Except for the Bones (5 page)

“I’ll talk to her. Yes.”

“Thank you.”

“Gotta go. Love you.” It was their standard wind-up line, now even more meaningless, more grotesque. Millicent, worrying about a college report card. Him, struggling for survival, fighting for freedom itself. At the thought, the instant’s image of a barred prison door suddenly seared his consciousness.

Automatically, he pressed the call-waiting button. “Yes?”

“Mr. Daniels. Are you weathered in?” It was Jackie, tactfully giving him room to maneuver. Did Jackie know about Carolyn? Did she suspect? Yes, almost certainly Jackie suspected. She and Kane, his accomplices. Price tag: a hundred fifty thousand for Jackie, seventy-five for Kane. Checkbook loyalty. Was there any other kind?

“No—no,” he answered, “it’s not the weather. But there’s—Bruce says there’s a radio problem on the airplane. A backup radio, nothing serious. But it’ll be two hours, probably, before I can get out of here. You’d better reschedule everything for a two o’clock start, and I’ll keep you updated. Anyone I should call in the meantime?”

“Kent Williams, on his refinancing package?”

“I should, Jackie. But I’m going to ask you to do it. If he can’t stay in New York beyond, say, four o’clock, then tell him I’ll come out to Los Angeles in the next two days. Tell him we’ve only got the last inch to go, assuming the interest rates behave. Charm him.”

“I’ll try—” She made no effort to disguise her disapproval. So it was happening. Beginning with the change in Jackie’s voice, it was already happening. Henceforth, she would be watching. Covertly watching. A hundred fifty thousand, after all, was finite; it only bought so much.

“I’m sorry, Jackie. I’ve—there’s something I’ve got to handle, up here. A family problem.” He considered, then decided to say, “It’s Diane. I just got off the phone with Millie.”

“Ah—” Now her inflection suggested a reprieve, a reservation of judgment.

When was the last time he’d apologized—to anyone?

“Okay?” he asked. It was, essentially, another apology, a muted plea.

“Sure. See you about two.” She hesitated. “Good luck.”

“Yes. Thanks.”

A
S KANE SWITCHED OFF
the Buick’s ignition and set the hand brake he saw Steve, the line boy, waving to him through the window of the airport office, then holding his hand to his ear: a telephone call. Without doubt, Daniels.

Pocketing his car keys and checking another pocket for the keys to the airplane, Kane nodded, hurried into the office. As he picked up the telephone Kane turned to look at the flight line. Yes, it was there, parked between a Lear Jet and a Falcon: Daniels’s Beechcraft Super King Air, one of the best, most stable, most trouble-free airplanes he’d ever flown. For Daniels, nothing less was acceptable.

“Hello?”

“You’re back. Any problems?” Daniels asked.

“No. The weather wasn’t the best. But it wasn’t the worst, either.”

“On the tape, you didn’t give the hour you came back.”

“It was almost three o’clock.” He gave it a disapproving sound. The status of pilots, after all, differed from other employees. On the pilot’s skill, everything depended.

“Can we be ready to go at noon?” Daniels was asking.

“I’ll have to check the weather and the notams, but it should be all right. If not, I’ll call you.”

“Is La Guardia possible?”

“Probably not. By the time I got the flight plan cleared, we could’ve already landed at Westboro.”

“You can plan on picking me up here at—” Daniels broke off. Then: “No, I’ll drive out to the airport. I’ll take the Cherokee.”

“Will you and—” Meaningfully, Kane let a beat pass. Which would profit him the most: “Miss Estes,” the approved greeting—or “Carolyn,” the high-risk choice? If he ever caught Carolyn just right, a few drinks downwind, stranded by Daniels in just the right circumstances, he knew he could have her. Once, joking, they’d talked about the mile-high club, he and Carolyn. Get in the Beechcraft, fly out over the ocean, put the goddamn airplane on autopilot. Meaning that he and Preston Daniels would be partners in—

“It’ll be me. Just me.” Abruptly, the line went dead. As Kane cradled the telephone, he heard someone calling his name. Still warmed by the fantasy—he and Carolyn and the Beechcraft over the ocean, naked on Daniels’s own couch—he was smiling as he turned to face Steve, the line boy.

“Here.” Steve extended a plain white envelope. “This is for Mr. Daniels. Can I give it to you?”

“Sure.” He looked down at the flimsy envelope with “Mr. Daniels” printed in adolescent block letters. Inside, he could feel a single sheet of paper. “Who’s it from?”

“A guy named Jeff Weston left it. He and his mother run the dry cleaners in Carter’s Landing. I don’t know whether it’s from him, or whether he just dropped it off.”

Kane shrugged, and slipped the envelope into the outside pocket of his chart case. Then: “Put some Jet A in the Beechcraft. Fifty gallons in each side.”

“Now?”

“Of course, now.”

I
N SUCCESSIVE FOLDS, HE
began turning back the Persian rug, working from one edge toward the stone slab table. First the rug, then the pad.

An hour remained. Only an hour before he must close up the house, draw the drapes, lock the door, set the alarm, test it, get in the Cherokee, drive to the airport. The hardware store hadn’t opened until ten minutes after ten o’clock. When the proprietor had finally arrived, ten minutes late, he’d—

Yes, there it was: the polyfoam rug pad, stained with her urine. He gritted his teeth, drew a last long, deep breath, then folded the rug one final time, draping it over the coffee table. Revealing—yes—the bloodstains on the pad, already darkening. He stepped clear, grasped the pad, doubled it back over the rug—

—revealing two corresponding stains, darkening the oak floor beneath the pad: one stain the blood, one the urine.

Quickly, he unwrapped the flimsy plastic drop cloth he’d bought at the hardware store. He folded the drop cloth, refolded it, covered the stains on the floor. A moment later the pad was back in place, and the rug, covering it. He reached for the bottle of 409 Spray Cleaner and began spraying the two stains.

D
IANE DROPPED THE KEY
on the counter, left the motel office, walked to the BMW. Overhead, the last of the fog was burning off. As the sun grew brighter, the memories of last night’s shadowy menace were fading. The booze, the pills—the shape wrapped in the blanket—how much was real, how much unreal? How much imagined?

During spring break, only a few months ago, she’d thought she was in love with Jeff. Now they were strangers. When he’d left the motel room she’d showered, let the hot water cascade over her for a long, long time. Millions of years ago, life had moved out of the sea to the seashore, freshman zoology. Was that why water could comfort, could heal?

Was that why some returned to the water one last time?

San Francisco, some said, was the last stop for suicides. There was only the ocean left. The ocean, and the bridge. Always the Golden Gate Bridge, one final touch of class, never the Bay Bridge. Sometimes the bodies were never recovered. Sometimes the sharks got to them before the bodies could fill with gas and bloat, rising to the surface.

She opened the BMW’s door, got in behind the wheel, closed her eyes, let her head fall back against the seat.

Preston Daniels, tycoon.

Preston Daniels, murderer.

He’d brought his girlfriend to Carter’s Landing the night before last. And last night he’d killed her.

And only she knew. She and Jeff Weston, the man she’d once thought she loved, a stranger now. Leaving only her. Here. Now. Alone. Once more—still—alone, unaccountably numbed by the incarnation of her boldest fantasies: confronting Preston Daniels, destroying him. How many times had she lain sleepless in the night, imagining herself confronting both Daniels and her mother? She’d sometimes made herself sob, imagining the scene: the tragic adolescent at bay, desperate and yet fearless, vulnerable and yet invincible, herself the creator of herself.

The scenes always began differently—but the ending never varied. She’d found proof of Daniels’s infidelities: pictures, taken with her own telephoto lens, recordings, made with her own tape recorder. Out of pride, her mother would have no choice. She would call her lawyer. Then she would call her travel agent. She would reserve two tickets, first class, on the next flight to San Francisco.

They’d been married three years, Daniels and her mother. Before that, her mother and father had been married for fifteen years. When they told her they were divorcing, they’d taken her for lunch to the Saint Francis. She’d had her fourteenth birthday only the week before. She’d fantasized that her parents had planned to invite her to lunch and give her a very special present, something that had arrived late.

And then, after the waiter brought the main course, they’d told her. It had been her father, really. Her mother had just sat across the table, expressionless, watching her. They weren’t in love anymore, her father had said. His face had been stricken, his voice choked. Yes, of course, she and her mother would live in San Francisco.

But a year later, they were living in New York. She’d been fifteen and a half. At the thought, she grimaced. She’d still been so young that she counted her age in half-years.

And now she was eighteen. Incredibly, the fantasies were materializing. One word from her—one call to the police—and they would pay.

D
ANIELS HANDED HIS ATTACHé
case and his jacket to Kane, then climbed the air stairs to the Beechcraft’s cabin.

“All set?” He was satisfied with his voice: calm and crisp, in control. In part, he knew, it was the clothes: pinstripes, white shirt, a club tie, shoes from Savile Row. The uniform. As he’d taken off his jeans and sweatshirt and running shoes and began dressing for New York, he’d felt confidence returning.

“All set.” Kane pulled up the air stairs, latched the door closed, carefully tested the closure. “Are you going to sit up front?”

Daniels shook his head. “No, thanks. Things to do.” He put his attaché case on the floor beside the small conference table, sank into the forward-facing chair beside the table, and fastened his seat belt. An envelope addressed to him in crude block letters lay on the table. He gestured to the letter. “What’s that?”

“A kid from town left it at the airport office for you, apparently. His mother runs the dry-cleaning shop. Or so I understand.” Then: “Ready to go?”

Daniels nodded. “Ready.” He watched Kane go forward and slip into the pilot’s seat. Kane settled himself, buckled up, propped the preflight checklist on the glare shield; began flicking switches, adjusting dials, testing controls, methodically bringing the twin turboprop to life. As the energizer began to whine and the starboard propeller began to rotate, Daniels slit open the envelope. It was a dime-store envelope and contained a single sheet of cheap paper:

Mr. Daniels:

I saw you at your house last night about midnight. I saw what you did. I also saw where you went in your Cherokee, if you know what I mean. I will wait and talk to you before I talk to the police, but I cannot wait long. There was someone with me who saw the whole thing too. So don’t do anything foolish.

Sincerely yours

Jeff Weston

(508) 645-1862

P.S. I know how famous you are, so you could call yourself Mr. Davis, when you telephone me.

As he finished the letter the whine of the engines rose, the airplane began to move. Daniels returned the letter to its envelope. He reached for his attaché case. It contained documents that, if compromised, could cost a fortune.

The letter, revealed, could cost him everything.

I
T WAS AS IF
the car were responding to some surreal internal guidance, as if it were carrying her along Route 195 independent of her own volition. They were going to New York, she and the BMW. They were going home. No, not home. They were going to 720 Park Avenue, where her mother and Preston Daniels and two servants lived—and where she, too, had a room.

But home was San Francisco. Home was the house on Sacramento Street, and her room that overlooked the rear garden.

Except that the house on Sacramento had been sold soon after she and her mother moved to New York. He’d had to sell the house, her father had tried to explain, because her mother’s father had loaned them the money for the down payment. And he wanted his money back.

Always, it came down to her mother. Her mother had wanted a divorce so she could marry Daniels. Because of her mother, strangers now lived in the house on Sacramento Street.

And because of her mother, she and the BMW were traveling west on Route 195, bound for New York.

A few words from an emperor, she’d once read, could change the fate of the world.

A few words from her, and the emperor would topple from his throne, all fall down.

The emperor and his wife. All fall down.

D
ANIELS OPENED HIS WALLET
, withdrew a small slip of folded paper that occupied its own pocket in the wallet. Half of one side of the paper was covered with a handwritten series of letters and numbers, meaningless to anyone but him. Ballpoint pen in hand, he unfolded the slip of paper, spread it on the table beside Jeff Weston’s letter. Adjusting the pen, he considered for a moment, then carefully printed
JW 645-1862 BM.

BM,
designating blackmail.

He folded the slip of paper, put it in the wallet. Now he began tearing the letter into very small pieces, which he put in a compartment of the attaché case. He closed the case, locked it, placed it on the floor of the airplane. Soon, they would land at Westboro. Even if he could concentrate, there was no time now to work. Instead, he must focus on controlling his consciousness, preparing himself to make the next decision—and the next.