“My God,” he said, looking at me with such concern, my tears threatened again. “You’ve really been having a rough time of it, haven’t you?”
“A little,” I said.
He laughed.
“Yes, a rough time,” I admitted.
“I feel like such a selfish bastard!”
“Don’t,” I said fiercely.
He didn’t say more, but I could see that he was angry. At himself, at me — I wasn’t sure who else was on the list.
By then Frank and J.C. had rejoined us. Frank took one look at me and put an arm around me. I returned the favor. Ben steadfastly ignored me, and sensing the tension between us, Frank let Ben and J.C. move ahead with the dogs.
“You okay?” he asked me.
I nodded. “Long day, that’s all.”
He gave a little snort of disbelief but didn’t push me to unburden my soul right at that moment. I was grateful.
At the end of the boardwalk, we again helped Ben across the sand to the stairs, but this time, he seemed embarrassed. We let the dogs go up first, then J.C. and Ben. When we reached the top of the stairs, J.C. and Ben were watching Bingle, who was lifting his head, making chuffing noises. The other dogs tried to follow his lead. He looked back at Ben, ears swiveled forward, and barked.
“Jesus,” Ben said, “he’s alerting.”
“Talk to him,” I said, tightening my hold on Frank.
I was impressed. Ben flawlessly spoke a series of encouragements in Spanish. Then, giving a hand signal, he said, “
Within a few houses of our own, Bingle started barking again. He waited for Ben, then, crooning, he veered close to the van, then passed it by and hurried toward our porch.
“Oh no,” I said. “Please no.”
J.C. was saying, “It looks as if someone sent you roses.”
“Late in the day for a flower delivery,” Frank said.
But there was indeed a long golden box with a red bow on it, waiting on the steps.
“Everybody get back,” Frank said suddenly. “Ben, call the dog—!”
But Bingle had already pawed at the box, and it rolled down the steps and spilled open — ten, long-stem roses tumbled out, as did two long, dark bones.
We all stood frozen — until Frank shouted at our dogs, who obviously thought Bingle had made a capital find and were venturing closer to see if he’d share it with them. Hearing the unexpected sharp note in Frank’s voice, they immediately came to his side.
Ben called to Bingle and remembered to praise him in Spanish, then without needing to step nearer to the bones said to us, “Femurs.”
“Leg bones?” I asked weakly, but I already knew the answer. I suddenly didn’t feel as if I could rely on my own.
43
WEDNESDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 13
Las Piernas
“The bones were those of the receptionist?” Jo Robinson asked during my appointment the next morning.
“It seems likely, but the bones were . . . altered. Parts of her legs are still missing, and these bones weren’t even whole femurs. Someone had cut them. Ben knows someone who specializes in identifying toolmarks on bones who’ll be studying them, but for now, Ben thinks it might have been a power saw. They’re going to run DNA tests to be sure the bones belong to the receptionist. Those tests take a while.”
“You seem quite calm about this now.”
“It’s an act.”
She smiled.
“I guess you knew that.”
She kept smiling, but said, “I’m not a mind reader. So tell me, what’s your real reaction?”
“At first, fear. But now I’m just angry. No, that’s not true. I’m both angry and afraid.”
“What do you suppose he was trying to do?”
“To scare me. To let me know that he knows where I live, to tell me that he’s around. He succeeded — I am afraid. More afraid.”
I considered telling her more, but I wanted to go back to work, and I was convinced she’d never give me the release if I told her everything. If I could go back to work and stay busy, I wouldn’t have so much time to dwell on memories of people in little pieces in a meadow or photographs in graves.
“I think most people would be afraid if they found leg bones in a box on their front porch,” she was saying. “What are you doing in response?”
“Doing?”
