Free Bone Hunter by Sarah Andrews Page A

evidence: They have enough intelligence to send one to keep an eye on me so I don’t interrupt the other one’s search. But Mr. Chevy is a rank beginner at tailing, doesn’t know he isn’t supposed to get noticed, or just doesn’t care. Likewise Mr. Toss, or he’s a bit too emotional or maybe he got to crashing things about so much that he couldn’t hear Mr. Chevy warning him over the radio. So Mr. Chevy finds me already here and he does the dumbest thing in the books: He takes a shot at not only me but also a police officer.”
    “I’m out of uniform.”
    “What kind of car you driving this time?”
    “Unmarked.”
    “Okay, so let’s give him back ten points on the IQ scale for thinking he’s aiming at open game. But shooting is patently stupid. It’s overkill. It’s panic.”
    “I won’t argue there.”
    “So maybe these guys did whatever they did to George in a moment of panic, too.”
    I was expecting another rejoinder, such as, We don’t know these are the guys who did George, but instead Ray drew himself inward. He closed his eyes and stiffened, shutting down outside stimulus.
    “I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I forgot. There’s something really bad about the way George was killed.”
    His eyes snapped open again, wide, alarmed. “How do you know that?”
    I straightened up and pushed the coffee away in disgust. I was more than tired of this suspect business; I was all the way to irritated. “Because it’s written all over you. I recommend
you keep with the sports, but do not—I repeat, do not—take up poker. You’re as guileless as I am.”
    Just then, Detective Bert popped into the room and slathered us both with one of his impertinent grins. “So, you two lovebirds, we’re all done in here. I’ll be seeing you. You have a nice night’s sleep, okay?” With that, he showed me his first bit of mercy of the day by simply leaving. Which was lucky for him, because I now knew that he knew that the man in the Chevy wasn’t one of his, and I have been known, when that angry, to kick. Not that I condone violence, but when you ride horses, you learn to defend yourself when they pull dirty tricks that might endanger you.
    Steadying my breath, I got up and headed into the bedroom to try once again to pick my clothes up off the floor. Mr. Toss had had himself a party. From the doorway, Ray said, “I’m going out to my car for a moment. I’ll lock the door behind me. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
    I nodded and knelt down to sort underwear from once-pressed shirts, folded them, and laid them back in my suitcase. It took me several moments to find my toilet kit; Mr. Toss had kicked it underneath the bed. As I picked it up, it sloshed. Opening it, I found that he had also stepped on it, rupturing both my tube of toothpaste and my shampoo. “That’s why I know it was a man in the house,” I grumbled aloud. “A woman would’ve had more respect.”
    Holding the dripping kit away from my clothes so I wouldn’t get them any messier than they already were, I carried it into the kitchen to clean it out in the sink. As I ran water into it, I saw a dark form slip across the backyard. In the half second it took me to assemble data and react, I thought first that it must be Ray coming back, but as the shape slipped briefly out of deep shadow into the dull remnants of the light from the window, it was entirely too small.

    I dropped from the window and scuttled across the floor, fetching up in the narrow space between the refrigerator and the stove. It smelled as if it must usually be home to the garbage can. Sticky residues stuck my shoes to the floor as I squeezed farther back into the nook. Something tickled the top of my head. I looked up, saw the dangling cord of the kitchen phone. I jumped quickly up and grabbed the receiver, and was relieved to find that the buttons were on the handset. Falling back to the floor, I dialed 911.
    “State your emergency,” said a voice.
    “This is Em