Dance of the Bones

All that had quieted down now, at least on the surface. The mayor of Bellingham, Adelina Kirkpatrick, had gone to bat for Manson, who happened to be the son of her best friend. As a result, no criminal charges had been brought against the guy. He had been quietly packed off to a rehab facility of some kind. Mel insisted she was over it; I was not. I had felt completely helpless that afternoon. I had known she was gone, and for a while it had seemed as though there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it. It didn’t help that I have a recurring nightmare in which I endlessly open the trunk of Manson’s car. In the dream, sometimes Mel is there, bound in duct tape just as she had been that day. Other times, I see Delilah Ainsworth’s bloody body. And once, just once, the body in the trunk had been that of Anne Corley, my second wife, looking exactly the way she looked the day I shot her to death.

So Mel may have been “over it,” but I didn’t expect to be for some time. We’d been on the way to the airport when she asked me, “What’s wrong?”

I suspect that most married guys see that two--word question for exactly what it is—-a minefield. I went for what I thought would be the least damaging answer. “Nothing,” I said.

“Don’t tell me that,” Mel said. “For the past few weeks you’ve been Mr. Growly Bear himself.”

“I’m bored,” I had said. But that wasn’t a safe--harbor answer, either.

“What are you going to do about it?”

Which put the ball squarely back in my court. “I’ll call Ralph,” I had said, but I hadn’t carried through on that, and now Mel knew it, too.

“You say there’s a case in Portland?”

“That’s what Mary said.”

On the one hand, I was feeling like I’d been ambushed. On the other hand, I knew Mel was right to be worried. I recognized the dangers. The nightmares meant I wasn’t sleeping well. And sitting around with nothing to do other than enumerating my many sins of omission—-all the things I should have done and didn’t—-isn’t good for -people like me. I’ve been off the sauce for years and haven’t had a slip, but that doesn’t mean I never will. I’m an alcoholic, after all. I may not be drinking, but I’m not cured.

“Jim Hunt is coming by tomorrow for a full day of furniture shopping. I’ll call Ralph when we’re done with that,” I said. “If not tomorrow, then Sunday for sure.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” I answered. For a change, I meant it.





CHAPTER 11




ONE DAY BIG MAN CALLED Ban—-Coyote—-to help him. You will remember, nawoj, my friend, that Coyote is often filled with the Spirit of Mischief. Big Man gave Coyote some beads. He told Coyote to go to Beautiful Girl, slip the beads on her wrist, and tell her about Big Man.

The next morning, Coyote went to the house where the brother and sister lived. Beautiful Girl was cooking. When Coyote tried to slip the beads on her wrist, it made her burn her hand. That made the girl very cross. She scolded Ban. She told him she wanted no beads and no husband, and she wanted no more bother with a coyote.

Coyote carried the beads back to the village and told the great man what Beautiful Girl had said. Big Man was very angry because he was very powerful and used to having his own way. He told Coyote that he must go to the girl the next morning and tell her to take the beads. If she did not, Big Man would kill both her and her brother.

AFTER TOSSING AND TURNING FOR what seemed like hours, Brandon made his way into the bathroom to answer yet another call of nature. He glanced at the clock on his way by, but even though it was now after two, when he got back into bed he still couldn’t sleep. He was too caught up in remembering the investigation.

The day after his initial meeting with John Lassiter, Brandon had paid his first visit to El Barrio. The bar was one of those low--life dives where time seems to stand still. Cigarette smoke hung thick in the air, with the odor of spilled beer and dried piss adding to the unhealthy mix. The tables were worn and scarred. The vinyl upholstery on the chairs and barstools was torn and duct--taped together in spots.