Free Boneyard by Michelle Gagnon Page B

Monica slapped a hand on the dashboard. “Doyle at a gay club. This could make my whole week.”
    He heaved the last bag into the open truck bed and slammed the hatch. Taking a moment, he leaned against the bumper and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. It was still unbelievably hot, despite the late hour. On a night like this it was hard to believe that fall was just around the corner, but any day now he’d wake up shivering, wishing he hadn’t left the AC on. He checked his watch: time to get going, there were only a few hours left until dawn.
    Leaving the driveway, he automatically started to turn left, swore under his breath and corrected the wheel, yanking it to the right. His forehead crinkled with annoyance. It wasn’t like him to make a mistake like that, heading to the old site. He was getting rusty. Which would have been fine, before; now that the others had been found, he’d have to be more careful. The discovery of the bones was puzzling. Based on what he’d managed to glean through various sources, the body that initially set off the search was probably his last, the boy with the big sad eyes. Which was surprising, he’d taken his time with that one, buried him deeply. And more perturbingly, he’d been found in the wrong place.
    Animals, probably, he thought, shrugging it off. And it hardly mattered, that site was pretty much tapped out for him now. He rarely used it in the summers anyway, too many campers, lots more than there used to be. It irked him that they swarmed his forest, trampling over his graves. He sighed. He was getting too old for this, when it really came down to it. It took a toll on him, staying up late. The killing was fine, he still had the energy for that. More than that it gave him energy, stripped the years away.
    But the aftermath of dealing with the body, painstakingly removing the eyes, hauling it out to the woods and burying it; he winced slightly as he circled his left shoulder and felt a twinge. He’d reinjured it, just as he’d feared. He’d better ice it when he got home. Maybe it was time to schedule that surgery the doctor had recommended.
    He glanced over his shoulder at the pile of bags in the truck bed. This had been a good one, satisfying. The boy had even made the mistake of spitting on him at the outset. Not by the end, though, by then he could have gotten him to do pretty much anything. He recalled the boy’s small voice, begging for his life, and repressed a smile. His eyes slid across the paneled interior to the clock: 3:00 a.m. If he hurried, he’d get enough sleep to make the church’s pancake breakfast in the morning.
    Seven
    “Stop pouting, Doyle. I’m sure someone’ll ask you to dance if you just give ’em a minute.” Monica tapped him playfully on the arm.
    “They better not,” Doyle grumbled, gnawing a wad of gum. He appeared physically uncomfortable, as though he was trying to shrink into himself. He was rhythmically wincing in time to the driving bass that pulsed through the nightclub. Club Metro was situated on Pleasant Street, a few blocks off Main, in the section of Northampton where quaint antique stores and church spires ceded to industrial warehouses. The hour-long drive from Pittsfield had been oppressive for Kelly, thanks to the palpable tension between Monica and Doyle. Doyle had initially been reluctant to join them but Kelly had insisted, threatening once again to pull rank. She would have preferred going without him, but the club was in a different jurisdiction and they’d be joined by another Massachusetts cop. Kelly was hoping that having Doyle along would smooth over any turf battles.
    “What, your dance card full, Doyle?” Monica said. “Shame. In that outfit, you could be the belle of the ball. I didn’t know they still sold Members Only jackets.”
    Doyle stormed off in the direction of the bar. Kelly’s eyes panned across the crowd as she followed him. She should’ve reined in Monica, but she had to admit to