A Haunting of the Bones (7 page)

Bell nodded. So maybe it
was
Donnie Dolan, after all, who had murdered them. Shirley would be pleased. “Pleased” was not the right word, because it didn't begin to hint at the depth and complexity of Shirley's emotions, but Bell was too preoccupied right now to come up with a better one. It was a tidy solution. The case would be closed, once and for all. It would mean that Shirley's actions on the night when she'd killed their father had an expanded moral justification: In addition to saving Bell, Shirley had avenged the death of their mother and her friend.

“Of course,” Gilmore said, “if we're talking about lousy parents, you've got to make room on the All-Star team for Dave's mother, Evelyn Hickok. From the moment he told her that he was gay—I've learned to use that word and I kind of like it now—well, she hated him. Told him he was a piece of crap. She'd call him all the time on the job and scream at him. Quote Bible verses at the top of her lungs.”

“Do you know where I can find her?”

“No idea. That was a long, long time ago, hon—and Evelyn's not the kind of person you take pains to keep in touch with.” Gilmore switched gears. She smiled and patted Bell's hand. “Those eyes of yours. Can't get over 'em. Just can't. Next time you're looking in a mirror, I hope you remember that your mother is looking right back at you, okay? Right back. And I'll bet every dollar I have that she's mighty pleased with what she's seeing.”

* * *

Bell had been on the road back to Acker's Gap for less than ten minutes when she capitulated. She pulled off to the side. She had to talk to Rhonda Lovejoy. If anyone could find an old lady about whom Bell had only minimal information, it was Rhonda.

“Hey, boss.”

“Hope I'm not interrupting anything.”

“Just a good deed. Making cupcakes for the church bake sale tomorrow. Was going to bake a cake, but turns out that cupcakes sell better these days. Not sure why. I guess it's less of a commitment to buy a cute little cupcake than to take home a honkin' big cake with all the— ”

“Rhonda.”

“Yeah?”

“Need to locate a woman named Evelyn Hickok. I know that Sheriff Fogelsong has already tried, with no luck. Which means the last name is probably different by now.” Bell didn't want to give Rhonda any more information at this point; she was still sorting it out herself.

“Hickok.” Rhonda pondered the name. “Must be kin to the man whose remains they found the other day, right? Close to— ” She hesitated. “Close to your mother.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Anything else to go on? Do we know if she's still in the state?”

“We don't even know if she's still alive. Truth is, Rhonda, this is a long shot. All I can tell you is that she is—or maybe was—a vicious, bitter, judgmental person who brought a lot of pain to somebody she was supposed to love.”

“Wow. Okay, well—I'll do my best.”

“Know you will. Thanks.”

* * *

There was nothing to do until she heard back from Rhonda, so Bell decided to put her Saturday night to practical use by cleaning out her refrigerator. It was an unromantic chore, to be sure, but that's just what she needed right now. She needed a dull, routine task that required no moral judgments, no outlay of emotion, no potentially wounding forays into her past. Just a steady, boring series of gestures: reaching into the fridge, pulling out unmarked Tupperware containers, shaking them to ascertain if there was a suspicious rattle, cautiously peeling off the lids, peering down at the disgusting contents, making a face—and uttering an appalled, “Have mercy!”

She had barely gotten started when her cell rang.

“Bell, it's Jackie LeFevre.” Jackie's voice was hushed and agitated. “He's here.”

“Your ex?”

“Yeah. Ever since it got dark, a car's gone back and forth in front of my house about ten times. It slows down and then it speeds up again. Turns around and comes back. He's harassing me. Wants to scare the hell out of me. Make me pay for rejecting him. Bell—I've got a gun, okay? And if he tries to come in here I'm gonna— ”

“Call the sheriff. Right now. Do you hear me, Jackie?
Right now
.”

“There's no time for that. He could be in this house in minutes.”

“Are you sure it's his car? Do you recognize it?”

“Must be driving a rental,” Jackie said. “He thinks he's so smart. Thinks he can fool me. Well, I've got my gun right here. If he comes near me, I'll blow his head off. Swear I will.”

“Jackie, I really think you should— ”

“Mind's made up.”

Bell stopped arguing. She knew that fear worked differently on strong people like Jackie than it did on weak people: It only made them more stubborn. And it robbed them of good judgment. “Okay,” Bell said, “then I'll get hold of Nick myself. And I'm coming over. Just keep your doors and windows locked.” She hung up and called 9-1-1. The dispatcher said an officer would get there as soon as possible.

Bell lived only a few miles away from Jackie. She covered the distance quickly. She parked in front of the small one-story brick house on the south side of Acker's Gap, a house crowded on both sides by trees and foliage.

She sat for a moment and looked around. In the solid-seeming darkness the neighborhood had a sullen, wary, shut-down feel; only a handful of lights burned in a few scattered windows in the other houses up and down the street. No lights were visible in Jackie's house. The porch light was out as well. No cars came by. Bell looked around again before opening the door of the Explorer.

Jackie was sitting in a rocking chair on her front porch. She wasn't rocking. Bell didn't see her until she had reached the top step. Because of the thick wooden balusters of the porch railing, Bell also didn't initially spot the shotgun that lay across Jackie's lap like a sleek gray pet; when she did see it, her eyes now adjusted to the darkness, Bell felt a lurch of surprise and apprehension. She knew that a great many people in Acker's Gap were hunters; they legally possessed firearms and had taken the necessary safety training. Bell didn't have a problem with that, nor with the men and women who owned guns for their protection. Hell, she kept a 12-gauge under her own bed. But Jackie was desperate. She wasn't thinking clearly. And a gun in the hands of an overwrought person was almost always a bad idea.

“Bell,” Jackie said. Her voice had a hard glint in it, a stark resoluteness that Bell found as chilling as the sight of the shotgun. Jackie kept a palm flat on the stock. The fingers of her other hand were curled tightly around the barrel. “I got this.”

“What do you mean?”

Bell dreaded Jackie's reply. She was a prosecutor. If Jackie had already taken matters into her own hands, then Bell would have no choice. When Fogelsong arrived, they would take Jackie into custody and book her. There was no other option.

“I mean that if that bastard drives by here one more time, I'm going to blast his sorry ass straight to hell. Don't care what happens to me after that. But I'm not gonna let him do this to me.”

Bell wanted to be relieved—apparently nothing bad had happened yet—but Jackie's hands still gripped the shotgun with an
I-mean-business
ferocity. “Help's on the way,” Bell told her. “You can stand down, Jackie.” Bell spoke slowly and carefully. She felt as if she were trying to reason with someone who stood poised on the ledge of a tall building, her life in the balance. And in a sense, she was.

“I won't live like this, Bell. Not gonna jump at shadows the rest of my damned life. Not gonna wait around for him to pounce.”

The car roared out of the blackness, turning the corner and barreling up the street at a dangerous rate of speed. Sticking out of the driver's side window was what looked like a long black rod.
Shotgun barrel
, Bell instantly thought. She gave Jackie a rough shove, toppling both the rocking chair and the woman who occupied it, and landed on top of her on the porch floor.

“Get
off
me, goddammit!” Jackie yelled. She tried to dislodge Bell, but Bell wasn't budging. They needed to stay down below the level of the porch rail. It was their best chance. The moment Jackie stood up, she'd be an easy target.

From the north side of the house came a sudden series of crashing, rattling noises, as if an immense amount of shrubbery was being displaced by the plunging advance of a heavy object, and then a sound that Bell knew all too well: a gunshot. Her first thought was that Sheriff Fogelsong or a deputy had arrived—but that couldn't be it. Not enough time had passed since her call. The shot nicked one of the tires of the speeding car and the resultant blowout caused it to spin wildly, turning in a wobbly circle. The vehicle slammed nose-first against the curb halfway up the block, jumping over it and ramming a tree. The hood popped open. Steam rushed from the radiator.

“Everybody okay up there on the porch?”

It was not a voice that Bell had ever heard. Before she could respond, she felt a harsh heave from Jackie, who finally managed to roll Bell off her so that she could rise hastily to her feet and address the voice.

“Larry?” Jackie said. “For Christ's sake. Is that you?”

A large man was mounting the porch steps. He held his rifle over his head with two hands as if he were fording a stream, to indicate that he meant them no harm.

Jackie spoke quickly to Bell, who by now was standing beside her. “It's Larry Pratt. My ex.” She turned her attention back to him. “So you're not in the car? That's not you out there?”

“Hell, Jackie. You think I'd
shoot
at you?” Larry said. “I love you. I've been telling you that for ten years. I got here this afternoon and been hanging out there in your backyard. Watching you. Making my plans. Saw that car go by over and over again—and on that last trip, I saw the gun. Knew you needed me.”

With all the commotion, lights had sparked on inside the houses and on the front porches up and down the street, as if a master switch had been flipped. By this time the sheriff's Chevy Blazer had arrived, blocking the vehicle that had started all the trouble. Flashlight in one hand, Fogelsong used his other hand to rip open the car door.

Shirlene McAboy stumbled out of the car. In the glare of the sheriff's jumbo flashlight, her haggard face was a soggy, livid mess. She was sobbing, wailing, begging forgiveness. Fogelsong reached roughly past her to grab the shotgun on the passenger seat. Then he shoved Shirlene up against the side of the car. Quickly frisked her to make sure she had no other weapons, and secured her thin wrists with handcuffs.

“Bell,” Fogelsong said. She'd hurried down the porch steps to join him.

She knew what he was asking her to do. She quickly recited her constitutional rights to Shirlene McAboy. The young woman with stringy blond hair and a ferret-like face stammered her consent and then began crying again. She alternated her sobs and yowls with a hiccough-ridden explanation. “The bitch fired me,” Shirlene sputtered. “I needed that job. You hear? Needed it more than those other two bitches did. Said she couldn't afford to keep me on, but I know the
real
reason—it's because she don't like me. So I had to show her. Show her she can't push me around. Anyway, I didn't fire at her or nothin.' Ain't even loaded. Just wanted to scare the piss outta her.”

The sheriff had finished checking the rifle by now. He secured it in the back of the Blazer. Then he took control of Shirlene; with one hand on the top of her greasy head, the other clamped on the upper part of her arm, he made sure that she was securely stowed in the backseat of the Blazer. He nodded to Bell. Time to go. His next stop, Bell knew, would be the jail in the courthouse annex.

From the top step, where she'd been watching the arrest, Jackie yelled, “You were a lousy waitress, anyway, Shirlene McAboy!”

Bell returned to the porch. Deputy Harrison would be arriving shortly to take witness statements. In the meantime, Bell needed to keep an eye on Larry Pratt. He'd be facing charges himself for reckless endangerment and for the unlawful discharge of a weapon in the city limits.

Larry and Jackie eyeballed each other across the porch floor. They were three or four feet apart, but to Bell, the distance seemed even greater. She had gotten her first good look at the man who had once been married to Jackie. He was short and broad, with flat brown hair and a pointy nose. An unfortunate smell rose from him, a combination of sweat and desperation and too many hours on the road. He blinked fiercely and repeatedly.

“Dammit, Larry, I told you to leave me alone,” Jackie muttered.

These two people, Bell thought, had once loved each other. Planned a life together. What happened? No telling. But the point was, she reminded herself, you were allowed to change your mind. Everybody had the right to choose what kind of life they wanted, and with whom they wanted to share it. And nobody else had a say in that—not your family, not your friends, not your preacher, not your boss. Not even the person whom you'd once loved. If Jackie LeFevre didn't want to reconcile with her ex-husband, if she wanted to be with somebody else—or to be with nobody else, to be alone—then that was how it would be. Her business.

“You're making a big mistake,” Larry said. His voice was hoarse, but still retained its hectoring bravado. “You hear me? Big, big mistake. You gotta listen, Jackie. Okay? You belong to me. Look, I saved your life. That counts for something, right?”

“It counts for shit,” she said. “You know what, Larry? You're lucky I didn't blow your fool head off. When you came up those steps just now, I wanted to do it. I did. Just to get rid of you, once and for all.”

Her words had clearly rattled him.

“Jackie, I—”

“Go away,” she said. She didn't say it with rancor this time; she said it with weariness. With finality. “Go away and don't come back. Ever. Nobody wants you here.”