Free Bone Harvest by Mary Logue

off?” she asked. “Are you kidding me?”
    “I am kidding you. But I’m serious when I say that I’m not too worried about my birds. I don’t think this guy is after me. I don’t think he’s after all the poultry in the county. I think he’s got something else in mind.”
    “What?”
    “I’m not sure, but whatever it is, your mom will figure it out.”
    Meg thought for a moment. “My mom is really smart, but she doesn’t know everything. She makes mistakes, too.”
    “Of course she does. But I think this guy wants to be stopped.”
    “Why?”
    “Because he’s leaving clues.”
    Meg liked the idea of the clues. It made it more like a Nancy Drew mystery, something that could be solved and then everything would fall into place.
    “You know that I’m going to my grandparents this summer.”
    “Yeah, when?”
    “Not sure, but, I just want to be sure that you’ll keep an eye on Mom. I didn’t want her to know that I’m worried, but I am.”
    Rich didn’t say anything for a moment; then he cleared his throat. “I will keep an eye on her. You know you can count on me. But I know she wants you to have a good time on your trip and not to worry about her.”
    “I’ll try.” Meg was glad she had said it. But once was enough. You didn’t need to repeat things with Rich. He got them the first time. “I think it’s going to be hot tomorrow. It’s hot today.”
    “It’s supposed to be hot on the Fourth of July. With plenty of mosquitoes and maybe even a thunderstorm thrown in.”
    “No thunderstorms. Just fireworks. That’s enough.”

CHAPTER 8
    Often Earl Lowman dreamed of lakes—deep, clear, sweet-sprung lakes. But when he woke, as he did on this hot July day, he was still in Tucson, Arizona—108 degrees at midday—where the one river that had once flowed through the town, the Santa Cruz, had dried up long ago, and the water table was dropping inches a year, causing the ground below his house to sink.
    He turned his head on his pillow and read his alarm clock—5:07 A.M. —noting that it would go off in eight minutes. If he wanted to take a walk, he had to get up. Once the sun rose at six, it rapidly got too hot to be outside. He threw the sheet off his legs.
    But the dream of the lake held him in bed for another few minutes. He thought of wading up to his waist in Lake Pepin; he remembered jumping off the old oak tree that bent over the Rush River and plunging into the spring-fed waters. He would love to swim again in fresh water.
    Most afternoons Earl wandered down to the community pool and swam a few laps, but it was not the same. The water was chlorinated and way too warm. No one else even bothered to swim in the pool. They stood in the water and gabbed. The heads of other old people bobbed around in the pool like idling ducks on a dirty pond. Earl Lowman wondered what had happened to his life.
    After thirty years as a deputy sheriff for Pepin County, he had retired down in Tucson with his wife, Florence. Three months after they had moved into their new town home, Florence had died. Stroke. That was ten years ago. His one daughter was living in Seattle and his son still lived in Durand, Wisconsin. Earl and his son, Andy, hadn’t spoken in ten years—since Florence’s death. She was the one who had stayed in touch with Andy. Earl had no reason to go back to Wisconsin, but he missed it.
    He pulled on a pair of gym shorts that weren’t too dirty and dug out an old T-shirt. Wandering into the kitchen, he hit the button on the coffeemaker. He set it up the night before so all he had to do was start it brewing in the morning. He pulled open the front door and found the Arizona Daily Star on his doorstep. After pouring himself a cup of coffee and adding artificial sweetener to it, he set the paper and the coffee on the table on the back patio and went in to make breakfast.
    He ate the same thing every day. It made life easy. He took out a frozen waffle and put it in the toaster. He poured some