Only Flesh and Bones (30 page)
Read Only Flesh and Bones Online
Authors: Sarah Andrews
Ten minutes later, I slipped the tiny plane into the downwind line of landing aircraft traffic between a Delta Airlines jet and a Beechcraft Baron, not even bothering to call the unicorn frequency.
What the heck,
I told myself.
My radio doesn’t work, this ain’t no control-tower airport, and I can sure see better’n I could twenty minutes ago.
What the heck,
I told myself.
My radio doesn’t work, this ain’t no control-tower airport, and I can sure see better’n I could twenty minutes ago.
I banked left and left again, turning base and final, running out the flaps. I slowed to sixty, then fifty-five, dropped the little plane gently onto the numbers at the end of the runway, rolled a third of the way down the strip until the first exit onto the taxiway, pulled off, set the brake, and bawled.
I
stood on the walkway in front of the rambling rose Bed-and-Breakfast Inn, my knees still weak, my hands trembling slightly even though thrust deep into my pockets. I felt poised on the threshold between heaven and hell, no longer sure which way was which. I needed to be near people in this aftermath of almost dying, to step resolutely back into a world of normalcy, where I could walk up the steps of a harmless-looking inn and in fact find no harm there.
stood on the walkway in front of the rambling rose Bed-and-Breakfast Inn, my knees still weak, my hands trembling slightly even though thrust deep into my pockets. I felt poised on the threshold between heaven and hell, no longer sure which way was which. I needed to be near people in this aftermath of almost dying, to step resolutely back into a world of normalcy, where I could walk up the steps of a harmless-looking inn and in fact find no harm there.
It was, after all, just a quaint Victorian house painted yellow, no doubt a fitting backdrop to the vigorous climbing roses whose winter-naked canes twined through dark green trellises along the front. In my heightened sense of nerves, I imagined the blaze of color that would greet visitors in the summertime, could almost smell the perfume that would fill the air when the last snows had melted off the slopes and the leaves and buds had burst forth for another season’s luring of the bees.
My mind dwelt in the shadows, hopelessly removed from the bucolic image it beheld. And found something next to this in that place of shadows, a deep and basic need, a motivation to rebel against nature. It urged me to break even further away from the sanity and safety of the herd, to move down into the coldness and mystery of the night, to be the woman I was at last.
Inside this house waited a man who knew about the dark.
Ortega was but a distant memory, a sentinel left behind on the surface. I was underground, bedeviled by the illusion of daylight.
I thought of Miriam, who loved to be touched. What had she learned in her hours of ecstasy?
A distant voice tried to remind me that the man inside this house was a monster, a predator who preyed on women and even girls like a cougar stalked sick sheep.
So what am I,
asked a voice within me that knew a new candor,
healthy?
With resignation, I moved my feet down that walkway toward the inn.
asked a voice within me that knew a new candor,
healthy?
With resignation, I moved my feet down that walkway toward the inn.
The front door stood open to the fresh-smelling breeze that had followed the rain. With a sigh, I let myself in, and found myself confronted immediately with the temptation of the registration calendar, which lay open on an antique desk. Reaching out a hand, I flipped through it, discovering that it went back only to the first of the year. I needed further back. Crossing fingers that still wobbled slightly from the stresses I now raced to escape, I silently eased open the drawer beneath it.
“What you lookin’ for, darlin’?” asked a hearty female voice, the voice I had heard the day before on the phone. I didn’t even jump. There wasn’t enough adrenaline left in me. Instead, I just felt slightly dizzy. Looking up, I found myself confronted by the smiling but curious innkeeper. She was a middle-aged woman, dressed that day in soft gabardine slacks and a loose white tab-collared shirt, its tails hanging out underneath a long vest, the better to artistically drape a spreading waist. She was petite and had dark curly hair cut close to her face.
“Uh, trying to see if a friend of mine was here last August.”
“August what?”
“Oh, around the third.”
She laughed. “No one here but me and your friend Chandler,” she said. When my eyes flew wide in surprise, she added, “I recognize your voice. And that’s an easy date to remember. It was my birthday. Right in the middle of the tourist season, but I always close that day, or at least for guests who don’t stay as long as he does. Chandler’s in the
parlor,” she added, and disappeared into the dining room.
parlor,” she added, and disappeared into the dining room.
I looked sharply into the space where she had stood. Even through my mental fog, I could hear that the alibi had come quickly, easily. Could I believe it?
I turned and pushed the French doors, which opened to my left. It was time to find out.
I found Chandler as a blind person locates the fireplace in a cold room—following the heat. The jittery sense of exhaustion I felt now rose, gripping my throat. My heart began to cannon.
Over there …
closer … I turned toward the windows, excitement ripping at me like the flood that races suddenly down a dry creek bed carrying mud and the artillery of stones.
Over there …
closer … I turned toward the windows, excitement ripping at me like the flood that races suddenly down a dry creek bed carrying mud and the artillery of stones.
I saw his legs first—long, well-muscled and limber, like an athlete’s, and enshrouded in corduroy trousers that draped just so. They were crossed lazily one over the other, sprawling lavishly off the front of an overstuffed chair sumptuously upholstered in cabbage roses. His long feet were dressed in gray woolly socks and a well-worn pair of deck shoes, even though he was about as far from an ocean as one can get in the United States. The rest of him, save for his large, broad fingertips, was screened from my view by the newspaper he was reading. But it had to be him.
The newspaper folded and snapped shut as he laid it across his lap and lengthened his gaze to take me in, just as if he’d been waiting for me to arrive. He smiled, a wolfish, half-crazy glow lighting his broad-boned face as the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled with the quickness of the easily merry.
The eyes themselves were a pale greenish gray, like the mist that spins across a lake just before morning. But unlike the dawn lake, they were not calm, but crazy. Totally mad. Alive in some other universe. And looking straight at and inside me, as if I were a cage and the mouse he wanted to catch was in there hiding.
His lips moved beneath his rich brush mustache. “Who might you be?” he asked.
“Em,” I said foolishly.
“Great.”
“Hansen.”
“Better yet.”
I looked down quickly at my hands. They were trembling again, visibly. I was certain he could see it even from across the room. I forced myself to look him in the eye. “I’ve been looking for you.”
His eyebrows flicked upward in ardent surprise, like a hungry gourmet finding that the wayside restaurant is not only open but serving delicacies. He got up from the chair, rising as a slow series of unwinding S curves, dropping the newspaper on the floor, stretching his arms above his head until his shirttail pulled free a bit at the waist, revealing a finely muscled abdomen covered with soft, smooth skin dappled with golden brown hairs. Exalting for a moment in the pleasure of his stretch, he closed his eyes and sighed. Lowered his arms, let them swing at his sides, totally relaxed. “Mmmm,” he purred, “looks like you’ve found me.”
“I—”
“Want something to drink, Em Hansen? The house stocks tea and coffee, but I know where they keep the beer.”
“No. I—”
He strode past me, brushing my arm as he did so, and I had to rock my head back to take in his height. Six four at least, a good two hundred pounds of muscle and grace. When he was almost out of reach, he swung an arm backward almost as an afterthought and caught my hand, spinning me around to follow him, and murmured, “This way to the goodies.”
I stumbled awkwardly behind him through a catchment of narrowing hallways and into the kitchen. We settled at either side of a round oak table, he swilling a beer, I chewing nervously at a date from the dish that rested invitingly in the middle of a lace doily between us. “So, Em Hansen,” he purred. “You’ve found me. Now tell me: was I lost?”
I was just about to launch into some stupid explanation of how no, he was right where he was, I was sure, when I
realized that the wide-eyed gaze he had fixed on me was his version of a playful grin. “No, I don’t suppose so.”
realized that the wide-eyed gaze he had fixed on me was his version of a playful grin. “No, I don’t suppose so.”
“Then perhaps it’s you who were lost.”
“I—” Huh? “Sure,” I volleyed, going along with the insanity of his speech. As fear melted into the relative peace of confusion, I thought,
When in Rome, right?
“Yeah, I’ve been totally lost for about a year now,” I said, more candidly than I’d intended, “and it’s been the pits.”
When in Rome, right?
“Yeah, I’ve been totally lost for about a year now,” I said, more candidly than I’d intended, “and it’s been the pits.”
“Tell me more.”
“Me?”
“Who else?”
I stared into his eyes. They were hypnotic, yes, but what fascinated me was the particular elements that conspired to make them so: I had the sense that whatever lived behind them was both hurtling toward me and escaping me at the same instant.
This is what makes charisma,
I thought dully, and without meaning to, I began to speak again. “It’s the usual story, I suppose. Out of work, father died last summer, mom took over the ranch—
but what in hell am I telling you this for!”
I jumped up from the table, started to back away into the common room nearer the front door.
This is what makes charisma,
I thought dully, and without meaning to, I began to speak again. “It’s the usual story, I suppose. Out of work, father died last summer, mom took over the ranch—
but what in hell am I telling you this for!”
I jumped up from the table, started to back away into the common room nearer the front door.
Chandler calmly took another swig of his beer, then put it down on the lace doily in the center of the table and rose to his feet. “Of course. You’re tired. Long trip? How far did you come today?”
How the hell did he know I didn’t live in Jackson? I didn’t answer.
“No matter,” he said soothingly, looking away so that the intensity of his gaze no longer disturbed me. “We’ll take my car. It’s parked out back here. Just let me get my coat.” As he started to move out of the kitchen, he spun quickly back, looking on me with anxiety stitching his brow. “Don’t go away. Really. My car’s out back there. It’s the—”
“Gold BMW. Needs a tune-up.”
His invasive grin returned. “Yeah.”
I braced myself against the doorjamb, trying to sort out
what it was I thought I was going to get from his human whirlwind.
what it was I thought I was going to get from his human whirlwind.
He didn’t leave me time to think. He was gone just an instant, returning with a dark brown suede jacket draped softly over one broad shoulder. Planting one enormous hand against the small of my back, he steered me out the back door to his car. What flashed through my mind was:
Don’t let him out of your sight. The boys from Saratoga might not know where to find him, but let’s not give him a chance to tell them where to find me.
Don’t let him out of your sight. The boys from Saratoga might not know where to find him, but let’s not give him a chance to tell them where to find me.
“Can’t we walk?” I asked, my mind focusing enough to remind me not to get into a car with this man. Better off on Jackson’s still-icy sidewalks, in broad daylight in the middle of the town, where I could call for help if needed.
“Anything you say, Em Hansen.”
We walked (I almost running to keep up with his enormous strides) about half a mile to a pub run by the Snake River Brewery. It was a two-story deconstructionist modern job with all sorts of metal beams and glass and most of the ground floor open clear to the roof. Chandler rocked his head back to appraise the balcony seating, then showed me to a table up there. From this lofty perch, we looked inward to the brewing vats and downward onto the heads of the assembled swells, who sat sipping their porters and ales and munching on succulent-looking appetizers. Everyone seemed too relaxed, too unaware that I had so recently been awash in the fetid breath of eternity. Couldn’t they smell it on my skin? I felt lost and confused, relieved to have gotten there alive but uncertain where I now was. The subtle aromas of someone’s dinner met my nostrils, and I began to shake. It hit me all at once that I hadn’t eaten since dawn.
Chandler ordered us each a Snake River ale, recommended the pasta special as “Always the way to go,” and settled down to filter foam through his mustache. He waited for me to speak.
“Listen,” I began, trying to sip at my water rather than swill my beer on an empty stomach, “I came here to ask you about someone we know … ah, knew in common. Or
at least, I think you knew her. I only just met her—” I stopped, realizing what little sense I was making, “I’m talking about Miriam Menken.”
at least, I think you knew her. I only just met her—” I stopped, realizing what little sense I was making, “I’m talking about Miriam Menken.”
Chandler’s eyes went blank, the way a cat’s do when it realizes you’re playing for keeps. For a moment, I was afraid he’d get up and leave, or that he was already in some sense gone. “Miriam …” He whispered her name as if trying to remember the melody to a half-forgotten song.
“Yeah, Miriam Menken. I guess you, ah, knew her in college as Miriam Benner,” I said, trying as always to be diplomatic.
“Yes, of course.” He glanced right and left, then back at me, his eyes shining with moisture.
Embarrassed at the sight of such obvious emotion in a grown man, I said, “Well, you see, I’m a friend of the family’s, and I’ve been trying to learn some things about her, and—”
Chandler suddenly leaned toward me across the table, almost a lunge and grabbed my nearest hand. “No. First you have to tell me about you.”
Me?
I almost squeaked, my mouth sagging open. You
want to know about me? I’m Em Hansen; this totally confused lost child from Chugwater who’s out tilting at windmills. I’m supposed to be a geologist, see, and—I
forced my mouth to make words. “Ah, what do you want to know?”
I almost squeaked, my mouth sagging open. You
want to know about me? I’m Em Hansen; this totally confused lost child from Chugwater who’s out tilting at windmills. I’m supposed to be a geologist, see, and—I
forced my mouth to make words. “Ah, what do you want to know?”
“Why do you care?” It was almost a plea.
“About what? About Miriam?”
“Yes, about Miriam. About living. About whatever.”
Save me from this sadness, his eyes said.
Save me from this sadness, his eyes said.
“Well, ah …” Looking into his crazy, mourning, deeply intelligent eyes, I made one of those snap decisions that go like this: tell the truth. But then I had to hurry to catch up with him, as I suddenly wasn’t at all sure that the truth I’d been holding on to so fiercely—whatever that was—was in fact
the
truth. Or more than a partial truth. Or a limited truth. In short, I was a mess. I took a breath. I opened my mouth I began to speak. “Her husband asked me to do this, to look
into her death. He used to be my boss. He’s even crazier than you are, but in different way. Hell, I didn’t know any better; I was in the middle of hiding out on my folks’ ranch out there in Chugwater when he found me. Like I said, I hadn’t worked—or not as a geologist—in over a year. Hadn’t wanted to. Yeah, I was hiding. And like I said, Dad died awhile—after I got unemployed, but before—and anyway, yeah. To tell the truth, I’d hoped Mom would totally auger in and leave the ranch to me and I could hide out there forever. But no, she’s feeling much better now, and the calves had all dropped, and there you have it: I had to go. And just then Menken comes along and reaches out his big hook and says he can find me a job and gets me snarled up in all of this.” Once I’d gotten rolling, the words came easily. It’s amazing what you can say to a madman.
the
truth. Or more than a partial truth. Or a limited truth. In short, I was a mess. I took a breath. I opened my mouth I began to speak. “Her husband asked me to do this, to look
into her death. He used to be my boss. He’s even crazier than you are, but in different way. Hell, I didn’t know any better; I was in the middle of hiding out on my folks’ ranch out there in Chugwater when he found me. Like I said, I hadn’t worked—or not as a geologist—in over a year. Hadn’t wanted to. Yeah, I was hiding. And like I said, Dad died awhile—after I got unemployed, but before—and anyway, yeah. To tell the truth, I’d hoped Mom would totally auger in and leave the ranch to me and I could hide out there forever. But no, she’s feeling much better now, and the calves had all dropped, and there you have it: I had to go. And just then Menken comes along and reaches out his big hook and says he can find me a job and gets me snarled up in all of this.” Once I’d gotten rolling, the words came easily. It’s amazing what you can say to a madman.
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