Hold of the Bone (18 page)

Sal shrugs. “I'm not stopping you.”

Frank shakes her head and paces in front of the fireplace. The more circles she makes, the more she knows she doesn't want to leave the cabin or its dark surround of mountain. She should, that would be the right thing to do, the rational thing. Bone pads to her and stares with questioning amber eyes. She touches his head and as his stump comes alive, she remembers the fortune-teller advising her to take gifts, especially from strangers. Sal has shared her home, dinner, clothes, and even her damn dog.

“Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come. I should have detained you at the store and made you talk to me there.”

“Why didn't you?”

Frank opens her mouth to answer but has no words. She retrieves her mug, sips the cooling liquid. It smells worse than it tastes and in a show of goodwill she drinks more.

“If it's that important, I'll drive you back.”

“No. It's okay.”

“You're sure?”

“Yeah.”

Sal lifts Kook off her lap and stands. “Finish that,” she says with a nod to the mug. “It should help. If you need anything, just call. I'm a light sleeper.” She steps over the threshold into the hall.

“Sal?”

She turns and Frank hoists her mug. “Thanks.”

Sal's smile is faint. “You're welcome. Sleep well.”

Frank drains the mug and rinses it in the sink. She turns off the lamp and feels her way to the bedroom. She closes the door gently, loosens the curtains and spreads them to the darkness beyond. Aware of being in the home of a possible murder suspect, she noiselessly slides a small desk in front of the door. It will give easily if Sal pushes on the door, but Frank sets a lamp on the edge that will topple and wake her if it's disturbed. The precaution is driven more by habit than concern. She stretches on the mattress, testing if it's as uncomfortable as it looks but falls asleep before she can reach a verdict.

At some point she wakes. The light by the bed is on and she still wears Sal's clothes. Desk and lamp guard the door. Frank switches the light off and rises to the window. A hunched moon gallops over the spine of the mountains. Clouds course alongside and the wind howls like hounds to the hunt. Frank rests her cheek on the old, soft wood of the frame. Only as the moon begins its ride down the far side of the mountains does she return to bed.

Blue sky shows her she has slept later than intended. Surprised she doesn't ache from the old mattress, she quietly moves the desk back where it belongs. She steps into the hall and smells coffee. The cabin is empty. Frank pours a cup from the simmering percolator and stands at the front door. The yard is muddy but spilled in sunshine. She follows tracks to the barn.

Sal is laying wet saddle blankets over the corral. The two big dogs see Frank and come wagging their tails. The little one stays next to Sal, barking furiously. She nudges him with a muddy, bare foot and his bark becomes a weak growl. Frank bends a hand to the larger dogs, asking Sal why she didn't wake her.

“I stomped around and the dogs barked for breakfast, so I figured if you could sleep through all that you must have needed to.” She ducks between the boards. “Are you hungry?”

“I am. Must be all this fresh air.”

Chickens have been foraging in the leaves under the sycamores and when they see Sal they come running. Frank watches warily, waiting for carnage, but the dogs ignore the flapping birds. “Why don't they chase them?”

“They're not allowed to, though Bone wanted to herd them in the worst way.”

“He's a good dog, isn't he?”

Sal holds the screen door to the cabin open for him and smiles. “The best.”

Frank sits while Sal fries eggs. After she slides their breakfast onto tortillas and pours salsa over it, she carries the plates outside, asking Frank to bring the coffee. They sit on the fire pit and eat from their laps. The chickens come running again but respect the wide arc Sal swings with her foot. The dogs, allowed to crowd closer, crouch expectantly at their feet.

“This is really good,” Frank mumbles. “Do your clients always feed you this well?”

“Let's just say between the chickens and my ladies I'll never starve.”

After they've finished eating, Sal tosses each dog a scrap of tortilla, scrapes the crumbs for the chickens, and returns the plates to the cabin. Frank shifts into the old wooden chair. Fed and surprisingly well-rested, she closes her eyes and lets the sun play on her face.

“Don't move.” Sal's voice carries calmly but loudly across the yard. “There's a rattlesnake under your chair.”

Frank almost jerks her feet onto the chair, but intuitively realizes the snake's reflexes are probably faster than hers. She freezes, gripping the arms of the chair to keep from moving. The screen door creaks, shuts, then creaks again, and Frank hears the soft snick of a rifle bolt.

She realizes with frigid logic that Sal could easily shoot her. No one knows Frank is here. Her body and her car could be dumped somewhere in the mountains and it would be decades before anyone found her. If then.

Sal circles into her line of view. A .22 held high, loosely angled at the chair.

Frank swallows the rock in her throat. The backup Beretta she usually carries on days off is secured in the lock box of the Honda's trunk, right next to her service revolver. She doesn't know if she's more afraid of dying or pissed at not being armed.

“Don't move,” Sal repeats quietly. She rests her cheek against the stock, sighting along the barrel. The gun dips. There is a sharp crack. Dirt and rocks sting Frank's ankles and she yanks her feet onto the seat. Something thumps under the chair and a whirring fills the air. Bone sets to furious barking. Frank feels the snake thrashing against the chair and wonders in a sick panic if it can jump into her lap. The snake writhes into view, rolling and twisting in a death knot. Its broad head flops at the spine, pierced by Sal's bullet. Yet the animal still moves. For a second, Frank thinks she is going to faint, but the idea of falling out of her chair onto a rattlesnake sobers her.

“Bone! That's enough.”

The dog glances at Sal. His bark turns to a growl, but he keeps fierce attention on the roiling snake. Frank is mesmerized by the ceaseless looping and coiling. “How long's it going to do that?”

“They can go for hours, even after the head's chopped off.”

“Shit.”

Kook sniffs close to the buzzing snake and Sal calls him off.

“Can they still bite?”

“Absolutely.”

“Jesus.” Frank rubs the goose bumps on her arms. “That's just wrong.”

“Keep an eye on the dogs,” Sal tells her.

Sal ducks into one of the sheds and comes out with a shovel. She starts digging under the trees. Dead leaves slither and rustle and Frank wraps her arms even tighter around her knees. She watches the snake's twisted, torturous dying until Sal scoops it up and carries it into the trees. Frank hears the shovel blade strike ground once, then twice, and the rattling stops.

Frank drops her bunched shoulders and checks under the chair before lowering her feet. She stands woozily, making a wide circuit of the fire ring to see if the snake brought any friends. Sal finishes in the trees and walks up to Frank, presenting the rattle.

Frank lunges back. “What the fuck?”

“I thought you might want it.”

She stares at the bloody nub in Sal's palm, gingerly prods one of the hollow segments. Pinching the rattle, she gives it a shake. “It sounds so harmless. Like something a baby would play with.”

Frank lays the keratinous tail on the fire ring. Her hand is shaking and she tucks it into her pocket. Sal totes the rifle into the cabin and returns with the coffee pot. She pours without asking. Frank leaves her cup where it is, not sure she can hold it without spilling.

“Cigarette?” Sal asks, pulling the tobacco pouch from her pocket.

“Sure. I could use one.”

Sal expertly rolls a cigarette and passes it to her.

“How often do those things show up in your yard?”

“Not often at all. I probably only kill one every four or five years. I don't like to, but if they're in the barn, or around the house, that's too close.”

They smoke in the sparkle of the fresh-washed morning. The big dogs work off their energy tug-of-warring over a stick. Kook dances around them on his hind legs, looking for his chance to grab the prize and run off with it. Frank's hand steadies, and as she reaches for her coffee she catches Sal's eyes upon her. The cool blue gaze is oddly satisfied. Suddenly Frank understands why. “You touched me last night, when I was passed out.”

Sal looks to the dogs, but not before Frank sees a flicker of acknowledgement. She drags on her cigarette and follows the violet exhalation. She thinks she should feel angry or violated, but mainly she is curious. They watch the dogs until Bone gives up to lick his paws in a pool of sunshine. Cicero contentedly splinters the prize while Kook worries a lazy orange cat just out of claw range.

“Well?”

Sal only shrugs. “I thought you had more questions.”

Frank nods, unsure if she's disappointed or relieved. “What was your father's uncle's name?”

“Lee Saladino.”

“Did Lee say why your father was working late?”

“I don't recall a reason. Just that he might still be at the site.”

“And he gave you the address?”

“I think so. I can't remember a number, but I know we got there. It was the only construction site on that stretch of Western Avenue.”

“You went straight there?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you find when you got there?”

“Just a construction site. They'd done the framing for a building.”

“Was the site paved or just dirt?”

Sal drops the cigarette butt and rubs it under her heel. Frank winces, but realizes Sal has been barefoot since she removed her boots last night. “You don't wear shoes much.”

“I don't wear anything much.”

Frank almost smiles. She remembers now, but at the time she was so startled to see Sal peeling off her shirt that she didn't notice how solidly brown she was. Sidetracked, Frank steers them both back on course. “Was the ground sealed at all or was it raw dirt?”

“I think it was dirt. What we saw at least.”

“How much did you see?”

“Enough to know he wasn't there.”

“Did you get out and look around or just drive up?”

“We looked around. We had a flashlight.”

“So it was dark by the time you got there?”

“It was dusk. Cloudy. I don't know that it was night yet, but it was fairly dark.”

“Dark enough to need a flashlight?”

“We shined it around, just to make sure.”

“And there was nobody there?”

“No one.”

“Were there any cars or trucks parked there?”

Sal thinks. “Maybe nearby, but not like they belonged on the site.”

“What did you do after you looked around?”

“Cass was still upset, so we drove around some more. She stopped to get another bottle of bourbon.”

“Where did you stop?”

“I don't know. Some liquor store.”

“How long did you drive around?”

“I don't know. It seemed like forever, but it probably wasn't more than a couple hours.”

“Did you make any other stops?”

“We called Lee again, from a pay phone. My aunt said he wasn't
there. Neither was my father. She tried to get us to come over and eat and spend the night, but Cass wanted to keep looking.”

“Did she say where Lee was?”

“I don't think we asked. I know he had a bar he liked to go to after work. He'd take my father sometimes, but not always. He didn't like it when he started trouble.”

“Did you go to that bar?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know.”

“Did you go to his aunt's house, where he was staying?”

“No.”

“How come?”

“I just told you. He wasn't there.”

“And you believed her.”

“Why wouldn't we?”

“Didn't you assume he'd be back, sooner or later?”

“I don't remember. I doubt we were thinking very rationally.”

They watch the chickens scrabbling in the dirt. One of the hens finds a particularly choice item and the rest give chase as she runs off with it.

“Do you miss your family?”

The question is unplanned, its intimacy embarrassing, and Frank wishes she could take it back.

“I miss their physical presence, but they're always near. They're always close.”