Bone Thief (25 page)

Pierce pushed his plate forward and gazed across the table at Margaret.

“Any new developments in your murder investigation?” he asked.

Was this idle curiosity Margaret wondered, or was the Lieutenant right? Was Pierce the Medicine Man?

“We're making some headway,” she said. “The killings have stopped, and we think we know why.”

“And why is that?”

“We think the killer is feeling remorseful. And if we're right in our thinking, now would be the time for him to come forward and confess his crimes.”

“He could just be vacationing from his sport. No?”

“He may be. But, murders like these usually feed the frenzy in the killer's soul. Without the insertion of guilt his desire to kill becomes insatiable, and usually goes on unabated until the psychopath is caught. We're hoping he's feeling guilty enough to confess.”

Margaret was baiting Pierce by design. Referring to the killer as a psychopath would certainly incite the man if the Lieutenant was right about Pierce being their killer. And now would be a good time to get a confession out of him. Perhaps that's why they were brought together in the first place: fate generating restoration.

“Psychopath. That depicts a rabid sort. Someone under the will of an uncontrollable force. I wouldn't think these types ever show remorse. But then, I'm not in the profession of apprehending criminals.”

Margaret thought she caught something in Pierce's glance—a glimmer of disdain. It lasted for only a second and was gone. But she was sure it was there, nonetheless.

“The DA, I'm sure, would show leniency to a man, even a crazed killer, who came forward and showed repentance for his crimes.”

“Would he, now?”

Pierce got up from the table to clear away the plates. When he returned he was carrying a plate filled with cookies.

“Sweets for the sweet,” he said, placing the plate before Margaret.

Margaret selected a seven-layer marzipan and bit into it.

Pierce took his seat across from Margaret and stared intently at his guest. “I don't think your killer is ever going to confess his crimes,” he said. “I'd say something unforseen intervened, and it'll be just a matter of time before he strikes again.”

It was Margaret's turn to stare intently into Pierce's eyes. Was she now being baited?

“Like what? What could have intervened?”

“An unexpected interloper, perhaps.”

Moira. The son of a bitch is talking about Moira
. “How's that?”

“Judging from what I read over the Internet, the last victim was the Benjamin woman. Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“There's your answer.”

Eyes locked. This cat-and-mouse game was taking on huge proportions. How would anyone but the killer know that the Benjamin woman was out of pattern?
An unexpected interloper,
as he put it. Margaret's heart began to race again.

“My guess is the Benjamin woman intervened in some way, and your killer thought it best to remove her from the playing field.” He was playing her. The grin on his face said,
I'm your man. Catch me if you can
. “That's purely a guess on my part,” said Pierce. “You'd know better than I if I'm even remotely correct in my assertion.”

“What makes you think the Benjamin woman was out of pattern?”

“Call it a hunch. Nothing more. Another cookie?”

“You know, I meant what I said about the DA being lenient on a killer who confesses to his crimes.”

“Margaret, if I didn't know you better I'd say you're looking for me to confess. I'm simply a radiologist with a passion for bones. I'm certainly not your bone collector.”

“That's also a trait of our killer.”

“What's that?”

“A passion for bones.”

“Human bones, Margaret. As you have witnessed my passion involves the skeletal structure of birds.”

“It'd be a short bridge to cross.”

Pierce eyed Margaret. There was that look of disdain again. In full fury, this time. “In a way, I'm flattered that you consider me a suspect. That's what you're alluding to, is it not? It'd be my guess that you think I've got another chamber where I have a second collection of skeletal remains. Human remains. I have to tell you, the thought chills me to the bone.”

Chilled to the bone. A subtle play on words. Was he toying with her again? “You seem to know so much about the case it's logical to reason—”

“That I'm your man.” Pierce finished her thought. “If I were, would I align myself so closely with the police, the enemy, so to speak?”

“There are any number of reasons why a criminal would align himself with the police. I'd be a convenient way to keep tabs on the investigation.”

“The information I've shared with you has been collected from various news articles.”

“But the Benjamin woman?”

“Mere speculation, and nothing more.”

“A killer like the one we're after is looking to be caught.”

“Is that a fact?”

“It is.”

“Well, then, get out your handcuffs. You've got me. I'm all yours. I confess. I'm your man. I deserve to be punished for my actions. What'll it be? Lethal injection? Electrocution? Perhaps a firing squad?”

He was mocking her and Margaret didn't like it. “I meant what I said about the authorities being lenient on a criminal who confesses.”

“Would that be true for someone who preys on innocent women, stalks them, and bones them? Somehow I don't see that happening. That sort of viciousness would surely be punished. As you put it, to the full extent of the law.”

Margaret stared across the table at Pierce. The disdain he had exhibited earlier was gone, replaced now by a look of bewilderment. Were Driscoll's instincts wrong? Was Pierce not the depraved killer he thought him to be? Was she having lunch with an innocent man who was simply a radiologist with a passion for bones? Or was Driscoll right about Pierce? Was he a ruthless murderer? If so, she was now sitting a mere four feet away from a madman.

“Did anyone call?” Doctor Pierce asked as he scurried past the Department of Radiology's reception area.

Grabbing a stack of messages, Alicia Simmons, his secretary, tagged along behind him. “Dinner date, 6
P.M
., at Bruxelles. Doctor Meyers called to confirm. Jimmy down at Crown Motors called, the Mercedes will be ready on Thursday, said he's sorry for the delay, something about waiting for a part. Your tailor called, your suits have been altered and are ready for pickup. And a Miss Langley called, sounded urgent.”

“What was that name? The last one?”

“Langley, Priscilla Langley. Here's her number.”

Pierce reached his office and fell back in his chair, staring at the rose-colored slip of paper. It had been ages since he had spoken to her. What could be the matter? An ominous and unsettling notion crept into his psyche: this could only mean trouble. Who was stirring things up? he wondered. The parents of the now shattered teenaged interloper? The inquisitive Margaret? The dogged police lieutenant at the helm of it all? A whirl of emotions enveloped him. He willed it to go away, but it persisted, and the telephone number on the slip of paper became etched in his mind. He reached for his phone and punched in the number. Priscilla Langley's voice sounded in his ear.

“Is that really you?” he panted.

“Son, there was a man here in South Dorset, a policeman, asking all kinds of questions.”

“Questions?”

“About a girl who died in your hospital.”

“Patients die here, it's a goddamn hospital! What's this policeman's name?”

“Lieutenant John Driscoll.”

Pierce thought his pounding heart was about to rupture. Frenzied thoughts emerged, ran rampant, and collided inside his brain. He could feel his entire body trembling. He brushed back the hair from his furrowed brow, only to find it dampened with perspiration.

“Colm, are you in some kind of trouble?”

The question went unanswered.

“Colm?”

“Yes?”

“You are. You're in some kind of trouble. Talk to me, boy.”

Pierce couldn't control his trembling. He pounded his fist against the side of his desk.

“Colm?”

“I have to go now,” he said slowly and deliberately. “You're not to worry. I'm not in any kind of trouble. I'll see to it that this policeman is reprimanded for causing you to worry.”

“But, Colm—”

Pierce hung up the phone. His eyes fell, once again, upon the scribbled message. He crumpled the sheet of paper in his hand and flung it against the wall. He stood up. A dizziness overcame him. He sat back down. He pounded both fists on the top of his desk. The disturbance brought Alicia Simmons into the room.

“Is everything all right?” she asked.

“It will be,” Pierce said, dismissing her. His eyes became fixed on the wall in front of him. His heart was still beating rapidly inside his chest when he heard his father's voice, distant at first, but gathering volume.

“What's keeping those eyes, Colm?”

A shriek came from atop the basement's shelving, shooting splinters of fear up my spine. A skittering sound followed.

“Bugler, what was that?” cried Mother.

“Daddy, we got rats!” Becky whimpered, her brown eyes pooling with tears.

“That ain't no rat,” Father grinned.

A second shriek, more bone-piercing than the first discombobulated me. The box leaped out of my hands, launching the agate eyes into their own frenzied trajectories. My father's face went through a transformation. The muscles of his jaw knotted. A furrow cut deep into his forehead.

“Now look what you've done!”

He stood up. My heart burst.

His face became warlike. He let loose a cry, unfathomable and archaic, like the howl of a Celtic warrior.

My sister and I watched in horror. I knew my life hung on his very breath. He could choke me with his brute hands or spare my life.

He ground the strewn eyes under the heel of his hiking boot, leaned his distorted face into mine and said, “I could snuff you out, son. And it wouldn't matter much to the sun, or the moon, or the stars.”

Father scraped fragments of glass from the heel of his boot and sprinkled the translucent dust on my head. Then he bolted upright, the tumor clawing at his intestines. “I spawned you, son, and I can snuff you out,” he said, staring inquisitively into my eyes, examining my pupils like an ophthalmologist. His attention had been drawn back to his taxidermy. “This gutted pheasant, needs brown eyes,” he murmured, inspecting the blue of my irises. “You've got your mother's eyes, Colm, and Rebecca's got mine, brown.”

A piercing shriek tore through me. A vulture had leaped from the murk of the cellar's joists, swooped down, and clenched in its claws the entrails of the gutted bird.

“Ain't she a beauty?” Father boasted. “Just a week ago that critter was scanning the Alps for a stray lamb, and now this honey is mine. A real live lammergeier!” The sneer returned to his face. “Becky, come over here and give your Daddy a wet one.”

Without warning, Father grabbed hold of my sister and flattened her body on the gurney. He poured some liquid on a rag and brutally smothered her face with it. Becky whimpered. But the noise slowly ceased as my sister fell into unconsciousness. Father then reached for the melon scoop and plucked out both of her eyes.

I grabbed hold of Father's sleeve, restraining further assault on Becky.

“Let go of my arm,” he growled through clenched teeth.

Holding the rag he used on Becky, he turned his attention to me. Soon I too fell victim to unconsciousness.

 

It was the coppery scent of blood that nauseated me, waking me from my deep sleep.

Becky was still on the gurney. Two of Mother's abandoned tailor's mannequins stood, oddly enough, on either side. The newly mounted pheasant was staring at her through new eyes, and Becky returned the stare through two gaping holes, each one oozing blood.

I needed something to clog the holes. Mother's ping-pong balls! She had numbered them. They were stored in a vat and picked every week at the church lottery. I ripped open cartons, tore through boxes, and pried open metal cases until I found the keg in which they were stored. Rummaging inside, I pulled out two balls and raced toward my sister, squooshing the balls into her eye sockets, praying they would stop the bleeding.

The effort had sapped me of all energy. The chemicals on the rag I had inhaled were still taking their toll. I drifted into an agitated sleep.

Time passed.

 

“Colm,” Becky screamed, in pain.

I woke up.

“I'm here,” I said.

“I can't see!” she shouted.

“I'll be your eyes.”

“It hurts,” she sobbed. She was shivering. “It's so cold,” she said.

Just outside the murky dungeon, the furnace lay dead, starving me and my sister of heat. It squatted, dumb and oblivious to our needs, for it too had abandoned us, despite my prayers for its fire and warmth. Terror filled and numb with cold, we waited for the dawn. But there was no sunrise, only the faint glow of a dingy twenty-five-watt bulb that flickered intermittently, threatening the cellar with total darkness.

Fever ridden, Becky coughed and wheezed. Her breathing had become a rattle.

Her condition worsened as the bleakness of our days led into the darkness of our nights. Eventually her breathing ceased. My sister was dead.

As I held her lifeless form in my arms, the door to the cellar creaked. It was my father. He descended the stairs, brandishing a hunting knife, eyes on Rebecca.

“You leave her alone!” I screamed.

The force of his blow knocked me against one of the tailor's mannequins, dismantling it. My mind was set on one thing: I had to protect my sister from his sinful hands. I grabbed the mannequin's severed arm and charged my father. The limb smashed against his kneecap, sounding as though it had crushed bone.

“You little bastard!”

He lunged for me. But his fractured knee wouldn't support his bulk. He collapsed, holding the injured joint. “I'm gonna kill you if it's the last thing I do,” he seethed.

Another blow felled me. I turned my head before passing out from the pain. My eyes caught Mother's grin and the rolling pin coming at me again.

 

When I came to, a rope was cutting deeply into my wrists. Pain racked my head. I was hanging from a meathook like a leg of lamb.

Father had skinned Becky. The vulture was standing on the gurney, pecking at her bones. Cutting my sister's ligaments with its beak, it freed the humerus and tossed it into the air, watching it crash on the concrete floor. The bone cracked apart. The vulture then leaped on the scattered fragments and gobbled them up. Soon, there would be nothing left of my sister. The creature eyed me, ghoulishly.

I kicked my feet wildly, loosening the hook screwed into the moldy beam, and fell to the floor. I grabbed another of the mannequin's limbs and threw it at the bird. It croaked and flew away, perching on top of the shelving.

I embraced the skeletal remains of my sister. It was now up to me to care for her soul and prevent her bones from further assault. I decided to cremate her. It was the only way to protect her from either predator.

In the murk of the cellar I sniffed the stagnant air for signs of fuel and combustible material. There was a pungency emanating from a darkened corner of our confines. I followed the odor to its source: an abandoned canister of turpentine. Corrosion had fastened the cap tightly, resisting my efforts to open it. I found a clothes iron and brought it crashing down on the can. Turpentine soaked my shirt.

I wielded the iron again, striking the skin of the mannequin. Its guts, clumps of dried wood shavings, spilled out. I scattered them over Becky's bones.

I unscrewed the lightbulb and pried open the socket. I was rewarded for my efforts by a flash of pain. My eyes, though, hadn't missed the burst of bluish light that emanated from the tips of my fingers, nor the orange sparks, nor the stench of caramelized insulation wire that seared my nostrils. I'd harness this lightning and direct its bolts at Rebecca.

What witchcraft, what wizardry I was contemplating!

I tore the cable from its mooring and separated the two wires. Solemnly, I approached the heap of bones, sensing their urgency, their longing for rebirth.

As I connected the wires, spears of light cascaded around me, filling the cellar with a haunting luminosity. Fueled by the turpentine, flames blossomed. The lammergeier shrieked as the fire devoured the cellar's accumulated treasures. Becky's bones were being embraced by flames, serenaded by fumes.

In the distance I thought I heard my mother scream.