Bones

looking at the only reporter that went up there.”

“Did you go up there to glorify Parrish?”

“No. I suppose any attention from the media could be construed as glorifying him, but that wasn’t my plan.”

“So you think the families will be angry with you because he tried to use you for a purpose other than your own?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“People aren’t always reasonable. They’ll see me as a reporter. Some days, I think it would be easier to tell people that I’m an IRS auditor.”

“Do you have any evidence that this particular group of people — the families of the victims — will be unfair to you?”

“No,” I admitted.

“Perhaps you should find out how they feel. Visit one or two of them. You have a little carving to give to Duke’s grandson?”

“Yes,” I said, awash with guilt over not having brought it to Duke’s widow.

As I started to leave Jo Robinson’s office, I said, “I want to go back to work.”

“I think you will be able to do that fairly soon.”

“I mean, this week.”

“Soon,” she said. “Try something entirely new — be patient with yourself.”

She held the power to keep me from my job at the Express for as long as she liked. I was more than a little angry about that, and she undoubtedly read that in my face. She continued to calmly regard me.

I wondered if a woman reporter who had thrown a large object through the glass wall of her editor-in-chief’s office could get a job an another paper. I wondered if I should go back to my friend and former boss at the PR firm I’d left a few years ago to ask if my old job was still open. I knew he’d hire me, but the thought of being forced to write cheerful, upbeat copy for the rest of my life truly depressed me.

Instead, I did my homework assignment.

Two days later, I completed the last of my visits to the widows and families of the officers who had died in the mountains. I was exhausted. No one had asked about remains. None of them had failed to welcome me; all had thanked me for taking the time to come by. There had been plenty of tears at each stop along the way.

Duke’s widow thanked me profusely for the little wooden horse, and would hear no apology for my delay in getting it to her. It was the same with each of them — lots of remembrances, a few regrets, but no recriminations. All anger, all blame was focused on Nicholas Parrish.

The last visit had been to the parents of Flash Burden, the youngest of the men who had died in the mountains. They had gathered their son’s belongings from his apartment, and today, from cardboard box after cardboard box, they showed me trophies he had won — mostly for photography, but another boxful from amateur hockey. They proudly took me into a room which served as a gallery for photographs he had taken. These included stunning shots of wildlife, but also glimpses of city life that showed him to be a keen observer with a sense of humor. Frank had told me that he had liked Flash, and had liked working with him, but thought he was wasting his skills on police work. Seeing these photographs, I had to agree, and found myself wishing that Flash had never come along with us to the mountains.

As I was thinking this, his mother said, “These weren’t his favorites, of course. He was happiest if one of his photographs helped solve a crime or convict a criminal.”

I regretted none of these visits, but emotionally, each was a run through a gantlet flanked by grief and remorse, by terrifying memories and lost chances. Each renewed my anger toward Parrish, but also made me aware of how much I feared him. When I said good-bye to the Burdens and walked back out to the van, I was a little unsteady on my feet, and hoped Jack wouldn’t notice.

I found him cleaning out the van’s refrigerator.

“The secret life of millionaires,” I said.

He took one look at my face and put an arm around my shoulders.

“Sorry to make you wait out here so long,” I said, when I could talk. “You must wish you hadn’t agreed to do this.”

“Tough assignment, huh?”

I wasn’t ready to talk about it, so I changed the subject. “What possessed you to start cleaning the refrigerator?”

He wrinkled his nose. “There’s some kind of weird smell in the van.”

My eyes widened. “You smell it, too?”

“Not very strong, and not all the time, but yeah — something strange. I don’t mind it much, but . . . hey, why are you crying?”

So I told him about smelling bones after my visit to the map store. That led to telling him about imagining that I was seeing Parrish. “Christ, I’ve even made up a car for him to ride around in!”

He handed me a packet of Kleenex. I used every last one of them. When I had calmed down a little, he said, “Have you told Frank?”

I shook my head. “He worries enough as it is. He doesn’t need to walk around wondering if the bughouse will take Visa.”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re crazy.”