Dance of the Bones

Big Bad John Lassiter immediately roared to his full height—-all six--foot--six of him, without even knowing who they were or what they wanted—-and he had come out swinging. He was belligerent enough that for years afterward, whenever they had been together, Brandon had reminisced with Farraday about being lucky and quick enough to dodge Lassiter’s powerful right--hand blow. It had taken both detectives to subdue the guy and get the cuffs on him, and all the while, a girl—-a young woman really—-had been screaming in the background, telling them to stop and begging that they not hurt him. That girl, Brandon realized now, must have been Amanda’s birth mother, and she had most likely been only a few weeks pregnant at the time.

The last time Brandon remembered seeing Big Bad John had been at the Pima County Courthouse at the close of Lassiter’s second trial. The verdict was read—-guilty—-and the judge had remanded him to custody. When it was time to leave, Lassiter had stood up—-again to his full height—-and had patiently placed his hands behind his back so the guards could cuff him and lead him back to his cell. Even in handcuffs, John Lassiter had been an imposing figure, dwarfing the guards who had swarmed around him like so many midgets. That was who Brandon was expecting to walk through the door, a giant of a man, big enough to match the song. But that wasn’t what happened.

When the interview room’s door swung open, Aubrey Bayless pushed a wheelchair into the room. John Lassiter’s clean--shaven face was familiar, but the rest of him was not. The passing years had turned him into a massive piece of humanity that seemed root--bound in a chair that appeared far too small to hold him. Brandon’s first impression was that someone had heated him up and simply melted his body into the chair.

MS, Brandon remembered after a moment. It was the same ailment that had placed Lassiter’s daughter on her red scooter. Obviously scooters weren’t part of the prison’s caregiving protocol.

Aubrey Bayless positioned Lassiter’s wheelchair on the far side of the table and disappeared into the background, taking a chair next to the door. For a few moments, Brandon and Lassiter studied each other across the table between them as well as across the years. Lassiter was the first to speak.

“Thank you for coming to see me, Sheriff Walker,” he said. “I appreciate it. And please accept my belated condolences about your son. Cirrhosis is a tough way to go. I don’t blame him for taking an early out.”

Brandon was taken aback. “You knew Quentin?”

Lassiter shrugged. “He and I talked sometimes when we were both in the infirmary. That’s how I knew about the work you do for that cold case group, TLC. Quentin told me. That’s why I asked for you.”

It took a moment for Brandon to swallow the lump that suddenly filled his throat. Words of condolence from Big Bad John weren’t at all what Brandon Walker had expected.

“Thank you for that,” he murmured. “Thank you very much.”

WHEN GABE’S EYES BLINKED OPEN, at first he thought he’d gone blind. He was in utter darkness. There was no light. He could move his legs, but nothing else. His arms were secured to his sides with something that was probably duct tape. A gag was in his mouth, making it impossible to speak. Gentle swaying from side to side and the sound of tires on pavement told him he was in a moving vehicle, but he had no idea how much time had passed since the stun gun attack, followed by an injection of some kind that had knocked him loopy.

He sniffed the air. It smelled rank—-as though someone had peed his pants and probably something worse. Gabe’s face went hot with embarrassment. How could he be such a coward? He couldn’t even be brave when someone had knocked him out. Then over the sound of the tires he became aware of something else—-of someone else. There was another person with him in this dark place, someone who was now sobbing brokenly.