issues.”

  He wasn’t in the mood to listen. “Listen, Jamie, we can talk about all that later, okay? Right now I want to know what happened to you.”

  You could hear a pin drop. Suddenly, the attention at the table was focused on me. I recounted what happened at Tim’s. “But I’m all right, I think the bigger question is who killed Tim?”

  “Dollars to donuts, both events are related. Tell you what, Jamie, you’re safe with us tonight. Let’s tackle this in the morning. Right now I think we all need a break. Let’s spend the evening talking about the good old days. Let’s reminisce and enjoy this party.”

&nbs
p; “Look at my face, Scott. Does it look like I want to make small talk? Rachel’s dad died today. I’m under suspicion for murdering a good friend. I thought you were in the hands of a killer all day and I didn’t expect to see you alive, so forgive me if I’m not in the mood to reminisce about our high school escapades.” I was trembling with anger.

  Rachel laid her hand on my arm. “He’s suggesting a break, not stopping the investigation. An hour or two at the most to talk about normal things with old friends is not much to ask. Surely if I can do it, you can do it too.”

  Shawn, ever the diplomat, added his two cents worth. “Why don’t we spend our time both ways? What law says we can’t do some mixing and greeting and then come back to the table and do some detective work?”

  Billy joined the discussion. “One night is all we’re asking. We haven’t seen our classmates in years. Jamie, you need a break from it too. Look in the mirror. A night away from murder and mayhem won’t hurt.”

  “You wouldn’t be so cavalier about this, Billy, if you were the one accused of murder.”

  “A little self-righteous, are we?”

  His teasing tone put me on edge. “Point taken.”

  With a churning stomach, I grabbed my purse and headed for the ladies’ room. I felt ready to explode. That wouldn’t look good on the ever-present pastor’s wife resume. I would have liked to hand Billy his head on a silver platter. As I applied a quick dash of lipstick and rubbed my lips together, I realized I couldn’t go back out to the group and make small talk. Maybe I could slip outside and drive around for a couple of minutes and cool down. Hopefully, God would give me some direction, because right now I felt lost, confused, and angry.

  Self-righteous? Billy wouldn’t know self-righteous if it came up and shook hands with him. You have to know the meaning of the word “righteous” in order to know what it meant to be self-righteous, and I was willing to bet the farm Billy didn’t know anything about being righteous. I seethed all the way out of the restroom to the entrance of the school and outside to the Escape. I unlocked the driver’s side door and yanked it open, all the while muttering to myself.

  My anger blinded me to the dark form that slipped silently behind me and covered my nose and mouth with a chloroform-soaked handkerchief. For a second I was so stunned I didn’t do anything. I tried to struggle against the arms that held me, but I was overpowered by the drug. I felt my purse slip out of my fingers. Pure panic filled me right before everything went black.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  May 2

  The gentle wind blew hot, swishing the branches of the nearby almond trees, rustling the leaves. The blossoms had long since dropped in favor of the almonds. Honey buzzards flew in swarms overhead, making their annual migration to the forests of Eastern Europe from their winter home in Africa. The elusive raptors punctuated the crystal-blue sky with giant Vs, swooping and fluttering, searching for wasps and other delicacies. Birdwatchers would have a field day. But bird watchers did not come to Israel in May. Too bad. They didn’t know what they were missing. These birds were stunning with their variegated brown-and-white underbellies and wings.

  No, most visitors came because of faith. They wanted to breathe hallowed air. To perhaps walk the paths the great men of God walked. Or to catch a glimpse of the Sea of Galilee and visit the manger where Jesus first drew breath. Faith in a higher power fit into these people’s rosy view of life. They would be better off watching the birds. To forget faith and believe in personal destiny. This business of God as creator and sustainer of life was definitely not a theory of intellect, but rather a fairy tale to be woven and spun into the minds of little children at bedtime. But fairy tales are fairy tales, and they have no power to right wrongs, or make the world a better place. It took willing hands and heart to do that.

  Hiring a hit man was surprisingly cheap. Easy, too. A little research, a few phone calls, and voila. If the target were a famous person with detailed security it might be different. But for the average no-name who could be followed with little or no trouble, a thousand bucks could insure a quiet demise. Of course, the price jumped a bit when Manter started getting suspicious, but it was still doable. Luckily, his distrust only lasted a short time from onset to death. Unfortunately, he’d found Dacia’s bones and alerted the police before he’d been eliminated, but not every contingency could be planned for.

  The call had come in relatively early, considering the miles between the two countries with a time-zone difference of nine hours—6:00 p.m. and not a moment too soon. Anxiety had started to creep in, but it was for naught. All had gone according to plan. No hitches or miscues. The caller followed Manter early Sunday morning, hoping for an opportunity to present itself. It did at a little after eight in the morning, Indiana time.

  Manter seemed absorbed in his own thoughts, and the caller managed to get within two feet of him. It was as easy as pie. A simple shot to the back of the head. Manter didn’t even know what hit him. He was probably dead before he heard the plopping sound of the silenced pistol being fired. His brain would not have had time to send any messages to his ears, the caller stated. How very lucky he was not to have to think about death.

  The hit occurred in a church parking lot, of all places. Manter must have felt completely at ease. Probably didn’t turn at the sound of crunching gravel, or soft footsteps. No reason to suspect that attending church could be fatal to one’s health. It’s just unfortunate that death had to happen at all. How hard could it be to learn? Why did it take so many times to teach a relatively simple concept? Oh well, one more lesson would have to do. It would be the coup de grâce of all lessons.

  Time to bid the birds good-bye. It was a pleasant walk, but now there was work to do. Travel plans to be made, funds to be transferred, evidence to be planted, and repercussions to be watched. And in the end, peace. When it was all over, there would be peace.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Dizziness and nausea dazed me when I awoke. Everything was black, but I could tell I was moving. I forced myself to lie still and try to remember what happened. Despite the grogginess, within minutes of waking I could tell my hands were tied behind my back, my feet were bound together, and my mouth was gagged. Not a happy way to wake up. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad to meet and greet old classmates after all.

  Nausea swelled into my throat, but I knew if I gave into the feeling, I would most likely drown in my own vomit. Calm down. Think. The smell of grease and fumes convinced me I was in the trunk of a car. I still had my clothes on, for which I was thankful, although I was missing a shoe. Terror threatened to override the calm. I needed to think clearly, so I started doing what I always do when I’m scared stiff—singing in my head. I hardly ever sing out loud. I sound like a screech owl with a bad cold.

  Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so. Little ones to him belong, they are weak but He is strong. Yes, Jesus loves me, Yes, Jesus loves me, Yes, Jesus loves me, the Bible tells me so.

  Breathing more evenly, I tried to think of what David would tell me to do. He loved cars and taught me little things like how to change the oil, how to change a tire, how to check the air pressure in the tires, and how to use my rearview mirrors effectively. I didn’t remember anything about how to get out of the trunk of a car when you’re hog-tied. I would have to chide him the next time I saw him for neglecting to let me in on that little tidbit.

  Oh God, please let there be a next time.

  I couldn’t hear anything coming from the front of the car. Maybe it meant there was only one kidnapper. I would have to watch for an opportunity to escape, and I needed all my mental abilities focused to do that. Obviously, if my captor wanted me dead, I wouldn’t be in the trunk of a car trussed up like a turkey. Or at least he didn’t want me dead in the school parking lot. Where there’s life there’s hope. I wasn’t sure where I heard that, but it would become my new motto if I made it out alive.

  The trunk was stuffy and hot. Sweat dripped into my eyes, and my back was
soaked. I wondered how long it would be before Rachel noticed I was missing and come looking for me. I doubted the guys would notice . . . ever. I hoped the kidnapper had not picked up my purse or shoe. If not, Rachel would know that something wasn’t right. But even if she did, would it be possible to trace where I’d been taken? I didn’t think so.

  The pitch-black world of the trunk confused my senses. I couldn’t tell if the car turned left or right or went straight. My sense of timing disappeared along with the feeling of security, and I couldn’t gauge how long I’d been in the car.

  My right leg was numb, so I rolled from my side to my stomach, hoping to get some feeling back. I tapped my toes on the floor of the trunk, trying to hurry the process of waking up my leg. Needles shot through my feet, and I felt the urge to laugh. It was so mundane as to be ridiculous, having a sleeping limb while you were being kidnapped. Adrenaline is supposed to shoot through every fiber of your body, and you’re supposed to miraculously fight off the bad guys and become a hero, not have your leg fall asleep. Television was really letting me down in this real-life scenario.

  When the car slowed to a stop, I tensed. I couldn’t escape, but possibly I could catch a glimpse of my assailant, which might give me some insight into my predicament. I rolled back to my right side and kept my eyes trained on what I assumed would be the trunk lid. Although it was night, the minute the trunk cracked open, I could see my captor coming at me with another rag. I squirmed and made as much noise as the gag would allow. Instead of a scream, my throat emitted a low moan that could be mistaken for a dog growl instead of a human in trouble. I fishtailed my way as far back as the trunk would allow, twisting my head constantly, trying to escape the anesthetized rag. Just before blacking out, I caught a glimpse of cold, green eyes.

  In an instant, I recognized the kidnapper. Then I succumbed to the blissful darkness.