Cut to the Bone (23 page)

It didn't take long to locate it. My left toe was positioned directly beneath the arrow wound in the right thigh. Peering closely at the wound, I saw a handful of maggots clinging to the bloody tissue there. Even as I watched, another of the maggots lost its grip—its toehold or mouthhold or whatever hold it had—and fell. This one landed slightly to one side, squarely on the exposed bones of the victim's right foot. “Yes, as a matter of fact,” I said to Tyler, as insight dawned, accompanied by a slow smile spreading across my face. “I do indeed have a better theory. And once you've finished your master's thesis, you can start your dissertation project and prove I'm right. Maggots—like Isaac Newton's apple—must obey the law of gravity.”

OUR JOB AT THE
scene was complicated by the need to free the woman's corpse, which was pinned to the tree by deeply embedded arrows. I tried wiggling the arrows while tugging, but to no avail. “Art,” I called, “are you hoping to get prints off these? What I mean is, do we need to handle them gently?”

“I'm always hoping to get prints,” he said. “Expecting, no; hoping, sure.”

“In that case,” I suggested, “we might want to think about cutting the arrows right behind the head. Then the shafts would slide right out of her.” I saw heads nodding in agreement. “One of y'all got bolt cutters in your cruiser?”

The youngest and slimmest of the deputies turned and began jogging down through the woods toward the vehicles. While we waited for him to return, we bagged the man's body.

Unlike the woman, the man had bled out from a single wound. His camo shirt was soaked, and blood had poured off his chest and pooled on the ground beneath him. “Those arrows mean business,” I remarked.

“I'd rather get gun shot than arrow shot,” said Dr. Hamilton. “You ever taken a close look at a hunting arrow?”

“Depends,” I said. “Do eighteenth-century Arikara Indian arrows count?”

“No comparison,” he said. “We're not talking a chip of flint tied to a stick. These things are killing machines—engineered to inflict massive, lethal damage on big, big animals. They can shatter bone, rip muscle, shred arteries. Most of 'em have four blades angling back from the point—razor-sharp blades, flaring to an inch or more wide.” He looked around at his audience, seemed satisfied with our attentiveness. “The entry wound from one of these arrows is twice the size of a .45-caliber bullet. Granted, a .45 slug traveling eight hundred feet a second packs more wallop than an arrow at three hundred feet a second. Still, think about the damage done by something that can bore a one-inch hole through a caribou.” He nodded at the corpse. “This guy's heart virtually exploded. His brain might've had time to realize how thoroughly he was screwed. But the screwing itself?” He snapped his fingers. “A nanosecond.”

“So quick bright things come to confusion,” said Kittredge.

“Huh?” I said.

“A line from Shakespeare,” he explained. “It's just a fancy way of saying you can be screwed in a heartbeat.”

IT WAS ONLY AFTER
we cut her down—only as I was zipping the body bag; only as I was moving her left hand out of the path of the zipper—that I noticed: The dead woman's little finger was missing, amputated at the base so neatly that it left no stump; only a circle of crusty black blood and—within the outer black ring—a small circle of sheared-off bone, like a bull's-eye in a target. It was a startling contrast with the remaining fingers. The nine nails looked freshly coated with scarlet polish, as if the woman had just come from a nail salon—a manicure to primp for her date with death.

We carried them out together, these two people whom I suspected never actually met in life, only in death. Tyler and I, along with Art Bohanan and Garland Hamilton, carried the woman's body; Detective Kittredge and three uniformed deputies carried the man's.

When we reached the clearing where the vehicles were parked, I saw movement at a window beside the trailer's front door. Fingers curled around a curtain and pulled it aside, and a woman's face stared out at me. It was the dead man's widow—Kittredge had told me she was inside. Even through the grimy glass, the bleakness in her expression was unmistakable, and I found myself averting my gaze—out of respect, I told myself, but also, truth be told, out of discomfort. I had nothing to offer her: no comfort, no explanation, no way of setting the world right by her. Judging by the shabby trailer, the shabby truck, and the shabby patch of ground, life had been dealing low cards to her for years now; this one was simply the latest. I didn't know why the deck seemed to be so thoroughly stacked against some people—and so completely in favor of others—but I'd seen lots of lousy hands dealt to good-hearted people by now. Seen plenty of gold-plated hands go to liars and jerks, too. What was the Bible verse my minister, Reverend Michaelson, had chosen as his text last Sunday? “God sends his rain on the just and on the unjust?” Reverend Mike's gloss on the text was an uplifting one, a glass-half-full gloss: God's blessings and grace don't have to be earned; they're
there,
just like the beauty of fall foliage and summer sunsets, freely available to even the most undeserving.

But what about the converse, I couldn't help wondering: What about the misfortune and suffering—sometimes even black-hearted evil—that seemed to rain down relentlessly on people who were long overdue for some sunshine?

CHAPTER 33

Tyler

SQUINTING AGAINST THE GLARE
from the porch light, Tyler batted a moth from his face and unlocked his front door. “Hey, babe, I'm back,” he called. “Finally. Sorry it took so long.” He switched on the living room light and closed the front door, but not before the moth darted into the apartment with him. “Roxanne? Rox? Are you here?” His voice echoed in the living room, and he felt a flash of fear—that Roxanne was gone, that she'd bolted back to Memphis to study with her classmates.
Hell, maybe she was never even here,
he thought.
Maybe I just dreamed her.
A fever dream, born of the loneliness and longing and lust that had been his trio of constant companions ever since she'd moved to Memphis for med school back in August, two months before. Two months going on forever.

“Hey,” a distracted voice answered him. “Here. In the bedroom.”

She was sprawled diagonally across the bed, lying on her stomach, propped on her elbows, her nose buried in one of the half-dozen doorstop textbooks she'd schlepped with her. She was naked. Her slender, graceful back was arched, and the pillow beneath her pelvis had slightly lifted her butt, which was round and firm from years of ballet and jazz classes, displaying it to best advantage, which was considerable. The dimples at the top of her hips—“dimples of Venus”; Tyler
loved
that name—seemed to be smiling just for him.

She turned her head toward the doorway, where he'd stopped to admire the view, and gave him a smoldering look over her shoulder. “I'm studying anatomy,” she said, arching one eyebrow at him. “The human reproductive system. Come and be my lab partner.” She parted her lips and ran her tongue across the upper lip. “Better yet,” she murmured, “be my lab partner and come.”

She closed the book and shoved it off the mattress. It landed with a
thunk
that made the nightstand lamp quiver. Tyler stepped toward her, already feeling his breath quicken and his desire stir.

And then it happened. She rolled over onto her back, and raised her arms above her head, displaying herself—offering herself—in all her nakedness and vulnerability and sweetness, and it was his utter undoing. In his mind's eye, she became the woman in the woods, and for a horrifying moment he envisioned Roxanne's lovely body bloodied and bristling with arrows. His heart pounded, his head swam, and his legs began to give way beneath him. Stumbling forward and clutching the footboard of the bed, he dropped to his knees and tucked his head, his breath coming in quick, spasmodic gulps.

She scrambled down the mattress and leaned over to stare down at him. “
Tyler?
Sweetie, baby, what's wrong?”

He could not answer. Folded in on himself, he shivered and hyperventilated. She scrambled down to his side, wrapped him in her arms, and stroked his head. “
Sshh,
” she whispered. “
Shhh
.” She pressed the back of a hand to his cheek. “Are you sick?” Wordlessly he shook his head. “Have you . . .
done
something? Something awful? Slept with somebody else? Run over a child?” Another shake of his head. “Then come get in bed, and let me hold you.”

She helped him up, led him to the side of the bed, and eased him onto the mattress, then curled around him from behind. They lay like that for a long time. Muscle by muscle, nerve by nerve, breath by breath, he calmed, and the reality of the room—the warm pool of light from the lamp, the warm skin and soft breath of the woman pressed against him—reasserted itself.

Finally she spoke. “What's got you so upset? Tell me.”

And so he did. He told it almost as if in a trance; almost as if he were reliving it, or showing her the slides he'd shot at the scene, all 108 of them—three full rolls of gruesome film. He told his way in, and he told his way out. But by the time he was telling his way out, he'd gotten separated from her. Somewhere during the telling in, she'd stiffened, so slightly that he'd failed to notice it at first. Heedless, he'd kept on, describing the woman pinned to the tree, naked and martyred. Meanwhile, the other naked woman—the naked woman in his bed, who had offered herself to him at her most unguarded—had gradually edged away, easing the sheet up her leg and hip and torso. And when at last he revealed the obscenity of the final arrow, Roxanne rolled away and sat on the edge of the bed, no longer touching him, and wound the sheet around herself like a shroud, tucking it tightly beneath both arms.

She drew a long, slow breath through her nostrils. She held it for several seconds before exhaling, with equal control, again through her nostrils. In the stillness of the room, the breath seemed deafening. “God
damn
it, Tyler. Why did you tell me that?”

He rolled to face her. “What do you mean, why did I tell you? Because you
asked
me to, Rox.”

“I wish I hadn't. I take it back. Un-tell it, Tyler—I don't want to know. I don't want it in our bed. I don't want it in my head.”

“I know,” he said. “I don't, either.” He held out a hand, hoping that she'd take it; hoping that from their shared distress, they could build a bridge across the chasm that had opened between them. His hand lay open, untaken; Roxanne remained rigid on the edge of the bed, as still as a stone. “Come on, Rox, don't do this. Give me a break here.”

Without looking, she swung her left arm behind her, striking him in the chest so hard he grunted. “
Damn
it,” she repeated. “Why are men such
shits
? Especially to
women
? I swear to God, Tyler, it makes me sick.”

“I don't know why,” he said. “You're right—men do awful, awful things to women. I hate it, too. It makes me sick, too. I puked in the woods out there today. I did. Ask Brockton; he'll tell you.” She sat, unmoving. Unmoved. He waited, and it became clear that the wait could last forever. “You know what, though, Rox?” His voice took on an edge. “I am not the bad guy. I am nothing
like
the bad guy. As a matter of fact, I'm the
good
guy—one of them, anyhow—and I'm doing my damnedest to help
catch
the bad guy. So cut me some slack here, could you please? Because in case you hadn't noticed, I had a shitty day. A really, really,
really
shitty day.”

She softened—some—and came back to him, turning onto her side and laying her head and one hand on his chest. But she did not unshroud herself. The fruit of the knowledge of evil had left bitterness in her mouth and coldness in her body. Hours later, when Tyler twitched and began to snore, she slipped from the bed. By the watery, soundless light of dawn, she dressed and packed and let herself out.

By the time she turned onto I-40 for the four-hundred-mile drive west, the rising sun was blazing red-orange in the rearview mirror, like the flaming sword at the gates of Eden, after Adam and Eve had been cast out for knowing too much.

CHAPTER 34

Brockton

LEAVING THE STADIUM, I
turned right on to Neyland Drive, driving slowly beside the emerald waters of the Tennessee, my thoughts spinning like the eddies and whorls spooling downriver as the silent current poured over ledges and pits lurking deep and invisible beneath the surface.

At Kingston Pike I made the left toward Sequoyah Hills and home, but then, to my surprise, I found myself turning in to the parking lot of Second Presbyterian. Two cars were parked in front of the office: an aging Ford Escort, which I seemed to recall belonged to Mary Cowan, the church secretary; and a new Toyota Camry, recently bought by the senior minister, Rev. Mike Michaelson.

Mary—on her way out just as I was headed in—stumbled and nearly fell as I tugged the office door from her grasp. “Oh, sorry,” I said, catching her elbow to steady her. “Didn't mean to pull you off balance.”

She laughed. “I've been klutzy all day today. I would've tripped no matter what. I'm just praying I make it home in one piece.” She started down the sidewalk, raising a hand and waving as she walked away.

I paused in the doorway and called after her, “Looks like he's in?”

“He's got a finance committee meeting in an hour,” she said over her shoulder. “Go on in—he'd be
thrilled
to talk about something besides balance sheets and revenue projections.”

Passing through the outer office, I noticed that his door was ajar. Rapping gently with one knuckle on the oak, I said, “Mike?”

“Hello? Come in.” I stepped into a pool of golden light, created by two floor lamps, a mica-shaded desk lamp, and walls of honey-colored sandstone. I couldn't help smiling at the contrast between the pastor's warm, elegant study and my own shabby, grimy corner of the Ivory Tower. If I felt a brief twinge of envy, it was good-natured and short-lived envy. Reverend Michaelson looked up from a daunting spreadsheet. “Bill, what a nice surprise. Have a seat. How are you?”

“I'm fine,” I said, sinking into a large leather armchair. “Busy. A lot going on.”

He nodded, looking thoughtful. Was that an instinctive response, I wondered, or was it part of his training—Empathy 101? Pastoral Counseling 202? I'd always been impressed by how well he kept current on the activities of his parishioners, so I wasn't surprised when he said, “Seems like you've been in the news a lot lately. I can't pick up the
Sentinel
or turn on Channel 10 without coming across you.”

“Yeah. Unfortunately.”

He leaned his head slightly to one side. “Tell me, is it difficult, doing what you do?”

I shrugged. “I had good teachers. And great opportunities to learn—two summers at the Smithsonian, a bunch of summers digging up Indian bones in South Dakota. Sometimes I get stumped, but often I stumble onto the right answer.”

He smiled. “Clearly. But I didn't mean intellectually difficult. I meant emotionally difficult; spiritually difficult. What kind of toll does it take, doing what you do? Seeing what you see?”

“Huh.” I half laughed, half grunted. “They teach you guys mind reading in seminary?”

“No, it's probably better they don't. I'd be afraid of what I'd find out.” He leaned back in his chair, a high-backed swivel rocker, and tented his fingers, the same way my boss, the dean, tended to. “It takes courage to confront the dark side of life on a daily basis. Not many people are up to it. I'm not sure
I
would be.”

“Thing is,” I said, “some days it's more daily than others. Lately . . . ” My words trailed off, and I waited for him to jump in with a question or some shepherdly counsel or comfort. Instead, he just sat there, his eyes attentive above the finger tent. I backed up and took another run at it. “Lately, though, it feels extra daily. And darker. Much darker.” He nodded, still waiting. “I worked a double homicide yesterday in East Knox County. Two bodies in the woods. The man, he died almost instantly; no suffering to speak of, except on the part of the wife he left behind. But the woman? She died slowly. In agony. The guy who killed her did unspeakable things to her.” I paused, unsure where to go next. Surprisingly, I went to Tyler. “My graduate assistant worked the scene with me. Smart, good-hearted kid. Name's Tyler. Tyler threw up when he saw what had been done to the woman. I'm not sure Tyler's ‘up to it,' as you put it.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of, if he's not.”

“I know he doesn't owe it to me to follow in my footsteps, though I'll be disappointed if he doesn't. But that's not what's eating at me.”

“What
is
eating at you?”

“Tyler said something today that I can't get out of my head.”

“What'd he say?”

“Actually, it was his girlfriend who said it. Or maybe his ex-girlfriend. Roxanne. After he told her about the woman in the woods, Roxanne left in the middle of the night, while he was sleeping. No note; no phone call. The last thing she said—pardon my French—was ‘Why are men such shits to women?' Tyler didn't have an answer.
I
don't have an answer.” I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees. “Do
you
have an answer?”

KATHLEEN WAS LOADING THE
dishwasher when I got in. “We waited for a while, then finally gave up,” she said, not looking up from the dishes. “Where've you been? Why didn't you call?”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I got sidetracked on the way home. I thought it would only take a few minutes. Ended up taking an hour.”

“Would've been nice if you'd found a way to call. Jeff brought Jenny for dinner.”

“Jenny?”

“Jenny. The artist. His new girlfriend.” Her tone was sharp.

“I know who she is. I just didn't know she was coming to dinner. I didn't see them down in the rec room. They're not making out in his room, I hope.”

“They're gone,” she said peevishly. “They left ten minutes ago. If you'd called to say you were on your way, I expect they'd have waited.”

“I'm sorry, Kathleen. Really sorry. I didn't mean to be late.”

“Where were you?” she repeated. “What were you doing?” She turned to face me for the first time, her eyes narrowing. “Are you having an affair?”

I burst into laughter—a mistake, apparently, because she threw the wet dish towel at me. I kept laughing. “I'm sorry, hon,” I said. “I'm not laughing at you. It's just . . . I was talking to a minister. I stopped by church on the way home.”

“What church?
Our
church?” I nodded. “Whatever for?”

“Long story,” I said.

“Obviously.” She hipped the dishwasher door closed—with more energy than the job required—and turned to face me, motioning to a pair of chairs at the kitchen table. “Spill it. I'm all ears.” She was still peeved, but she was intrigued now, and that seemed like progress.

The night before, I'd spared her the grisly details of the death scene in the woods. Now I told her a bit more, and then told her about Roxanne's sudden departure, and the bitter question she'd posed to Tyler. “It's been bugging me all day. So I stopped to see if Mike might have some insight.”

She stared at me from across the table. “Let me see if I've got this straight. You were hoping a theologian could solve the conjoined-twin problems of evil and misogyny in a five-minute, oh-by-the-way mini-lecture?” I shrugged sheepishly; I hadn't gone into his study with such a clearly articulated and clearly ludicrous agenda, but she'd summed it up pretty well. “Honestly, Bill, you do put the
idiot
in
idiot savant
sometimes.”

“You know,” I began, in feeble protest. But I didn't have a leg to stand on, and we both knew it. “It's true,” I conceded, shaking my head. “You're right. Absolutely, utterly right.” She smiled then, reaching across the table to give my hand a squeeze. One of the things I appreciated most about Kathleen was her readiness to forgive, to let go of a grievance at the first sign of contrition.

“And what words of wisdom and divine insight did the Right Reverend Michaelson impart while your steak was turning to shoe leather?”

“Steak? I missed steak?”

“On the grill. Grilled potatoes, too.”

“Ah,
man,
” I moaned. “My favorite dinner? I can't believe I missed it. Proof positive that the devil is alive and well. Messing with the world in general and me in particular.”

“Maybe it's not beyond redemption.”

“The world?”

“The steak. I pulled it off while it was still medium rare. Believe it or not, it no longer surprises me when you're late for dinner.”

“You're an angel,” I said. “And the age of miracles is not yet over.”

“I'll fix you a plate if you'll tell me what Mike had to say.” She scooted back from the table, went to the fridge, and began pulling out Tupperware containers.

“I'm not sure I can remember all the details.”

“Then give me the Cliffs Notes version.”

“Here's the Cliffs Notes version: ‘It's complicated.' ”

She frowned across the plate of steak and potatoes. “I think I'll give this to the dog next door. Because that's
not
complicated; it's simple, and the dog will adore me.”

“Hang on, I'll try to give you the gist,” I squawked. “But it
is
complicated. I asked Mike, ‘Why are men such shits to women?' and—”

“I hope you rephrased the question.”

“No,” I admitted, “I gave him the unvarnished version.” She shook her head despairingly. “Anyhow, his answer started with the Judeo-Christian concept of the Fall of Man—”

“The Fall of Man? Did he blame it on Eve?” she asked sharply.

“No, actually. Matter of fact, he took a few shots at the early church fathers for painting it as the woman's fault.”

“Well, praise the Lord,” she said sarcastically. “It's about time Eve's criminal record got expunged.”

“Anyhow, after the Fall, he—Mike, not the Lord—veered off into evolutionary biology and primate behavior. Male aggression, territorialism, competition for mates, mate guarding. He knows more zoology than I do. Then we got into psychology and cultural anthropology and sociology and politics: patriarchies, matriarchies, oligarchies, preserving the power structure . . .”

“All right, you win,” she sighed, popping the plate in the microwave and tapping the one-minute button. “I should've let you stop with ‘It's complicated.' But did it make you feel better, wandering down those trails with him?”

“Kinda,” I hedged. “But he didn't really answer the question. Like I said—and like
he
said—it's complicated.”

“No it's not,” she said.

“Wait—you just
agreed
that it was complicated.”

“I agreed that his
answer
was complicated,” she said. “But
my
answer's simple.” I stared at her. “Men treat women like shit for the same reason they treat children or animals like shit: Because they
can
. It's a power trip. ‘I'll feel stronger and better if I prove that you're weaker,' right?”

“Well . . .”

“Every guy wants to be the big man on campus,” she went on. “Bed the prettiest women;
breed
with the prettiest woman. It's like a pride of lions. If you're not the big lion—if you're only a medium-sized lion—you take it out on the little lions. Men like that would probably rather be shits to other men, but they can't be, so they're shits to women and children and animals.”

Kathleen's blunt gloss on the issue lacked the intellectual nuance of Reverend Mike's—no detours down scenic side trails of theology and sociology and anthropology—but what it lacked in sophistication, it made up for in ringing clarity. “So you're saying it all comes down to pecking order?”

“No. I'm saying it all comes down to
pecker
order; pecker size. Men who treat women badly are men with small peckers—metaphorically, at least. Probably literally, too.”

I laughed, mildly shocked but mightily impressed. “Next time Mike needs a guest preacher, you should fill the pulpit. The congregation would get some straight talk. And they'd get to Calhoun's half an hour before the Baptists.” She smiled. “But now I'm puzzled about something else. If Mike didn't answer the question, how come I came out of there feeling so much better?”

“That's easy, too,” she said. “It's in the Gospel According to James.”

“James? There
isn't
a Gospel According to James.” I ticked off the four gospel writers: “Matthew, Mark, Luke, John.”

“I'm talking about the Gospel According to James Taylor.”

“James Taylor? The folksinger?”

“Folksinger and prophet of the human heart. ‘Shower the People'?” She wagged a finger at me and began to sing. “Once you tell somebody the way that you feel, you can feel it beginning to ease.” She cocked her head. “Right? Isn't that why you feel better?”

“Crap, Kathleen. How'd you get to be so much smarter than I am?”

“Not just smarter,” she said. “
Wiser
. It's a woman thing.” She tapped her belly with an index finger. “It's the uterus. It gives us superpowers of wisdom and insight.” Without looking, she reached behind her back and popped the door of the microwave, cutting off the timer a nanosecond before it began its annoying beeps. “Want salad?” I shook my head. She set the plate down in front of me, singing, “Better to shower the people you love with love, show them the way you feel . . .”

The steak smelled gloriously of mesquite smoke and marinade, as if it had only that moment been lifted off the grill. Rich, reddish-brown juice seeped from the seared meat, pooling beneath the crisp potatoes. “Perfect,” I said. “Thank you.”