Break No Bones (38 page)

Emma, 4:27 P.M. "Cal me. I have news."

While talking to Tybee, I'd left my purse in Gulet's office. Emma must have phoned then.

I hit
E
on my speed dial. Emma's machine answered after four rings.

"Damn!"

I was about to disconnect when Emma's live voice cut in over her recorded voice.

"Hang on."

The message ended, and a long beep sounded. I heard a click, then a change in sound quality.

"Where are you?" Emma asked.

"At the hospital."

"Staff catches you on a cel phone they'l break out the rubber hoses. How's Pete?"

"Sleeping," I said, just above a whisper.

"You and Gulet have been busy."

"Emma, I think we've made a mistake."

"Oh?"

I got up, closed the door, and gave Emma a condensed version of everything I'd told Pete. She listened without interrupting.

"Don't know if my news wil resolve anything. Got DNA results today. It's Marshal's eyelash."

"You're right. That could go either way. But it narrows the possibilities. Either Marshal disposed of the body, or participated in the disposal, or was being set up even at the time the body was buried. But why a setup back then? That kind of contingency planning seems something of a stretch. And an eyelash, for God's sake? Sounds like a TV plot where the cops find one skin cel in an acre of shag carpet. What are the chances an eyelash wil be found?"

"Who's your pick?"

"Daniels. He's dim enough to think something like that would work."

"Mine, too. Keep me in the loop."

"I wil."

I set the phone on vibrate mode. Minutes crept by. I was gnawing a cuticle when it signaled.

Gulet.

"IOP PD just spotted Daniels's vehicle at the Dewees marina."

"He's gone to see his aunt? If so, why? And why not take his own boat?"

Gulet ignored the questions. Rightly so. They were irrelevant.

"I'm checking with Dewees to see if Daniels is out there. Posted deputies on his condo and at Bohicket. We'l get him."

"Please cal when you do. The guy gives me the creeps."

Pete was snoring. Time to go.

I was clearing the newspaper from Pete's bed, trying not to rustle, when my eyes fel on the grainy black-and-white of Aubrey Herron. Herron was caught in a posture of supplication, face tipped, eyes closed, arm stretched above his head.

Left arm.

The thought struck like a tsunami. Unbidden. Unforeseen. Shocking.

"Damn," I whispered, fingers clenching in distress. "Damn, damn, damn."

The paper trembled as visions screamed through my mind.

A trio of sixth cervical vertebrae, al fractured on the left.

A wire noose with a side loop for applying deadly force.

Corey Daniels beyond one-way glass. A hand shooting through hair. A finger working a desktop. An arm draping a chair back. A scar circling a wrist.

Lester Marshal leafing through pages in a patient chart. Jotting words on a legal pad.

Kaleidoscope images fused into realization.

Daniels spoke of permanent damage from a motorcycle accident. He had strength only in his right hand.

Marshal rummaged Montague's file with his left hand. He wrote with his left hand.

Daniels was right-handed. Marshal was left-handed.

A Spanish windlass is slipped over a victim's head from behind.

On Montague, Helms, and Cruikshank, the force had been applied to the left side of the neck. They had been strangled by a lefty.

I'd sent Gulet after Daniels.

The kiler couldn't be Daniels.

Where was Marshal now?

39

DROPPING THE PAPER, I GRABBED MY PHONE AND DIALED GULLET.

No answer.

Damn!

I dialed the sheriff's department switchboard. The operator told me Gulet was unavailable.

"I need to contact him. Now."

"Are you caling to report a crime?"

"Gulet's on his way to arrest a man named Corey Daniels. Get through to him. Tel him to cal Brennan before proceeding."

"Is this a reporter?" Wary.

"No. This is Temperance Brennan. I'm working with the coroner's office. I have information the sheriff wil want. It's very important to get through to him."

A beat of hesitation.

"Your number?"

I provided it. "How can I contact Deputy Tybee?"

"I can't give that out."

"Please contact Tybee." I had to restrain myself from screaming at the woman. "Tel him to cal me. Same number. Same message."

Totaly frustrated, I disconnected.

I looked at Pete. He was wel past dozing and into REM. I thought about leaving, decided to hold. What if Gulet or Tybee caled while I was in the elevator with no signal?

I began pacing, working the cuticle with my teeth.

Call, damn it!

Not a ripple from the phone.

Call!

How could I have been so stupid? So gulible? Marshal had played me like a fish at a time when I should have been adding the missing pieces to the puzzle.

Calm, Brennan. Nothings lost. Marshall has been charged. He'll have to stand trial. Daniels can be released.

As usual, I ignored my own advice. I was pumped with anxiety, angry at my own stupidity. The cuticle looked like raw flank steak.

My higher centers tried reason.

Gullet has grounds to pick Daniels up. He can also release him as new facts emerge. That happens. No one will die.

Die?

I froze as another kaleidoscoping chain winged toward another terrible realization.

Marshal was the kiler, yet the case against him was circumstantial. Who could nail it down?

The pilot, that's who.

If Shorter was indeed Marshal's mule, Marshal had a major loose end. If the DA got to talk to Shorter, he might deal. If Shorter flipped, his testimony could bury Marshal and Rodriguez.

Marshal was ruthless. Marshal had eluded Zamzow and was running free. Marshal would understand the risk represented by Shorter. He would try to eliminate that risk.

If he succeeded, it could prevent a conviction.

I was jabbing keys on my cel when a nurse opened the door. Lips pursed, she pointed at my hand and shook her head no.

Pocketing the phone, I hurried from the room and down the hal. Dingy lighted panels marked the elevator's creeping upward progress.

Come on!

The doors opened. I rushed in, practicaly bowling over the occupants before they could draw back. We descended, al pointlessly watching the blinking floor numbers.

Come on!

The lobby was deserted. Heading out the doors, I dialed Gulet.

Stil no answer.

Damn!

What was happening at the marina? On Dewees? At Daniels's condo? Bohicket?

What was happening at the airstrip on Clement's Ferry Road?

Tybee was the greater concern. He had no clue Shorter might be a target. Shorter wouldn't be expecting an attack from Marshal. The doctor had little to lose, everything to gain by eliminating his pilot. Marshal had no idea Daniels was being folowed, probably planned to make Shorter's murder look like Daniels's work. Was Marshal a shooter?

Had he shot Pete? IOP police stil had nothing on the shooting. The searches of Marshal's office and home hadn't turned up a gun.

Breathless, I threw myself into my car. Turned the key. Hesitated.

IOP? Gulet?

Clements Ferry Road? Tybee?

Tybee could be at risk.

Marshal had kiled how many people? If Tybee blundered upon a hit on Shorter, Marshal wouldn't hesitate to kil him, too. Of the two, Tybee was the one more likely to be caught by surprise. The cruiser would be easy to spot. Tybee would be unprepared for an assault.

Fingers trembling, I dialed the sheriff's department. Same operator. I gave my name. She started to speak. I stopped her in midspiel, told her to tel Gulet and Tybee it was urgent I hear from them.

"Sheriff Gulet and Deputy Tybee are out of contact at the moment."

"Radio. Phone. Carrier pigeon." It was almost a shriek. "However you do it, get my message to them."

I heard a sharp intake of breath.

"Tybee could be in danger."

I rang off.

What next? Gulet had been emphatic about my noninclusion in Daniels's apprehension. I didn't even know Gulet's location. Tybee would be at the airstrip by now, but I wasn't exactly sure where that was. Best to wait this out at the house. Surely one of them would cal shortly.

===OO=OOO=OO===

I hadn't remembered to leave a light on. "Sea for Miles" was dark, though a partial moon cast a shadowy glow against the exterior wals, as though from a dimmed lantern.

Boyd barked as I turned the key, then cavorted in circles around me. I set down my purse and checked the house phone. No messages.

The place felt eerie. No Pete. No Ryan. Too many rooms and too much quiet for one person. Thank God for the dog and the cat. I stroked them both in turn.

I turned on a TV and watched
Headline News
for a while, but I wasn't tuned in mentaly. Why weren't Gulet and Tybee caling? Marshal and Daniels were both at large, and deputies were pursuing the wrong man. The kiler could be positioning himself to strike again. There was urgency here.

Or was there?

Marshal had been charged, arraigned, and released on bond. More evidence of his guilt wouldn't cause a rearrest. The urgency was to cal off the arrest of Daniels. What if he tried to flee and was injured? What use would Marshal's lawyer make of Daniels's arrest at tomorrow's news conference?

Call, damn it. Call now!

Feeling agitated, I took my cel and a Diet Coke and walked out toward the beach. Boyd was indignant that I shut the door in his snout, and scratched at it angrily, but I didn't want to lose track of him in the dark.

The tide was high, leaving little room between the dunes and the water's edge. No late-evening walkers slogged the surf's white curls. I took a sand chair from the gazebo and carried it to the water's edge.

Settling down, I dug my toes into the sand, sipped my drink, and waited for the phone to ring. The moonlight made fluorescent patterns on the waves. The wind roled off the water. It was luling, calming. I began to unwind. Almost.

Pete and Ryan. Ryan and Pete. Why the ambivalence? Forgotten feelings were surfacing and creating discomfort. Strange. And surprising. But no action was required.

Would the concern persist? I would see.

A lone walker approached from my left. Unconsciously, I took note. Hooded sweatshirt. Odd. The night wasn't chily. Muscular build. The walker angled so as to pass between my chair and the dunes.

Suddenly, I was choking. The phone and the drink flew from my hands.

I was shocked at how fast the man had moved. And at his strength.

I grabbed at my throat. I was gasping and could barely speak.

"Stop!" It came out a hoarse whisper.

"Enjoy the view, you arrogant, ignorant, meddling bitch," hissed a voice I had heard before. "It's the last you'l ever see."

Desperate, I clawed my flesh.

"Flynn and Cruikshank tried to bring me down and I dealt with them, but you stumbled onto things that weren't your business and you ruined
my
business. I provided a valuable service. I took the few good parts those throwaway people had and sent them where they could be put to better use. Too bad I can't take yours."

The thing around my throat tightened. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't cry out. My vision blurred.

"You caused me great harm. It's payback time, Dr. Brennan. Say good-bye."

The voice was barely registering in my tortured brain. My lungs burned, and every cel in my body screamed for air. The world began to recede.

Fight!

With al my strength I lunged upward and backward. The top of my head struck him under the chin, knocking him backward. His grip loosened.

I dove toward the water, trying to dash into the waves. He caught a handful of hair and yanked me back.

I lost my balance and went down, legs straight out in front. Before I could rol to either side, the hand that held my hair shoved me down hard, forcing my chin against my chest. The other hand went to my neck.

Then, inexplicably, the hands released. I struggled to my knees, but couldn't stand. As I tried to push up with my palms, the pressure on my neck eased and I heard a second voice. A voice I had also heard before.

"Set me up for this one, you demented prick bastard."

Blood pounded in my ears. Or was it the surf?

I lifted my head enough to see Corey Daniels, his massive left arm around Marshal's throat, his right arm holding Marshal in a hammer-lock. Marshal's face was contorted in pain.

That was good.

40

SATURDAY NIGHT THE HEAT BROKE, GIVING WAY TO ONE OF THOSE glorious Lowcountry Sunday mornings. By ten, Pete and I were at the gazebo, flip-flops kicked, working through every newspaper I'd managed to score at the island Red and White.

I was perusing the
Charlotte Observer
sports section, when a slow-moving shadow crossed the page. I glanced up. A V of pelicans was wind-slipping overhead.

After pouring a refil from the coffee thermos, I put my feet on the railing and surveyed my surroundings. Beyond the dunes the tide was receding, yielding additional beach footage with each low, lazy swel. To the southwest, Liliputian kites danced the sky over Sulivan's Island. In the shrubs beside the boardwalk, birds twittered in intense mid-morning dialogue.

On the way home from MUSC the previous afternoon, Pete had announced that one of his law partners was coming Monday to drive him to Charlotte. Buck Flynn and his pals had retained accountants to continue probing Aubrey Herron's books. Based on what he'd seen prior to having his lung rearranged, Pete doubted GMC was doing a soft shoe with donor bucks.

I didn't argue with Pete's plan. The Latvian Savant was healing wel. I knew he was anxious to get back to his clients.

I'd spoken with Tim Larabee, the Mecklenburg County medical examiner, and with Pierre LaManche, the chief of medico-legal in Montreal. A skul and a pair of mummified infants had come into the Charlotte facility. Two partial skeletons had arrived at the LSJML. Both pathologists had assured me the cases could wait, alowing me to remain in Charleston for Emma.