Bones

“Two possibilities,” I said. “One is that she called to stop the paper at just about the time she was killed, which is the kind of unbelievable coincidence that makes you wonder if she was being forced to make the call.”

“And the other?” Frank asked.

“Parrish called to stop the paper, to make sure no one started looking for her before he wanted her to be found.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s possible,” he said. “But it doesn’t get us any closer to catching Parrish.”

“Maybe it does. I can think of another subscription that got canceled recently.”

“Phil Newly’s,” Frank said.

“Yes. Nick Parrish is someone who has obviously made a study of police and forensic procedures. He knows what might trigger a missing persons investigation. A pile of newspapers on the driveway might be noticed by neighbors who don’t even know the victim’s name.”

“I’ll make another push to take a look at Newly’s house. But as I’ve said, in general, judges don’t like cops to take uninvited tours of defense lawyer’s homes.”

We went early to Jo Robinson’s office. She had arranged to see Ben just before she saw me. “We should try to get a two-for-one rate out of her,” I said, but needless to say, Ben wasn’t in an especially humorous mood.

He ran over into my time, but I didn’t mind. I thought that meant I might be able to cut it a little short, but no deal.

“How’s he doing?” I asked, when she had closed the door to begin our session.

She smiled and said, “You don’t expect me to answer that do you? This is your time. How are you?”

“I’m still working lousy hours,” I said.

“They were supposed to be somewhat improved.”

“They are,” I admitted.

Now that my big gripe was out of the way, I sat studying my toes.

“Otherwise, how have things gone?” she prompted.

I told her about talking to the Sayres.

“Great. And have you thought more about Parzival?”

“A little.” I mentioned that telling the story of Parzival’s visit to Wild Mountain led to my talking to Ben that very morning. I related the gist of our conversation.

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?” I repeated. It isn’t easy to imbue a sound like that with sarcasm. I made it drip with the stuff.

She smiled again. “You know, I think your friend Jack was right. You forgot to tell the best part of the story.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” she repeated. She left out the sarcasm — all but a tinge, anyway.

“It’s not the best part of the story — it’s the saddest part. Parzival goes off in disgrace; he loses his faith. He tells others that he refuses to serve a God who has the power to always be merciful, but who instead is the . . . How does he put it? ‘The godfather of all my troubles.’ ”

“Why would a good God let so many terrible things happen?” she asked.

“Right. Or let someone with good intentions cause so much harm?”

“In the story, how does Parzival feel as he goes riding off on his quest for the Grail?”

“Angry.”

“Hmm.”

I didn’t bother echoing that one.

“Remind me,” she said, “what must he do before he can find Wild Mountain again?”

“Regain his faith.”

“Is that all?”

“No, there’s more to it than that,” I said, trying not to lose my patience. “It’s a story about compassion, but not just toward others. That’s what I was saying to you earlier — about talking to Ben this morning. Parzival has to be compassionate toward himself. He has to forgive himself.”

“Oh,” she said.

I was silent.

“Keep thinking about it, then. Now, despite the horrible hours, how did the return to work go?”

I told her about the support of my friends, the visits by Travis and Stinger, and about Leonard and Cafe Kelly.

“And since the problem with the van—”

“You mean the fingers and the toes and the skull?” I asked, showing no mercy.

“Any other contact? Any other times when you’ve seen him?”