Except for the Bones (3 page)

Slowly, the police car cruised by as the spotlight switched off. But Joe would be back. On a quiet Sunday night in July, with the weekenders gone, Joe would have plenty of time for them.

“Fucking pervert,” Diane muttered. “He’s played grab-ass with about every girl in town.”

“Tell me about it.” He popped open a fresh can of beer, drank, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Give somebody a gun and a badge, and then watch out.” As she spoke, she drew away from him, reached for the ignition key.

“Where’re we going?”

“We’re going to Daniels’s place. I already told you that.”

“But someone’s there.”

“No one’s there. Believe me, no one’s there.” She started the car, put it in gear, began to drive. She drove slowly, carefully.

“Two or three hours ago, I was making a delivery out there. I saw a light at your place. And their Cherokee was in the carport.”

“Bullshit. He’s in Atlanta this weekend. Business. And my mother’s in New York. I just left her there.”

“Okay. See for yourself.” Leaning back in the seat, feeling the soft, easy warmth of the Quaaludes begin to flow, he was aware of his own cool, controlled power: the man with the right words, the right moves, everything covered.

“How long were you in Europe?” he asked. “A month?” Yes, his timing was perfect: low-down and lazy, Bogey on the late show, so calm, so cool.

“A month. Right. Give or take.”

“Yeah, well, the reason I asked, your dad—your stepfather, excuse me very much—he’s got a girlfriend. Did you know that he’s got a girlfriend?”

Bitterly, she laughed. “That’s new? Christ, just read the gossip columns, why don’t you? Read the fucking
National Enquirer.”

“But this girlfriend isn’t in the
National Enquirer.
This girlfriend is out at your place.” Still watching her, he let the words hang there, power plus power, old Bogey, bringing them along. Then, easy and slow and soft: “I’d bet fifty dollars she’s at your place. Right now. Right this minute. I bet fifty dollars she and your dad—your stepfather, excuse me very much—I bet they came in Saturday night, in his airplane. And I bet—”

“Jesus—” Suddenly smiling at him, the heat turned up high, she pressed down on the accelerator, sent the car surging ahead.

“Now what?”

“Now what?” It was a hot, tight question. Her smile was wide, her eyes suddenly wild. “Now it’s trick-or-treat time, that’s what. It’s Halloween in July.”

He smiled, settled back, let himself go slack. Diane could hit the high spots, no question. Drunk or sober, up or down, there wasn’t anything Diane wouldn’t do, even before someone dared her.

S
UDDENLY DIZZY, NAUSEATED, THE
bile rising in his throat, Daniels dropped to his knees beside the body, lowered his head, closed his eyes. He must breathe deeply, mind over matter. Because if he lost control, everything ended. Here, now, he was alone: himself struggling to master himself, his only hope.

Please God, himself the master of himself.

Born alone, destined to die alone, those were the givens. But if that was the game, then where was the justice? Because the
Forbes
biography made him more vulnerable, not less. Everyone yearned to see the mighty fall.

So fate had stalked him, finally cornered him here in this empty house. Forced him to kneel beside her body, the penitent to his own terror.

Cautiously, he opened his eyes, raised his head.

Could he do it?

Could he touch that cold flesh again? Could he roll her onto the blanket, cover her carefully, then truss the bundle up with the rope he’d found in the carport, an unexpected boon?

Yes, he could do it. If he could raise his head, clear his throat, blink his eyes back into focus, then he could do it.

Soon it would be midnight. Almost three hours since he’d placed the envelope with the check inside on the arm of the sofa. It was a scene he’d often played before; he’d had no doubt of the outcome. Angry words, a few tears, a brave show of anger before the envelope disappeared into her purse and the exit lines began.

Cautiously, fearful that he might gag, he cleared his throat. Yes, the nausea had passed. Signifying that he could begin.

A
HEAD, SHE RECOGNIZED THE
turn of the road that would reveal the beach house, see and be seen.

No, not see and be seen. Just see.
I spy,
a game for children.

Meaning that,
I spy,
she must pull off the narrow blacktop road, switch off the headlights, switch off the engine, make sure the transmission was in gear.

All done. To think through it was to do it unconsciously, her mind in control, leaving her body to soar.

I spy time.

Had she said it, or only thought it?

“Why’re we parking here?” he asked.

Meaning that she hadn’t said it, hadn’t said the words aloud. Meaning that she must turn to him, smile, reach across him for the door latch while she said, “It’s I spy time. All out.” She swung the door open. “Alley-oop.”

Alley-oop.
It was another phrase from childhood. When her dad lifted her off her feet, swung her high above his head, he always said
Alley-oop.
Laughing. Always laughing.

I spy. Alley-oop.
Leftovers from childhood. Were there more? Was life one big leftover?

“I spy,” Jeff repeated, mumbling the words. Laughing. Eyes empty. Stoned.

“Come on.” She swung her legs out of the car, stumbled, recovered, pushed the door shut. “I spy.”

Just ahead, through the knee-high cut grass, a sandy footpath led from the road down to the beach. As she descended, her feet sank into the sand, another childhood memory. But not this sand, not Cape Cod sand. California sand, the beach at San Francisco. She and her father,
Alley-oop.
And her mother, too. Even her mother, then. They’d—

From behind her, Jeff swore softly. Had he stumbled? Was Jeff surefooted? His father was gone, too. Long gone, killed in a motorcycle accident.
Alley-oop.

On the beach now, walking in deeper sand, she watched the ridge of low dunes to her left. From beyond that ridge, she could see the beach house. Preston Daniels’s beach house. All glass and natural cypress and stone, once featured in
Architectural Digest,
a big spread. Yes, now she could see the whole house. Part of it was cantilevered out toward the ocean, built on concrete piers. In the living room, light glowed golden behind drawn drapes. And in the carport, she saw the outline of the Jeep Cherokee. The BMW and the Cherokee were the two cars she most liked to drive.

She was standing motionless in the sand, looking at the house. With a can of beer in each hand, Jeff was standing beside her.

“Here.” He handed her a beer. Then: “See, he’s in there, just like I said. With his girlfriend, sure as hell.”

Still staring at the house, she sipped the beer. Should she go back to the car, pop a Xanax? Should she have locked the car, if the Xanax was in there? Insurance would take care of the BMW. But who would take care of the Xanax?

Trick or treat.

I spy.

Which game were they playing? Why? What was the penalty, what was the prize?

Preston Daniels, surprised. The thought was the prize.
I spy.

She was walking up toward the house. Opening on the flagstone patio, the front door was on the left side of the house, with the carport beyond. The cantilevered deck faced the ocean. When she reached the patio, she could see into the living area. She could—

The front door was opening. Wearing jeans and a sweater, Daniels was framed in the pale oblong of light. Mr. Perfection: tall, wide shoulders, narrow waist, a movie star’s profile. Slowly, cautiously, she dropped to her knees in the sand. Beside her, Jeff was kneeling, too. Could they be seen, silhouetted against the phosphorescence of the surf? There was no moon. Meaning that—

Warily, as if something had alerted him to danger, Daniels was closing the door behind himself. He was standing motionless on the patio, his whole body tense.

Preston Daniels, frightened.

Jeff shifted irritably. “What’re we—?”

“Shhh,”
she hissed.

Daniels was striding across the patio to the carport. Now he disappeared, cut off by the corner of the house.

“Why don’t we—”

“Shhh.
Shut the fuck up, will you? I want to—”

Suddenly Daniels reappeared. Striding quickly, he was carrying a gardening tool—a shovel. With the shovel in his left hand, he went to the tailgate of the Cherokee. He unlocked the tailgate, raised it. The courtesy light came on, revealing the interior of the station wagon, the rear seat folded down. With the handle of the shovel, Daniels struck up at the Jeep’s headliner. One blow. Two. With the third blow, the interior went dark. Faintly, metal clanged against metal as Daniels slid the shovel inside the car.

“He broke out the light.”

“Shhh. Wait.”

Moving erratically now, as if he’d suddenly lost his arrogance, Daniels was striding from the carport to the front door. He opened the door, stepped quickly inside the house. His shadow crossed the curtains drawn across the entryway windows. The shadow moved toward the living room.

“So now what?” About to rise, Jeff gathered himself. “What’d you—”

“Wait. Get down.” Urgently, she pulled on his forearm. “He—he’s acting weird.”

“Weird, huh?” Grunting, Jeff sank down beside her, sat on the sand with his back to the beach house, drank from his can of beer. He’d lost interest.

O
N BOTH KNEES, DANIELS
pushed on Carolyn’s limp, sickeningly floppy corpse until she lay facedown on the Persian rug. Breathing hard, he felt for her waist.

Her
waist?

Or
its
waist?

She’d been dead for almost three hours. When did a dead body become an object, no longer a person?

He locked his hands together beneath her waist, heaved, managed to lift the jackknifed body almost to his shoulder level as he knelt. But her head and her feet still touched the floor; he hadn’t the leverage to lift her clear of the floor. Panting now, he shifted his grip, tried again. It was worse, not better. And the rope was slipping, allowing one of her hands to escape the blanket. He lowered the bundle to the floor again, straightened, felt for her head inside the blanket, felt for her shoulders, then her armpits. He crouched, heaved, began pulling her toward the entryway.

Even as a child, he’d never been strong in the upper body. His legs had been strong; in prep school he’d run the fifty-yard dash. But he’d never been able to chin himself more than a few times, and push-ups had always been a problem.

And now—here and now, at age fifty-five—his upper body weakness could cost him. Cost him dearly.

Cost him everything.

A
BOUT TO DRINK FROM
the beer can, the last of it, Diane saw the front door open again. But this time there was no oblong of light. Moments before, the house had suddenly gone dark.

If they came out together, Daniels and his girlfriend, she would run to the BMW, parked just over the dunes. Whichever way they went in the Jeep, she could follow them, trick or treat, I spy. If Jeff moved fast enough, got himself together, he could come. Otherwise, he could walk back to town. He could—

Dimly framed again in the darkened open doorway, Daniels was crouched, dragging some secret burden, just coming into view: a strange, amorphous shape, wrapped, trussed. Responding to something elemental, Diane drew back down the slope of the dune, until only her head showed above the crest. Beside her, Jeff stirred, twisted to face the house.

“What—?”

“Shhh.”
Roughly, she grasped his shirt, pulled him down. “Shut up,” she hissed, her eyes fixed on the patio. Now Daniels was gently lowering his burden until it lay flat on the flagstones. He strode quickly to the front door, closed it, tested it carefully, then returned to the bundle. He bent double, found a grip, braced himself, began dragging the deadweight across the patio toward the carport.

Deadweight …

“Jesus,” Jeff breathed, “what’s that, do you think?”

“It’s a—” Her throat closed. Then, in a half-strangled whisper, “I think it’s a body. It looks like a dead body.”

And, as she spoke, the wrapping parted. Something white protruded: a hand, a forearm, dragging on the flagstones.

“Oh, Jesus,” Jeff whispered. “Oh, God.” His voice was hushed, awed. Then, differently: “Wow.”

T
HE RIGHT FRONT WHEEL
struck the shoulder of the road; the BMW tilted sharply. She jerked the steering wheel hard left, lifted her foot from the accelerator.

“Jesus, watch it. Or pull over, let me drive. I know the road. If you don’t switch on the headlights, you should let me—”

“Shut up. Just shut up.” Ahead, in the darkness, on the narrow, deserted blacktop road that wound inland, she could just make out the shape of the Cherokee as it topped a rise a half mile ahead. The Jeep, too, was running without lights. Preston Daniels, rich and powerful and famous, running without lights, furtive as a thief in the night. With the thought came quick-cut flashes of other images: Preston Daniels, granting interviews. Preston Daniels, at ease in his private airplane.

Preston Daniels, looking at her with that particular smile meant only for her; pitying her, patronizing her.

Despising her.

And now, on the road ahead, he was—

“She must’ve OD’d,” Jeff was saying, his voice tight and strange. “That’s what must’ve happened. I bet she OD’d, and he’s freaking out. That’s gotta be it. Someone like that, all that money, famous, if she OD’d, what’s he going to do? Someone like that, he can’t afford to—”

“Shut up, will you? Will you just try and—”

Ahead, atop another low rise in the road, twin red lights winked. Once. Twice. Stoplights. He was slowing, turning to the right now.

“Look—” Also braking, she pointed.