Free Dry Bones in the Valley: A Novel by Tom Bouman Page A

gathered my firewood and walked back inside, dropping it by the stove in the living room, then went out to help Ed with whatever he was doing. In the truck’s bed were about thirty rough-cut boards. Ed was in the shed, setting risers for the lumber. By way of greeting he called out to me, “I don’t know anymore.”
    “I don’t know anymore.” This covered a lot for us.
    Exhaling a long plume of marijuana smoke, he held out a one-hitter to me. “Safety meeting?”
    I declined, and sprang the ratchet on the nearest strap holding the load down. The lumber’s grain swirled orange and yellow. “This cherry?”
    “Milled it myself. Tree fell across the road out in Midhollow and I got there first.” Ed reached into the pickup’s bed, lifted a board, and examined it. “How about a new kitchen floor?”
    You could see even at that early stage how the lumber would make a handsome floor, a braiding grain that would deepen to red over years in the sun. “Beautiful,” I said, and popped the other ratchet.
    Ed waved me away. “I don’t need help. You got work. Go.”
    I was more tired than I knew. Suddenly the thought of being alone with everything was too much; I fell to my knees and sobbed as I had not done for years.
    “Jesus,” he said, and patted my shoulder for a while as I heaved and tried to catch my breath. “Come on, now.” When I slowed down, he said, “Up. Up’s a daisy, Officer,” and pulled me to my feet. The world spun a couple times.
    I dragged my sleeve across my eyes. “George Ellis was killed last night, shot. I shouldn’t be telling you.”
    Ed’s face hardened. “What?”
    “Shit.” I shook my head. “Please keep it to yourself, will you? You can’t even tell Liz, not yet.”
    “But who ?”
    I didn’t answer. It wasn’t only George upsetting me; I’d shot a man. He was fine, and I was justified, but still. My head was out-of-round and I was exhausted. Ed drew me in—he hugged frequently and all his hugs were bearlike—and told me he’d help however he could. He wiped his own eyes with a canvas glove and returned to his task. We stacked the lumber neatly in the garage, laid a couple of sheets of steel roofing on top, and weighed them down with heavy rocks that had fallen loose from the foundation. When we were done, he straightened and blew a long, contemplative breath out. “You’ll need company. I know you don’t think you do.” He opened the door to his truck and put a foot in. “You all right?”
    “Just tired. Keep it to yourself?”
    Ed drove away. I stepped inside and sat at my kitchen table where the view down the valley was best. While my fresh mug of coffee got cold, I just kept looking down at the kitchen’s narrow uneven floorboards, painted periwinkle, and dotted with white from when someone repainted the ceiling years back. I decided to use them whenever we tore them up, make a table or maybe a bench for outside. I drained my coffee, slapped my face, got dressed, and drove to the courthouse.
    The Holebrook County Courthouse sits atop the high end of Court Street overlooking Fitzmorris’s downtown business district. Dollar store, consignment, a late-run movie theater, two bars, two restaurants, and a sandwich shop. Carly Dunigan’s bookstore is around the corner somewhere. Many of the other businesses have moved out toward Route 488, where they can spread out and build themselves new boxes to be in, or they have been replaced by chains.
    The courthouse is a dependable structure, with pillars, a cupola turned green, and a working clock. It was built in the 1850s. The sheriff’s department and holding cells are on the basement floor, along with Wy Brophy’s office and the tiny county morgue. In an all-purpose chamber whose high windows look out on budding trees in the adjacent square—the kind of government room where corrective driving courses are given, and juries deliberate small-time fates—the coroner and lawmen had gathered, along with District