Page 37 of Cold, Cold Bones
Might he have scrambled up an adjacent tree, then swung over, Tarzan style?
With a limp?
Might he have lassoed the branch, then scaled the trunk, rock-climber style?
Was I creating drama where none existed? Injecting unwarranted suspicion?
I was leaning in that direction when my iPhone buzzed on the counter.
I glanced at it to check caller ID.
Smiling, I clicked on. Was about to open with something light and witty but wasn’t given the chance.
“Where are you?” Katy’s voice was shaky and much too loud.
“At the ME office.” My heartbeat kicked up a notch. “What’s wrong?”
“Have you looked out a window?”
“I’m in an autopsy room.”
“It’s snowing like a sonofabitch.”
“Right.” Relief triggered a laugh. “I was doing a recovery when it started. The woods were pretty—”
“It’s a fucking blizzard!”
That stopped me cold. Katy’s alarm seemed way out of proportion to what she was saying. I pictured her standing at a window, eyes roving, radiating anxiety.
“Has something happened to upset you?” I asked cautiously.
“Yeah. I’m away from home and up to my ass in snow.”
“Where are you?”
“At the shelter.”
“Where’s your car?”
“Here.” In the background I could hear institutional sounds, muffled voices, clangs and scrapes, maybe an elevator bonging.
“You don’t feel comfortable driving?”
“No.”
That seemed out of character.
“You can’t call an Uber?” I knew that was dumb as soon as I said it. In blizzards, Uber cars became as rare as trout on the tundra.
“I don’t feel safe.” Voice rising. “You don’t get it.”
“Tell me.”
I waited out a very long silence. When Katy spoke again it was clear she was forcing her voice calm.
“I spent the better part of the last eight years maneuvering jeeps through one goddam desert or another. Snow and ice aren’t in my skill set.”
“I’ll come get you.”
