Page 111 of Cold, Cold Bones
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY16
The sun rose and set twice. Temperatures warmed slightly.
My neighbor, Alasdair, treated me to two more turtle tirades. And a crudely painted sign on a stake in my yard.A Child Abuser Lives Here.
I received no text or call from Ryan. CNN reported on a tropical storm in the Caribbean, so I figured it had hit Saint Martin. Or he was somewhere at sea on a boat.
Except for her sole cryptic message, Katy also remained “incommunicado.” I tried keeping my mind on other things, but now and then thoughts of my daughter jabbed me like needles. Where was she? The Appalachian Trail? Cape Lookout? A Hilton Head spa? What was she doing? Slidell had his hounds out, but so far no sightings.
Wednesday morning, I kept the dreaded dental appointment. Learned my gums were healthy, my teeth structurally sound. Finally, some good news. I departed the office with the same sense of euphoria I’d felt as a kid leaving the confessional. Free!
The elation was short lived.
Arriving home, I saw Alasdair planted in the spot where his signhad been. His movements suggested rage fueled by an abundance of caffeine. And mental issues.
I turned off the car’s engine, got out, and crossed the yard, circling my neighbor as widely as possible. He followed me to my door, snapping and flapping his arms.
Even inside, I could hear his harangue.
Jesus. How to deal with this nut job? His insults were getting meaner and his threats were escalating.
Sure, I could continue refusing to engage. But he’d keep coming at me. Was a trifling garden sculpture worth it?
No. I’d be the grown-up.
“You win, asshole.” To the empty kitchen. “The turtle comes in.”
I made myself a smoothie for lunch. Yogurt, almond milk, peaches and blueberries, with a pinch of protein powder tossed in for health. It wasn’t bad.
While drinking my wholesome concoction, I retrieved the turtle from the garden and set it in the sink. Then, smug with proper nutrition and sparkling dentition, I headed out to find a replacement.
Blackhawk Hardware offered a variety of choices. Rejecting all gnomes, St. Francis, Buddha, and an angel supporting birds on her outstretched arms, I chose a snail with an exceedingly friendly smile. What could be scary about that?
From the garden center, I swung by Katy’s home. The house was as quiet and undisturbed as on my first visit. More mail piled in the foyer.
I was now seriously worried. And convinced that the call luring me to SWI hadn’t come from my daughter. Despite Skinny’s reluctance, I considered filing an MP report.
And where the hell was my phone? Did my attacker have it? Had he cracked the password and accessed my personal information? Before I’d deactivated the old device, I’d dialed my number repeatedly, never gotten an answer.
Little comforted by the smiling snail, I went to the MCME, hoping for a call from Slidell. Mostly, to stay busy.
Also, I had an idea.
Thankfully, no new request forms had landed in my in-box. I checked a contact on my spiffy new phone and dialed, hoping the number was good.
Two rings, then a male voice answered, familiar as my Midwest childhood. “Dr. Dobzhansky.”
“J.S. It’s been so long I wasn’t sure if you still used this line.”
“Tempe?”
“The one and only.”
“Oh. My. God.”
John Samuel Dobzhansky was my first love. We met as counselors at Camp Northwoods, maintained the romance that summer and the next. Then J.S. went north to school, and I went to the U of I, then to Northwestern. He majored in psychology; I trained in anthropology. I married Pete, J.S married twice, divorced twice. Years later, after Pete and I split, we reconnected at an American Academy of Forensic Sciences meeting, considered a fling, decided the old spark wasn’t there.
I specialize in the compromised dead. J.S. specializes in sexual predators. Happy stuff. Better colleagues than lovers.
