Twenty-Seven Bones

“I want to be there for the hanging.”

“I think we can arrange that, me son,” said Julian. “I think we can definitely arrange that.”

3

Talk about your heart leaping to your throat: Emily couldn’t have swallowed a poppy seed when she and Bennie returned from shopping Thursday afternoon to find a police car parked under the bay rum in the driveway.

Nothing to do but face it out. Emily whispered to Bennie to go around the back way and get his machete, then mounted the front steps, whispering a short Niassian prayer, which translated as Watch over my house, watch over my pigs, as she turned left at the landing. The front door was open-she saw Phil standing just inside the vestibule, talking to a fat black man in a cheap suit.

“Here she is now,” said Phil. “Detective Hamilton, this is my wife, Dr. Emily Epp. Em, this is Detective Hamilton. He wanted to know if we heard or saw anything unusual last night.”

“Not a thing. Did something happen at the Great House? There have been police cars coming and going all afternoon.”

“Meeyain’ at liberty to say, Missus Doctah.”

Just then Emily caught sight of Bennie tiptoeing across the living room, in the direction of his bedroom. She waved him over. “Here’s our houseman, Bennie. Bennie, did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary last night?”

Only Emily could have caught the twinkle in his eye when he said, “No, Ina Emily.”

“Thank you, Bennie. Is there anything else, Detective Hamilton? I don’t mean to be rude, but I still have so many things to do to get ready for tomorrow. We’re going to San Juan for the annual meeting of the Association of Anthropologists and Archaeologists of the Americas this weekend. If we have your permission to leave the island, that is,” she added.

“How long do you plan to be gone?”

“We’ll be back Sunday evening at the latest.”

“Meeyain’ see no problem, Missus Doctah.”

“Meeyain’ know me ass from me elbow, Missus Doctah,” chortled Emily a few minutes later. “Did he look stoned to you?”

“They all look stoned to me,” replied Phil. “But we seem to be in the clear for the time being.”

“What were you doing when he showed up.”

“Typing. I was so flustered I left the manuscript out on the table. All I could think of, the whole time I was talking to him, was please don’t let him ask to look around.”

“I told you it wasn’t wise to put things down on paper.”

“Punctiliously speaking, Zep, you asked me if it was wise. I said it was important. I still think it is.”

“Just let’s not push our luck. That’s all I’m saying here: let’s not push our luck.”

“I agree,” said Phil-this was how most of their arguments ended.

Phil’s bedroom was spartanly furnished. Single bed, rolltop desk, folding chair, card table for typing. He picked up the typescript to see how far he’d gotten, reread the last page, crumpled it in disgust, then quickly retrieved it from the wastebasket and tore it into strips. Once again, he’d reached the heart of the matter and found it indescribable. It was fun to write about the sex, challenging to trace the development of the ritual through the years-wrong turns, punctured lungs, the ehehas that escaped them, Bennie’s brilliant suggestion that they dispatch the subjects by severing their right hands-but the correct words with which to convey the feel of the ritual remained elusive.

Phil retrieved the crumpled paper from the wastebasket, reread it before tearing it into strips, then tore the strips into confetti. Have to buy a shredder, he reminded himself as he inserted another piece of paper into the trusty old Remington, and started typing again.

In many ways, subject H represented the apotheosis of the experience. Everything had proceeded optimally, including the fatal stroke. B was by then a master of the machete and they had all mastered the timing involved. The subject’s suffering was minimal, her spirit strong and vibrant for an islander, thanks no doubt to her youth, and the transfer went smoothly. But the crux of the matter, the transfer of the eheha, remains experiential, ineluctably inexpressible, and

Rip, crumple, retrieve, confetti-ize.

4

By Thursday afternoon the resources of the St. Luke PD were stretched to the breaking point. All available personnel were out beating the cane stubble, sifting the dirt from the tower floor, dusting and vacuuming the Apgard vehicles for trace evidence, fingerprinting every door and sill and piece of furniture in the Great House and taking swabs of the bloodstains on the patio for identification (they proved to be Lewis’s, as promised), going through Hokey’s personal effects, interviewing her family and friends, or scouring the island for potential witnesses.

When Pender and Julian returned to police headquarters after confirming Apgard’s alibi at Missionary Hospital, they were informed by the desk sergeant that a Miss Gold of Estate Tamarind had filed a missing persons report on a Mr. Andrew Arena, also of Estate Tamarind. It turned out Julian knew him, which somehow did not surprise Pender.

“He’s the bartender at the King Christian. He’s not a flake, either-he’s held down the same job for at least, oh, five years or so. And lived in the same place-little village at the edge of the forest. Hippies, down-islanders-not quite plush digs, but a step up from Sugar Town. Interestingly enough, Lewis Apgard is the landlord. And come to think of it, if I’m not mistaken, our missing Robert Brack lived up there for a few months as well.”

“Sounds like it’s worth checking out,” said Pender, for whom the prospect of sitting in the basement of police headquarters going through the department’s files of habitual criminals and previous homicides was not at all attractive. “Why don’t you let me take this one?”

“That might not be a bad idea. The Core has a habit of depopulating rapidly whenever someone in uniform shows up.”

“Then I’m your man,” said Pender, glancing down at his hula shirt-black, with neon green dragons.

“If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“Are you shitting me? This old fire horse has done heard the bell, Chief Coffee.”

“You’re on, then,” said Coffee, rummaging through his desk drawers until he found a tarnished badge, which he slid across the desk to Pender.

“What’s this for?”

“Liability. Raise your right hand. Do you swear to uphold the laws of this island and obey the commands of Chief Julian Coffee as if they issued from the mouth of the Almighty himself?”

“I suppose.”

“Congratulations, you’re now an auxiliary member of the St. Luke Police Department. No pay, no benefits, just the honor of the thing.”

Pender polished the front of the badge on the thigh of his plaid slacks as if it were an apple, and glanced at it before slipping it into his shirt pocket. “Hey, my first day on the force, and I already made detective.”

“That’s my old badge. Try not to disgrace it. You want a gun?”

“Naah. I could use a set of wheels, though.”

“Let me see what’s available,” said Julian. He picked up the phone, buzzed someone. “What’s in the lot…? That’s it…? What about…? All right.” He replaced the receiver, grinned knowingly at Pender.

“What?”