A Borrowing of Bones

by Paula Munier

  Mercy was reading Romeo and Juliet, the play that obsessed her at the time, appealing as it did to her teenager’s overactive romantic imagination. Damien Landry, the skinny, six-foot-and-still-growing fourteen-year-old and scourge of her existence, towered above her, casting a shadow over her pages. O! I am fortune’s fool …

  “Whatcha reading?” Damien grabbed the book out of her hands and held it up just out of her reach. “Shakespeare?” He snickered. “You are such a dork.”

  Takes one to know one, she thought.

  Damien read a couple of lines aloud, stumbling over With love’s light wings did I o’er-perch these walls; For stony limits cannot hold love out …

  Mercy laughed out loud.

  “What’s so funny?” Damien slammed the book shut and backed up until he hit the edge of the pool. He straightened out his long bony right arm and dangled the slim volume over the water.

  She jumped to her feet. “Wait.”

  “Don’t even think about it.” The lifeguard—the one named Troy—placed a large well-formed hand on Damien’s shoulder and squeezed. “Give me the book.”

  Wincing, Damien handed it over.

  “Go get yourself a Coke or something.”

  Damien strutted away, and Troy handed the book back to her with a smile. “You know he likes you, right?”

  “If you say so.”

  He grinned at her. “Are you ever going to go in?”

  “Sure.” She watched him as he leaped back into his chair, and then she headed for the diving board. Whereupon she executed a perfect pike dive. When she came back up out of the water, Troy gave her a thumbs-up.

  Classic Labrador.

  He really hadn’t changed much at all since then, Mercy thought. He’d filled out a little, but he still had the athletic build, that outdoorsy tan, those warm brown eyes. Although there was a hint of sadness around them now.

  Elvis sat leashed at her side, ears up, watching Susie Bear, also banished to the far side of the clearing, her lead tied to a tree. The Newfie mutt’s eyes—like hers—were on the game warden, although from time to time the big dog snuck a glance at the Belgian shepherd.

  The doctor and the Crime Scene techs kept on sifting and sorting. Troy nodded at Dr. Darling, then strode over to Mercy. She wondered how he’d treat her this time. He seemed to alternate between liking her and questioning her every move. Not that she blamed him. She was the only common denominator in three very suspicious circumstances: an abandoned baby, an explosives alert, and unidentified remains. Not to mention her erratic dog Elvis. Troy probably thought she was as mixed up as the dog.

  “You should go on home,” he told her.

  “I don’t think so.” She didn’t want to go, not really. This was the most interesting thing that had happened to her since coming home from Afghanistan.

  “You’ve got to be exhausted.”

  “Not really.” She petted Elvis’s head. “We’re fine.”

  “I could order you off the scene.”

  She knew he didn’t really want to do that. She smiled at him. “Are you going to arrest me?”

  He smiled back. “Okay, don’t say I didn’t try.” Troy shrugged and turned away.

  She could read the strain of the day in his shoulders. They’d both fed and watered their dogs with supplies from their packs, but not themselves. Elvis and Susie Bear were resting now, leashed but alert.

  There was no rest for Troy or Mercy. Not yet. She knew he must be tired. And hungry. She certainly was, not that she would ever admit as much to him. She refused to go home until she was sure that there was nothing more she or her shepherd could do.

  “Victory!” Dr. Darling’s celebratory shout boomed across the clearing.

  Mercy watched the game warden stride quickly over to the doctor.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She held up a dusty roundish pale object in her gloved hands. “An intact skull. More or less.”

  Troy said something in reply, but she missed most of it. His back was to her now, and he spoke quietly. She couldn’t hear what he was saying to the doctor. She leaned forward across the tape. “Warden Warner!”

  He turned to look her way.

  “Come on!”

  The medical examiner grinned at Mercy and raised her already resounding voice. “An adult male, shot in the head.”

  Troy held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, but watch your step.”

  “Stay,” she said to Elvis and joined them in the circle.

  Dr. Darling was on her feet now, cupping the cracked dome in her open palms. “You can see the entrance wound here.” She pointed to a round hole in the crown of the skull. Long fissures radiated out from around its center in a telltale starburst pattern.

  “I guess the black bears are off the hook.” Mercy wasn’t surprised. People were far crueler to each other than animals were to them.

  “Yep.” She smiled at Mercy and tipped the skull forward to reveal its back side.

  “No exit wound?” asked Troy.

  “No.” The medical examiner beamed as she tipped the skull forward again. “Hear that?”

  “You mean that scraping sound? What is it?”

  “The bullet is inside.” Mercy laughed. “That’s wild.”

  “But a stroke of luck for us.”

  “Maybe,” said Troy. “If we can find the weapon or the casing.”

  “Weird that the bear who crushed the other bones for marrow didn’t crack the skull to get at the brains.”

  Troy gave her a sharp look. “Maybe the bear was interrupted.”

  “Who interrupts a bear?” asked the doctor.

  “Poachers,” said Mercy and Troy in unison.

  * * *

  “I’LL KNOW MORE when we get back to the lab,” the medical examiner said. “But don’t expect any answers too soon.”

  “All right.”

  “Everyone’s taking off for the long weekend,” she explained to Mercy.

  “Right.” Or pulling extra duty in Bennington. Troy was going to need her help up here, whether he liked it or not.

  A tall, skinny man in a Tyvek suit approached them in a seemingly purposeful slow and steady gait that Mercy suspected drove the game warden crazy. She smiled.

  “What do you have for us?” asked Troy, failing to hide the note of impatience in his voice.

  “Bob,” said the doctor pointedly, “this is Mercy Carr. Mercy, meet Bob, head of the Crime Scene Search Team.

  “Pleasure.” He did not look her in the eye or move to shake her hand.

  “Hi.”

  Bob dismissed her and addressed Troy and Dr. Darling. “Not much left of the victim’s clothes, and the boots are so common as to be useless in terms of identification.”

  “Any teeth?” asked the medical examiner.

  “Just fragments. Any left in the skull?”

  Mercy knew that teeth were often the easiest way to identify a victim, thanks to dental records. And the fact that even if DNA couldn’t be found anywhere else, it could usually be retrieved from inside the teeth.

  “A few. But that’s not all we found left in the skull.” Dr. Darling told him about the bullet, which Bob acknowledged without comment.

  “You didn’t walk all the way over here to tell us about teeth fragments,” said the game warden.

  Or to meet me, thought Mercy.

  Bob held out his gloved hands, palms open. There revealed in his cupped fingers was what appeared to be a tarnished pewter belt buckle.

  In unison the three of them leaned toward the ornament for closer inspection.

  “Is that a pine tree?” asked Dr. Darling.

  “Yes, set against the mountains,” Mercy said. “One of the classic symbols of Vermont.”

  Troy peered at the buckle and read the words that ran underneath the pine tree, still so grimy Mercy could barely make them out. “‘Freedom and Unity.’”

  “Interesting,” said Dr. Darling.

  “That it?” asked Troy.
/>   “For now,” said Bob. “I’ll bag this and get on with it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Later,” he said.

  They watched him amble back across the crime scene.

  “I’ll be wrapping up soon,” Dr. Darling told them. “See you back at the ranch.” The medical examiner tapped her forehead in a casual salute and went back to her work.

  Troy ushered Mercy back to Elvis. “Now you really do have to go home.”

  She didn’t say anything. But she didn’t move, either.

  “Look, there’s nothing more to do here.” He frowned. “The crime scene techs are about finished, and the bomb squad says they haven’t found any explosives.”

  “Nothing?” She stared at him. “I find that hard to believe.”

  He looked down at his boots. Same tell as Martinez. Mercy knew he was lying, or at least not telling her the whole truth. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Look, I’ve already crossed over the line here.” Troy straightened up and looked at her with those warm brown eyes. “Besides, it’s out of my hands. The Vermont State Police are running this show now. It’s their crime scene.”

  “But you’re still here.”

  “I’m not a civilian.”

  You’re not a detective, either, thought Mercy. But she didn’t say that. They’d found these bones, and there was a responsibility that came along with that. Whether you were a game warden or a civilian.

  “‘Blessed be the man that spares these stones,’” she quoted quietly. “‘And cursed be he that moves my bones.’”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Shakespeare.”

  “What’s Shakespeare got to do with anything?”

  “Somebody killed this man and then abandoned his body in the woods. Robbed him of the dignity of a decent burial. In effect failing to spare his stones and honor his bones.”

  “And cursing himself in the process. I get it.”

  “That curse begins with us.” She stood a little taller and leaned forward. Elvis growled softly. He was on the leash now, sitting by her side, giving the warden his evil eye. Martinez used to say that your emotions traveled right down the leash from handler to dog, which is why Mercy knew she had to control her feelings, notably the negative ones. She made an effort to keep her voice steady and asked the question again. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “What’s wrong with your dog?”

  “He’s just being protective.” Mercy willed herself to loosen her hold on the leash, a signal to the dog that she was calm so he should be, too. The fierce Belgian shepherd had always stood ready to defend his sergeant, but today he’d indicated he was prepared to defend her as well. Maybe he was settling in with her, after all. “Quiet, Elvis.”

  “Are you hungry?” Troy grinned at her. “I’m starving. How about we go back to town and grab something to eat? For us and the dogs. My treat.”

  She knew he was changing the subject, but she also knew an olive branch when she saw it. “Sure.”

  “I’ve got to drop by the hospital later anyway,” he said. “And we can go over your statement.”

  And she could drill him over dinner.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MERCY STARTED GOING TO THE VERMONTER Drive-In out on Depot Street when she was just a kid. Famous for its sandwiches and milkshakes, the popular joint drew locals and summer people every day rain or shine during the season. All of Vermont went into mourning on November 1, when the place shut down for the winter—and celebrated even if the snow was still falling when it reopened on April 1.

  She hadn’t been back here in years. The place hadn’t changed much. Calling it a drive-in was a glamorous misnomer; the restaurant was really just a glorified lean-to with a large window fronting the parking lot, where she stood in line with Troy and at least a dozen other folks to order. The dogs waited in their respective vehicles, Elvis alert on the front seat of her Jeep, dark muzzle jutting out the passenger window, and Susie Bear curled up on the backseat of the game warden’s truck, obviously more confident that there was a burger in her near future than the ever-vigilant Elvis.

  “Come on up, Warden.” Lillian Jenkins, the owner, waved Troy up to the window. Everyone knew Lillian, an energetic and effusive petite brunette who’d been feeding the good citizens of Vermont in various capacities for decades. She ran the drive-in during the summer and the local book club the rest of the year. In a state where winters were interminable and access to cable and even satellite TV could be spotty, reading was a favorite pastime. Lillian also served on every committee in town, from the Friends of the Library to the historical society, and even authored a popular regional cookbook that was a New England indie bookstore hit. If there was anything of artistic note going on in southern Vermont, she knew about it.

  “Hi, Lillian.” Troy smiled, but he flushed and Mercy could tell he was embarrassed by the preferential treatment. “No need for this.”

  “Nonsense.” Lillian turned to address the long line of patient customers in a voice far bigger than her person. “This is Warden Troy Warner, and he earned first place in line in perpetuity when he removed a rabid bat from the Porta-Potty out back before it bit anybody.” She swiveled her attention back to Troy. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Mercy Carr,” he said.

  “I know you.” Lillian gave her a long look. “You’re a Fleury.”

  Mercy smiled. “Patience Fleury O’Sullivan is my grandmother.”

  “The veterinarian?” asked Troy.

  “One and the same,” answered Lillian, her eyes still on Mercy. “It’s been a while, young lady.”

  “I was living out of state.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m back now.” She knew those were the only words that ever placated a native Vermonter like Lillian, who could never understand why anyone would ever leave paradise.

  “I went to school with Patience, up in Hyde Park.” Lillian grinned. “You got your grandmother’s good looks. But that red hair is all your granddaddy.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She waited for the inevitable red-haired and hotheaded comment.

  “I hope you didn’t get the O’Sullivan temper to go with it.”

  And there it was. Her grandfather had been the sheriff in Lamoille County for decades and as many people loved him as hated him. He’d died nearly twenty years ago, but memories in Vermont were long and hard, just like the winters.

  “No, ma’am.” She could see Troy holding back a laugh.

  Lillian tapped her pencil against her pad. “Two cheeseburgers, fries, and chocolate shakes?”

  “Make that four cheeseburgers, fully dressed,” said Troy. “We got a couple of dogs to feed.”

  Lillian looked out into the parking lot and spotted Elvis. “That sweet shepherd yours?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Again, Mercy waited.

  “Now that’s a Fleury for you.” Lillian bestowed a warm smile on her. “Have a seat out back with the warden. And feel free to bring the dogs.”

  * * *

  TEN MINUTES LATER, all four of them were gathered around the lone picnic table behind the burger shack that Lillian reserved for visiting dignitaries and such. At least that’s what the laminated tabletop sign said. The weathered table had seen better days, but it sat at the edge of Lillian’s potager garden, a beauty of knots and raised beds that produced a bounty of vegetables and herbs that made the Vermonter Drive-In menu justifiably famous.

  Certainly Elvis and Susie Bear enjoyed their meals, which they gobbled down in ten seconds flat. The Newfie mutt plopped down at Troy’s feet, ready to lap up any stray fries that might come her way. In stately contrast, Elvis dropped down into his classic Sphinx position, alert as ever.

  “How’s the baby?” Mercy knew Troy had received several texts, and she assumed that at least one of them concerned the infant she’d found.

  “She’s doing well. But they’re still keeping her overnight.”

  “And then she goes into
the system.” She sipped at the chocolate shake to chase down the bitter taste that the idea of handing the baby over to Child Protective Services left in her mouth. “Will you even try to find her mother?”

  “Of course. They’ve already got some volunteers doing a grid search of the area.”

  She jumped to her feet, startling Elvis, who scrambled up to join her. “We should go help.”

  “Sit down. If there’s anything to find, they’ll find it.” Troy waved them both back to their meal. “You need to eat.”

  Mercy knew he was right, but she didn’t like him telling her what to do. She stabbed a pair of french fries into the little paper cup of ketchup and popped them in her mouth. Elvis watched her, his eyes on the fries. She raised her forearm, palm up, toward the sky—the hand signal for sit—and the Malinois sat up.

  “Do you turn everything into a training exercise?” Troy watched her as she rewarded Elvis with a french fry. Susie Bear watched, too, and promptly sat up.

  “Give a dog a burger, but make him work for the fries,” she said. Another one of Martinez’s rules. “Besides, what he really works for is his Kong.”

  “Well, hell.” Troy held his palm out to Susie Bear, offering her a fry of her own. “It’s all about food for this one.” She lapped it up with that huge tongue. Troy wiped his hand on a napkin and looked at Mercy. “We’ll find the mother.”

  “Alive?”

  “There was no sign of foul play.” He chomped away at his cheeseburger in the same reasonable and resolute manner in which he appeared to approach everything else.

  “Except for the corpse and explosives.”

  “Alleged explosives.”

  “So you think it’s all a big coincidence?” She refused to believe that, even it was a possibility. And his believing it angered her. She could feel her face redden. The telltale curse of the redhead. It wasn’t that she was more emotional than other people, it was just that those emotions played out in pink right on her face. She bowed her head away from the game warden, toward Elvis, letting her hair fall across her brow. She lowered her hand, and the shepherd dropped down at her feet, earning another deep-fried treat.