Twenty-Seven Bones

by Jonathan Nasaw

  7

  The Raintree Room, and every piece of furniture in it, was said to have been carved from the same Saman tree. The food was strictly St. Luke: conch fritters for appetizers, then kallaloo soup thick as stew. For an entrée, Dawson had the triggerfish broiled in butter. Pender passed on the goat entrées, and ordered honey-ginger pork chops. Both meals came with a side of fungi—heaping yellow mounds of cornmeal boiled with okra.

  Over dinner, they exchanged life stories. He gave her his, she gave him C. B. Dawson’s—by then she knew it as well as she knew her own. But just the skeleton, no embellishments, and when he pressed her, she deflected his questions with questions of her own. She had a million of ’em. What was happening in the investigation? Were the police any closer to finding the killer? How many victims had he claimed thus far?

  For a change, Pender was free to answer at least some of her questions. Tomorrow’s Sentinel, he knew, would be breaking most of the story, linking the death of Fran Bendt to that of Hokey Apgard.

  It was only a matter of time before the story broke anyway, Perry Faartoft had told Julian, who’d informed Pender. Newspapers can sweep a lot of things under the rug, but the death of a reporter isn’t one of them. The afternoon hydrofoil had brought reporters from Puerto Rico and St. Thomas—poor Fran had scooped himself with his own death.

  After some heated bargaining, including a conference call with the governor and the head of the St. Luke Chamber of Commerce, the publisher had agreed to hold back news of the bodies that had washed up on the rocks beneath the Carib cliffs and not to bring up Hettie Jenkuns again. With only two deaths, there’d be at least a chance the stateside papers wouldn’t be picking up the story.

  That chance soon diminished considerably, however. As dessert was being served (flan drizzled with pomegranate syrup), the maitre d’ stealthily signaled to Pender that he had a phone call.

  He took it in the bar. It was Julian. “How’d you find me?” asked Pender.

  “I have my sources.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Headquarters just received a fax from Germany. The identity of the second corpse from the cliffs, the female, has been confirmed through dental records. Frieda Schaller.” The name had come up before, Julian explained—Schaller was a tourist from Swabia, wherever that was, who’d failed to return home from a two-week cruise last Christmas. The ship laid over for the Three Kings Day carnival; the cruise line had lost track of her somewhere between St. Thomas and Barbados.

  Coffee and Pender talked it over in cop shorthand. A cruise ship passenger was much more likely to have been a target of opportunity. And if it was a pickup or a random snatch, someone was much more likely to have seen the vic with the perp. No subterfuge, no cloak-and-dagger arrangements as with Tex Wanger.

  Their next moves were obvious: get a detailed description and some head shots of the woman, publish them in the Sentinel, print flyers and blanket the island with them, especially the tourist haunts. Get her credit card statements, canvass the stores, bars, and restaurants she visited. Have the German police question her friends and relatives, see if she called or wrote anybody, maybe mentioned some cool guy she met, who was going to take her treasure hunting.

  “Could be the break we’ve been looking for,” said Julian hopefully.

  “Could be.”

  “Give my best to your lovely companion, me son. Maitre d’ says she’s a knockout.”

  “I can roger that.”

  “You’re coming to the Apgard funeral tomorrow, right?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Pender—an astonishingly large percentage of murderers showed up at their victims’ funerals.

  “Let’s have a meeting afterward. My office. You, me, Hamilton, Felix.”

  “Do I get time and a half for working Sundays?”

  “Double time,” offered Julian grandly—they both knew that two times nothing was nothing.

  8

  The Caribbean chapter of the Association of Anthropologists and Archaeologists of the Americas were not a rowdy bunch. Following an afternoon of papers and slideshows and schmoozing, a cocktail party with a no-host bar and more schmoozing, then a sit-down dinner with an after-dinner speaker who could have put a roomful of hyperactive kindergartners to sleep, the Epps were only too happy to repair to the casino.

  Bennie was already there. He’d been there off and on for twenty-four hours, playing poker, winning steadily, and using his winnings to move up to higher-stakes tables. At present he was up a few grand, but you couldn’t tell from his expression or demeanor. Bennie had a few advantages over most of the players he faced, punters and professionals alike.

  His advantage over the amateurs had a lot to do with his fanatic concentration. Bennie’s zenlike ability to tune out distractions was bred from a complete lack of interest in most things Western. This world over the water wasn’t real to him, none of the people had status he recognized—they were like shadow figures, easy to tune out. When Bennie read Moby-Dick, he read Moby-Dick; when he played poker, he played poker.

  His advantage over the professionals was that coming from a culture where status was formally determined by wealth, he had a pure appreciation for money, in and of itself. Nobody in his village of Lolowa’asi ever called money the root of all evil, or told you it couldn’t buy happiness, or even that you couldn’t take it with you. You could, as long as you had paid your debts in life, and carried both tribute and a human head (later amended to a human hand—a right hand—after the Dutch outlawed head-hunting) across the bridge to the next world, where your ancestors were waiting to welcome you and accept your tribute.

  In fact, to a Niassian way of thinking, not only could you take it with you, you had to: if you showed up without the head or the hand, or the tribute, instead of welcoming you, your ancestors chucked you off the bridge into the bottomless chasm below.

  So unlike the professional gamblers, for whom the game was the thing, for Bennie it was purely the money. When Bennie’s younger brother had stolen their father’s eheha from him, then passed it on to Ina Emily in an act of dying spite, the line of inheritance had been disrupted and the family wealth scattered.

  Nor could Bennie simply kill Ina Emily and take his inheritance back. She was a married woman, and Ama Phil had done him no harm: if Bennie had killed her, he’d have ended up owing her widower every last pig and rupiah he owned.

  Still, Bennie had been determined to recover his rightful heritage. He had followed the Epps halfway around the world, performed tasks that would have debased one of his former servants, and made himself indispensable to them. They thought his reasons were twofold: because the debacle of his father’s deathbed ceremony had rendered him impoverished, and because he was infatuated with Ina Emily.

  Not so. The real reason was that Bennie was determined to be at Ina Emily’s side when someone finally killed her or she died of natural causes. Unless of course Ama Phil died first—then there’d no longer be any reason for Bennie not to take what was his.

  Then when he returned to Nias to live out the rest of his life, and in due course pass his eheha on to his heir on his deathbed, he wanted to bring with him as much earthly wealth as possible, enough to reestablish his family as the richest in the village, if the village still stood, with enough left over to get himself across the bridge to the other world.

  And never mind that Ama Phil and Ina Emily had promised to leave Ama Bene their fortunes. Their fortunes were something called lastwillsandtestaments. In casinos they gave you your winnings in cash, and if you buried it under your house along with your heads or hands, the spirits of the owners of said heads or hands would protect it for you until you needed it, just as they would protect the house itself.

  In contrast with Bennie, the Epps were lackadaisical gamblers. Emily played the slots for an hour or two, Phil the wheel. A little after midnight, after catching Bennie’s eye from the rail and signaling that they were going up, they returned to their room. Emily took one of
the queen beds, Phil the other. When Bennie returned to the room around 2:00 A.M., he crawled in with Emily. Half-asleep, she wasn’t sure which one of her old men was poking at her from behind, the smooth one or the hairy one, until she realized which orifice he was poking at. In Lolowa’asi, Bennie always said, a woman may let many men into the house, but only her husband is permitted to use the front door.

  Chapter Seven

  1

  Sunday morning. Funny how somehow you always know it’s Sunday, thought Dawson. Even here on St. Luke, two thousand miles and three decades removed from the little Wisconsin town she’d grown up in, there’s that same Sunday stillness in the air.

  Only here, it’s always a summer Sunday, which is even better. No homework hanging over your head. No chores, either, as long as you went to church. That was the choice in the Bannerman household: church or chores. Her older brother Randy, who took indolence to places it hadn’t been before, used to ask if he could get out of chores entirely, if he stopped off at church every afternoon after school or football practice, depending on the season.

  She hadn’t seen or talked to Randy since 1970, her ill-fated freshman year at Madison. She had managed to talk to her parents several times over the years, and even visited her mother twice, once not long after Dad died and the second time just before Mom passed away, but Randy had let it be known through their younger brother Danny, who’d arranged the last visit, that if she showed up at the funeral, he’d turn her in so fast her head would spin.

  Come to think of it, there was to be a funeral today. For poor Mrs. Apgard. Dawson wouldn’t be attending—she’d been avoiding public gatherings for thirty years and didn’t see any reason to change her routine now.

  Then she remembered that soon she might have to change everything, now that an FBI man had not only moved into the Core, but seemed to be attracted to her—and vice versa. The very fact that he kept telling her she looked familiar meant he hadn’t recognized her yet; when he stopped trying to place her, though, it would probably be time to take it on the lam again.

  Or would it? When you’re young, when you’re eighteen or twenty-eight or even thirty-eight, you can think about starting over, but at fifty? Screw it, she thought—maybe I’ll just take my chances.

  And there went that luxurious Sunday morning feeling, right down the old Crapaud. Dawson’s heart was pounding; she’d grown warm under the covers. Holly’s covers—she’d baby-sat for Holly again last night, and again she’d slept over. She’d pretended to be asleep when Holly crawled into bed around two-thirty, this time without taking a shower first.

  Dawson couldn’t blame her—she’d taken her own shower at ten in the evening, with Miami Mark standing guard outside the Crapaud door, armed with a twelve-gauge over-and-under. Corefolk had patrolled in shifts all night; they’d also strung lights in the tamarind trees and set tiki torches around the perimeter of the clearing.

  Around nine o’clock, Dawson slipped out from under the mosquito net. A few minutes later Holly joined her in the next room, lured by the smell of fresh coffee. They folded the table down, sat across from each other, and spoke in whispers. The first topic of conversation was the Machete Man, who’d also been topic number one at the ’Hands last night—apparently the rumor had already spread around the island—and when that was exhausted, Holly changed the subject to Pender.

  “Our new neighbor was guarding the gate when I got home last night,” said Holly. “Guess what we talked about?”

  “The pompitus of love?”

  Holly made the whoosh sound and passed her hand, palm down, over her head, which was where most baby-boomer references went. “No, about you. He thinks you’re the greatest thing since sliced bread.”

  “Really?” Dawson colored.

  “Really. You didn’t sleep with him yet, did you?”

  “Just a good night kiss, so far.”

  Holly wrinkled her nose, as if her friend had confessed to eating worms.

  “What’s your problem?” said Dawson. “He’s kind, he’s super-smart, a terrific listener—”

  “Not exactly the answer to every young girl’s dream, though.”

  “Looks aren’t everything, my dear. The best lover I ever had made Pender look like Brad Pitt. And come to think of it, the lousiest lover I ever had did look like Brad Pitt.”

  “So are you gonna?”

  “What?”

  “Sleep with him.”

  “None of your business.”

  “Come on—I’d tell you.”

  “At present, I’m leaning sixty/forty in favor.”

  “What’s the forty?”

  “He’s a cop.”

  “What’s the sixty?”

  “It was one hell of a good night kiss,” said Dawson.

  2

  Pender’s new neighbors had helped him drag a foam pad and a sleeping bag from the skip-rent shed up to the loft of the A-frame Saturday night, and given him a mosquito coil to set up on a saucer beside the bed. He slept soundly after his turn on watch, and when he awoke Sunday morning the coil had burned to ash and the sky was gray with false dawn. He propped himself on his elbows and watched the stars reappear, then fade on the horizon as the meadow materialized, broad, wet, and green, with its rain tree centerpiece sparkling like cut glass.

  He could smell the dawn through the screen walls. This was like camping out, only without the dew problem. I could get used to it, he thought, as he lay back down and tried to punch a little softness into the round meditation cushion he was using for a pillow. Throw in a good woman—say, Dawson—and a satellite dish, I could get used to this easy.

  Pender fell asleep again. His bladder awoke him the second time. Indoor plumbing would also be a plus, he decided. He pulled on the bathrobe he’d borrowed from Julian, grabbed his travel bag and one of the towels Ziggy had loaned him, and strolled up to the Crapaud.

  The man who’d introduced himself as Roger the Dodger yesterday was at one of the sinks. He might have just finished brushing his teeth, thought Pender—judging by that Captain Katzenjammer beard, he sure hadn’t been shaving.

  “You’ll get used to the smell,” Roger called, as Pender let himself into one of the stalls. “And don’t worry about the shit eels: there’s not one in a hundred can make it all the way up the side.”

  There’s no such thing as shit eels, Pender assured himself as he lowered himself onto the cold wooden toilet seat, but his testicles were not entirely convinced.

  According to the plaque on the outside of the building, the First Lutheran Church had been built in 1750, while the white Georgian steeple with the mahogany siding and the open cupola had been added in 1798.

  “Do I look okay?” whispered Holly, as she and Pender joined the crowd filing inside. She was wearing a short, tight-fitting black cocktail dress—the only black item in her wardrobe—and had borrowed a black sweater to cover her bare arms and shoulders.

  Julian and Ziggy were close to the front. Pender took off his Panama and slipped into the last pew—he was more interested in the mourners than the minister. “You look spectacular,” he told Holly, as she slid in next to him.

  She tugged the hem of her dress as far down her thigh as it would reach. “I meant appropriate.”

  “Stick with me, nobody’ll notice.” Dawson had “borrowed” Andy Arena’s black jacket for Pender to wear to the funeral; it didn’t fit too badly, as long as he didn’t try to button it. He’d never worn one victim’s clothes to the funeral of another before, but down here, he was starting to learn, all bets were off.

  It was eleven in the morning. The church was already sweltering. The casket was closed. A few white women sniffled; a big black woman sobbed into her handkerchief. Pender craned his neck, saw Apgard’s bandaged blond head in the front pew. Suddenly Apgard turned—that old eyes-in-the-back-of-the-head reflex. Caught you looking!

  Pender nodded solemnly, his lips pressed tightly together in wordless condolence. Apgard nodded back, mouthed thanks for coming, then l
ooked up and to his left, past Pender’s right shoulder. His face registered something—surprise? distaste? maybe even fear?—but he turned away before Pender, who read faces the way stockbrokers read tickers, could get a fix on it.

  Oh-ho, thought Pender, crossing his legs and turning casually to the right. A white couple was making their way down the aisle. The man was tall, late sixties, with long dangling arms and a graying beard, the woman shorter and younger, early forties, with an untamed nest of bushy, ginger-colored hair and a dumpy figure, except for a bosom not even her dowdy black dress could hide.

  “Who are they?” he whispered to Holly; the service had just begun.

  “Phil and Emily Epp,” she whispered back.

  The name registered immediately—but only as a name that registered. It took Pender a few seconds to rummage through the case file in his head before he placed them as Apgard’s nearest neighbors, the ones who’d hadn’t seen or heard anything the night Hokey Apgard died. “What do you know about them?”

  “Sshh, be quiet. I’ll tell you later.” Holly was always a little self-conscious in a church. No matter how nice the people were, she could never quite shake the feeling that somebody might stand up at any minute, point an accusing finger in her direction, and yell, Get the hell out of here, you killed Christ.

  The two detectives, Felix and Hamilton, were already waiting in the chief’s office when Pender and Julian arrived after the funeral service. There was a copy of that morning’s San Juan Star on the desk. Pender picked it up and read the lead story under the headline Serial Killer Stalks St. Luke. They had it all, the count, the MO, even the nickname Machete Man.