The Bone Orchard: A Novel

“I have no idea why Billy Cronk told you I was here,” I said calmly. “He gets odd ideas in his head sometimes. I just think he wanted us to meet because he respects your service to our country. Please don’t take your anger out on him.”

He laughed again and leaned back in his chair hard enough that his suit jacket dropped to the floor. “You’re afraid I’m going to have him punished?”

“He doesn’t even belong in the SMU.”

“That’s good, because we value your opinion.”

I stood up. “It’s probably best if I leave now.”

“In that we agree,” he said. “I’d tell you to let yourself out, but you can’t.”

He bent over and gathered his coat from the floor. He wrestled his big arms into the sleeves and brushed off the dust from the pockets. He walked me back down the hall and through the locking door that led to the lobby. I didn’t expect to hear another word from him, but he surprised me again.

“You’re probably thinking I’m going to have your name removed from the visitors’ list now,” he said.

“The thought crossed my mind.”

“That shows how little men like you understand men like me.”

I left the prison thinking that Donato was undoubtedly right. The values by which a soldier lived his life were a mystery to me and always would be.





27



Kurt Eklund’s Oldsmobile guzzled gasoline the way its owner consumed alcohol. I burned through the better part of a tank driving the eighty miles to Portland. I tried not to think of the boy with the bomb inside his stomach, but it was a hard image to get out of my head.

I turned my mind to other things. Donato had interrupted my texting conversation with Stacey. I had never replied when I had the chance. And now my window of opportunity had slammed shut.

All in all, it seemed to be a fitting reflection of how badly my day was going.

I parked in the hillside garage on Congress Street, the one attached to the hospital. To find a space, I had to drive all the way to the top. Fat-chested pigeons swooped through the openings between the levels, looking for hidden ledges on which to roost. The iridescent birds scattered when I slammed the car door, but they flapped back as I headed for the elevators connecting the garage with the ER admitting desk. The pigeons were accustomed to the comings and goings of the sick and the grieving.

I am not a superstitious person. Nor do I enjoy visiting places where hundreds of people have died. However, Kathy Frost had stayed by my side on the night my mother had passed away in this very place. At the information desk, I identified myself to the receptionist as a colleague of the injured warden and asked if she was permitted to have visitors yet. The kind-faced woman made a call to the Special Care Unit. She lowered her voice so I couldn’t hear her questions.

“You should speak with your major,” she said.

“Is he here?”

“I wouldn’t know. Maybe you can give him a call?”

I started to walk away, then returned. “Can you do me another favor? Sergeant Frost’s brother might be on his way here to see her. Will you alert security that he is intoxicated and unstable? His name is Kurt Eklund, and you might have a problem with him if he demands to see his sister.”

The receptionist appraised me with clear brown eyes that had seen hundreds of people in every emotional and pharmacological state imaginable. My tired, scab-covered face couldn’t have offered her many assurances.

“I’ll let them know,” she said.

I decided to buy myself a cup of coffee in the cafeteria while I tried Major Malcomb’s cell.

I was looking for a private table when I caught sight of Dani Tate. As usual, she was seated by herself, and she’d already spotted me wandering around with my coffee and Danish. Her expression hardened.

Without being invited, I took the chair across from her. She was wearing the same clothes she’d been wearing the last time we’d met: flannel shirt in a Black Watch pattern, carpenter’s pants, scuffed-toed work boots. Her blond hair had acquired a greasy sheen. I wondered if she’d even left the hospital. How long could she have been here? Close to forty hours? She was holding an empty plastic water bottle.

“What do you want?” Her throat sounded in need of more water.

“I’m hoping to see Kathy.”

“She’s in a coma, if you haven’t heard.”

“Lieutenant Soctomah told me.” I knew she’d find the comment provocative.

A dent appeared in her chin when she made a certain contemptuous expression. “So what are you? Part of the investigation now?”

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“Did you know that Kathy’s brother, Kurt, was living with her?”

Looking at Tate up close, I could tell that her nose wasn’t naturally flat; she had broken it some time ago. Maybe those rumors about her Brazilian jiu jitsu matches were true. “She never mentioned having a brother.”

“So you wouldn’t know where he was the night she was shot?”

“I told you: She never mentioned him.” She stood up from the table. “Excuse me.”

“You and I have more in common than you think, Tate.”

“That’s doubtful.”

“I used to have your district. Maybe we should have lunch sometime, and I can fill you in on the local hooligans.”

“What makes you think I need your help? There’s a reason you’re sitting there looking like a homeless person. Good-bye.”

She began making her way through the narrow, knee-knocking spaces between the tables.

I called after her: “For someone who acts so sure of herself, you get defensive pretty fast.”

“What the f*ck is that supposed to mean?”

I pointed at the chair she had just vacated. She sat down at the edge of the seat, as if she was prepared to spring at any second.

“Tell me what Kathy has been up to lately,” I said. “Has she been looking into anything unusual?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Anything out of the ordinary.”

She crossed her arms under breasts that were pretty much invisible beneath her man-sized shirt. “Interfering with a criminal investigation is obstruction of justice under state law.”

“All I’m doing is giving the state police a list of names to check out. Does the name Marta Jepson meaning anything to you?”

“Should it?”

“She’s an old woman who died on Saturday up in Aroostook County. She fell down a flight of stairs. Kathy printed out a newspaper article about her death. I found it in a waste basket inside her house.”

“You’re amazing,” she said. “Everything I’ve heard about you is true.”

“The rule book is only going to get you so far, Tate. You’re going to make your arrests and be in line for promotions. But sooner or later, you’re going to realize that the best wardens aren’t the ones who can quote you Title Twelve, chapter and verse. The best wardens catch bad guys and make a difference in people’s lives.”

She rose to her feet again, this time with force. “Kathy was totally right about you.”

“About what?”

“Being an arrogant a*shole.”

Dani Tate’s intent had been to insult me, but I was past that point. Even if Kathy had used those exact words to describe me—probably in exasperation, after I’d given my notice—it didn’t change the fact that she was lying in a hospital bed while somewhere a violent man was still at large. If “arrogant” meant that I trusted my own intelligence over the collective wisdom of the state police, then I would have to plead guilty. If “a*shole” meant I didn’t care whose feelings I hurt to achieve my goal, then I would accept that label as well.

One positive aspect of not having a career anymore was that I no longer needed to worry about it.

I drank my coffee, chewed on my pastry, and thought about what I could do next. Not much, unfortunately. Without Dani Tate’s help, I would have a hard time identifying alternate suspects—unless I could enlist the aid of one of Kathy’s other district wardens. Tommy Volk was a hothead. Maybe he’d share information with me about some bombshell case Kathy had been quietly pursuing.

My mind kept coming back to the fact that Kathy had been shot with a turkey gun, loaded with ball bearings, rather than by a high-powered rifle firing a hollow-tipped bullet. Snipers almost never use shotguns. It was an odd detail, and in my experience odd details often proved significant. Was her neighbor Littlefield that big of a fool as to parade through her yard with the same weapon he’d used to slaughter Pluto hours earlier?

If only I could figure out where Kurt was hiding. What had he meant when he cried, “It’s all my fault”? I’d assumed he’d been lapsing into alcoholic self-pity again. He seemed to have this f*cked-up idea of himself as a bringer of misfortune—someone so cursed that he infected other people with bad luck. But what if he’d been speaking literally? What if the shooter’s target that night had been Kurt Eklund?

* * *

I was readying myself to call Major Malcomb, hoping I could persuade him to let me in to see Kathy, when the man himself appeared at my table in the hospital cafeteria.