Bare Bones

“You OK?”

“I’m OK.”

Long, probing look.

“Hold on to that thought.”

While Ryan was upstairs I viewed the rest of the e-mails. The settings varied. The theme did not. Every one was a threat.

Ryan was back in ten minutes, smelling of Irish Spring and Mennen Speed Stick. Kissing the top of my head, he took the chair beside mine.

I described the phone call, took him through the e-mails.

Ryan’s face hardened as he viewed the images. Now and then a jaw muscle bulged, relaxed.

After we’d finished, he held me close. When he spoke, his voice sounded strange, harder, somehow.

“As long as I’m drawing breath no one will ever hurt you or your daughter, Tempe. I promise you that.” His tone grew softer, his words more clipped. “I swear. For you. And for me.” He stroked my hair. “I want you in my life, Tempe Brennan.”

I did not trust myself to answer. Confusion, delight, and surprise were now tangoing with the anger and fear.

Ryan squeezed, then released me, and asked to see the images again.

Having no desire for a third run-through, I yielded my place and went to replenish Boyd’s bowl. When I returned, Ryan fixed me with fierce blue eyes.

“There was a multicar wreck here recently?”

“Last Friday night.”

“One of the injured just died?”

“No idea.” I hadn’t expected a current events quiz.

“Do you have this week’s papers?”

“In the pantry.”

“Get them.”

“Are you going to let me in on your Black Dahlia moment, or am I going to have to guess?”

I was feeling anxious. Anxious makes me churlish.

“Please get the papers.” Ryan’s voice held no trace of humor.

I dug the week’s Observers from the recycle box and returned to the study.

The wreck victim died Tuesday night at Mercy Hospital. She was headmistress at a private high school, so her death made Wednesday’s headline.

Ryan opened the 2.jpg e-mail. An Observer box sat to the right of the Starbucks door. Placing the curser on it, he zoomed in. Though fuzzy, the words were legible.

FOURTH CRASH VICTIM DIES

I was holding the same headline in my hand.

Ryan spoke first.

“Assuming the photos were scanned in order, the first two were taken Wednesday morning. That’s yesterday. We went to Starbucks yesterday.”

I felt my flesh crawl.

“Jesus Christ, Ryan.” I threw the paper on the sofa. “Some nutcase has been stalking me with his Nikon Cool Pics. Who cares exactly when the damn things were taken?”

I couldn’t stand still. I began pacing.

“Knowing when the photos started may provide a clue about motive.”

I stopped. He was right.

“Why yesterday?” he asked.

I thought back over the past few days.

“Take your pick. On Friday I told Gideon Banks his daughter had killed her baby. On Saturday I excavated bear soup. On Sunday I scraped two guys out of a Cessna.”

“Dorton was ID’ed as the plane’s owner on Monday.”

“Right,” I agreed. “Pearce was ID’ed as the pilot on Tuesday. That’s also when we tossed the Foote farm.”

“Wasn’t the Cessna’s payload also discovered that day?”

“The coke was found on Monday, reported on Tuesday.”

“Makes me think somehow Dorton’s behind this. He gives the word on Monday or Tuesday. One of his henchmen starts clicking away on Wednesday.”