Hold of the Bone (29 page)

“I've got 'em,” Frank fibs again. “They'll be on your desk tomorrow morning.”

Pintar purses her lips.

“Last trip. I promise.”

Her boss sighs. “Alright. But only if everything's on my desk by the time I come in tomorrow, wrapped up and tied with a bow.”

“Deal.”

Back in her office, Frank lets out the breath she's been holding. Even the promise that this will be her last trip isn't enough to tamp her enthusiasm. Seconds later Lewis lumbers in.

“Got a minute?”

“Of course. Sit.”

Lewis settles heavily onto the old Swiss modern couch that is modern in name only. The vinyl is cracked and duct-taped in places, the thin metal arms flaking to bare steel, but the couch doesn't take up much space and has given Frank many hours of desperately snatched sleep.

“What's up?”

“I don't know.” She flaps a beefy hand. “This Saladino thing startin' to look like a real whodunit.”

Tilting back in her chair, Frank grins and laces her hands behind her head. “Body that old, you didn't expect anything less, did ya?”

“No,” Lewis pouts. “But still.”

“Girl, you givin' up on me?”

“Nah, I ain't givin' up. You know better 'an that. Just we got off to such a hot start and I hate to see it fizzlin' out.”

“It ain't fizzling, just settling. Go work some other cases. Let this one simmer down.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“You alright?”

“Yeah, just tired. Baby thing gettin' to me, frustrated I can't go up there, work it myself 'stead a you having to do it all.” She heaves off the couch and the metal squeaks back into place. “I been checkin' provenance on the uncle's house where Saladino stayed at. Hattie Saladino was the wife. She died in '92 and left the house to her niece, Gail Hendry. I tracked Hendry down to an assisted living over to Silver City. I'mma head over there, see if she got anything to say. You wanna come?”

“Nah.” She nods at the messy desk. “I promised Pintar I'd take care of all this. And don't sweat it about me going to Soledad. I'm digging it. Nice change a pace, and I need that. I'm gettin' stale.”

“You ain't stale, LT. You still the best in the game. You want, I can go up wit' you and see it fresh, maybe shake somethin' outta the tree?”

Frank instinctively lies, “Ain't much to shake right now. You're welcome to go, but I think you'd be wasting your time.”

Lewis is visibly relieved. “You probably right.”

“Hey. It's not over yet. I'mma keep workin' it there. You keep
workin' it here. If nothing comes up, we'll just let it ride a little bit. How's Halliday coming?”

She encourages Lewis on the progress of other cases, and when the big cop finally leaves her office, the tiny room seems to expand. Frank's hands remain locked behind her head. She's lied to her best cop; there's plenty to shake on the Saladino tree. But she won't give Lewis the mountains or cabin, Sal or Bone, the creek, the sycamores, even the old store. None of it.

Frank gets up and closes the door. She finds the white card in her wallet and dials the number on it. She is relieved when Marguerite answers, and Frank tells her everything—flying over the dark mountains, seeing trails that aren't there but are, passing out at Sal's, the fire at the cave—all of it. “They're like—what's that word when part of a painting's drawn over another?”

“Pentimento?”

“That's it. The visions are like little flashes of history, like what used to be on the land is still there and bleeds through sometimes, and even though you can't always see it, it's still there.” Frank pauses. “Do you remember telling me I'd have guides, or helpers?”

“Yes.”

“Can a place be a guide?”

“It's possible.”

“And what happens if I can't get to that place as much as I want to?”

She hears Marguerite thinking. “Help takes many forms. As much as we'd like it to remain the same, to look the same every time, energy like that is tremendously fluid. It's dynamic and constantly shifting from one form to another, depending on our needs.”

“What if I need that place?”

“Then you'll have it. If you don't, it may have outlived its purpose and the help will manifest elsewhere. I'd caution you not to become so fixated on one form that you overlook another. And why can't you get to this place?”

“It's private property. I can't go whenever I feel like it, but the damn place is seeping into my bones.”

“Maybe it has always been in your bones and is finally seeping
out
. Can you hold the line a minute?”

“Sure,” Frank sighs, irritated to be put on hold. But as she waits she can hear the mambo breathing. Frank drops her head into her hand, listening to the steady rhythm of Marguerite's breath. She sways in her chair to the gait of a horse and hears the steady clop of hooves, the ring of an iron shoe on rock, a gnat's complaint. Sun heats her back. She touches her tongue to her lips, taking away a salty grit of sweat and dust.

“This place,” Marguerite says. “It's very much with you. Even when you're not there. It has many animals?”

“Yeah. Dogs, chickens. Rattlesnakes. Bears. You name it.”

“Yes. I can feel them. I think they're touching your heart, that through them you're opening to the larger energies of this place, this land.”

“And the woman, is she—”

“Yes?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“If it's any consolation, your estrangement from this place seems temporary. I feel your time there isn't over, that you have much more of a relationship with that land than you can even begin to imagine.”

“You're right. I can't imagine.”

“Don't despair,” Marguerite encourages. “If I know you, you're trying to put this all behind you, to close the door on your experiences as if they never happened. If you can't have them, you'll deny them. Am I close?”

Frank has to smile. “Center mass.”

“Don't do that. Don't deny them. Remember the land as clearly and as vividly as you can. That will keep it connected to you. Distance doesn't matter.”

“That's what Darcy said. Called it ‘spooky action at a distance.'”

To Frank's surprise, Marguerite chuckles. “Yes. That's exactly it. Lieutenant, I know this is difficult, but I'm proud of you for keeping such an open mind.”

Frank can't remember the last time she made anyone proud and deflects the praise. “I don't know how proud you should be. I'm a terrible cop.”

“That may be. But your heart is opening, and that is far more important than being a good cop. I'm glad you called me.”

“Thanks, Marguerite.”

The mambo tells her to take close care, and Frank hits End. Determined to keep at least one promise to Pintar, she settles to her paperwork. It takes a grinding, concentrated day, but she gets it all done.

“Tatum!” she yells.

He pokes his head in the door.

She waves a bill at him. “I need you to run up to the CVS Pharmacy, get some wrapping paper and a bow.”

“Me?”

“Is there anybody else in here?”

“I was just about to leave.”

“Alright, forget it. I'll just tell Pintar you couldn't get her paper.”

“It's for her?”

“Yeah, but don't worry about it. Go home.”

He reaches for the bill. “Nah, I got it. What type you want?”

“Doesn't matter. Just something bright and girly.”

Lewis barges past Tatum, a grin slicing her face. “Who's your number one detective?”

“Uh . . . Tatum?”

He looks on with interest.

“This boy here?” Lewis scoffs. “He couldn't find a clue if it was stapled to his willie. Check this out.” She waves a faded green ledger and Frank flaps a dismissive hand at Tatum.

“I found Miss Henry, 'member the niece I was telling you about this morning?”

Frank nods, hiding a yawn. She wants to go home and get on her treadmill for an hour.

“She a sweet old thing, lonely, and well, you know how charming I can be.” Lewis bats her lashes. The delighted grin returns. “Turns out she got all Saladino's old records. Boxes of 'em. Full of these old notebooks. 'Fraid the minute she throws 'em out, ol' Uncle Sam gonna want to know something about the house or her uncle's business. Keeps 'em all in storage. And she gimme the key.

“1968,” she says, brandishing the register. “Got notes of everyone Louis Saladino paid and how much. Some of it legit, but mostly like it's under the table. But three times there's a record of payment to one Roderick Dusi, and the last one?”

She slaps the ledger down and points to a line on an open page.

“December 17, 1968.”

Frank thinks. “That's the day before Mary Saladino died.”

“Uh-huh. Why the uncle be writing out a check to this Roderick unless he be down here to collect?”

“Maybe Saladino was gonna take it back for him?”

Lewis shakes her head. “You do temp work, you get paid by the day or as soon as the job's over. You don't get your money later.”

She taps Roderick's name. “Mary Saladino's brother was down here the same time her husband was. Right after he put the beatdown on her.”

“Son of a bitch.”

Frank pulls the notebook close. Studying the entries Lewis has tabbed, she mutters, “What else aren't you telling me, Sal?”

Chapter 30

Frank is waiting next Saturday when Sal leaves the store. She looks drained and her shoulders slump even more than usual. Frank opens the truck door so Sal can stash her bags. “Rough morning?”

Sal nods.

“I'd offer to buy you a cup of coffee, but I know the dogs are waiting.”

“Yeah.”

“Could I ask a couple quick questions?”

“You're welcome to come up.”

“You sure? You look beat.”

“I just need to eat. I'll be fine.”

Frank isn't convinced but Sal urges, “Hop in.”

“How 'bout I drive? You can sit back and relax. Survey your kingdom.”

Sal gives up a wan smile. “That'd be a treat.”

Frank slides in behind the wheel, hoping she remembers how to use a clutch. “Don't forget to tell me where to turn.”

Sal nods. Except for directions, they drive without speaking and Frank is surprised how much she has missed the companionable silence. She thinks of all the people in her life and how much they talk. There is never silence in her ears. Not like here, where even the truck straining at the top of its gear is a kind of silence. Frank parks at the barn. “Quad or horses?” she asks before getting out.

Sal thinks a second. “Horses.”

They saddle up and ride the worn track to the cabin. Frank sees as they approach the creek that the sycamores have changed from emerald to a brassy green. Riding into their embrace, she wonders why they
ever gave her the willies. The dogs bark as the horses clop across the bridge and Frank smiles at the water tumbling below.

Sal opens the corral gate and Frank offers, “How about I take care of the horses and you fix something to eat?”

Sal lifts a brow. “Last week you didn't know what a hoof pick was and today you're a regular Annie Oakley.”

Frank grins. “I had a good teacher.”

“Actually, I want to take a ride after we eat, so just leave them saddled.”

“Where to?” she asks, trying to copy Sal's fluid dismount. While lacking grace, she manages to get off without kicking Buttons and scratches her belly.

“You'll see.”

Frank mutters, “Why'd I even ask?”

They feed the dogs, then themselves. Sal finishes her coffee and asks, “Ready?”

“I guess. How far are we going?”

“Not far. We'll be back before dark.”

Frank checks her watch. Sunset is around 7:30 and it's not even three o'clock now.

“Four hours?” she protests, but Sal is already out the door.

They ride north, paralleling the toe of the mountains until Sal suddenly turns up a dark green canyon. Madrones and maples filter the light. Soft, leafy branches swat them. A layer of duff muffles the step of horse and dog alike. The only sound is the swish of cloth upon leather, the occasional note from a bird. The leaves on the ground thicken. The trees lengthen into shaggy-barked redwoods that blot the sun. Sal weaves Dune between the somber spires. They cross and re-cross a dry, ferny stream at the bottom of the canyon. Dune hops up a series of boulders, and before Frank can protest Buttons clambers after him. Frank clings to the horse's neck and manages to stay in the saddle. She rubs under Buttons' bridle and whispers what a fine beast she is.