Free The Prettiest Feathers by John Philpin Page B

forces pulling me in opposite directions at the same time.”
    “I remember the first day you came to see me. You compared yourself to a bird.”
    “Yes. The swift. It flaps first one wing, then the other, but never the two at once. It’s a being, divided—like the woman in the book,” I said, nodding toward the volume I had just given him.
    I told him about the birthday visit with Liza, but I had trouble concentrating. I kept thinking about John, about the swallows—how they swooped in low arcs across the hill. And I kept remembering two things about that moment: how I wished that I could fly, and how my feet were sinking more deeply into the grass that covered my daughter’s grave.

John

    T he plan has been in place for years, of course, but tonight I am closer to setting it in motion than I have ever been. It is the method by which I will guarantee my freedom and ensure that I will be able to continue living my life in whatever way I choose. But
I’ll
have to surrender the comfort afforded by these surroundings. I must relocate, and become one of the dozen different identities at my disposal. In some respects the prospect is exciting, but, on the downside, I’ve grown attached to my space in the country, and am loath to leave it.
    It is some comfort to know that I can watch from a distance as the police and the media unearth the story of the psycho medical examiner who kept himself in business. It will be a national story, especially when they discover my land to the north, and begin their excavation—and exhumation. But, alas, I won’t be able to join Geraldo on location in Hasty Hills. I will be well on my way to my next challenge, my next adventure.
    I telephoned Bernie Lallendorf, the part-time maintenanceman at the Hasty Hills municipal building, to ask him to stop by my place on Monday morning. “I have some electrical work for you,” I told him. Bernie’s always looking to make an extra buck. “When you get here, feel free to walk in. The front door will be unlocked. If I have the stereo on, I won’t be able to hear you, no matter how hard you knock.”
    Bernie thanked me and promised to show up early.
    When he arrives, the house will be a bomb, waiting for someone to trigger it. Opening the front door will break an electrical circuit. A switch will close. A priming device will operate. The explosion will leave a crater fifty feet across and ten feet deep.
    When the authorities find Bernie’s corpse, if there’s that much left of him, they’ll assume that Doc Chadwick went up in the blast; they’ll think they’re burying me.
    The next day, Saturday, was a workday for me. I drove over to the municipal building, where the county medical center is housed, and took my usual position in the autopsy room, near the array of metal instruments that I keep on a stainless steel table. Looking at the specimen before me, I spoke into a microphone that was suspended from the ceiling by a cord.
    “Beginning external examination,” I said. “The body is that of a well-developed, well-nourished white female. Her gross appearance is consistent with an approximate age of twenty-five to twenty-seven years. The body measures five feet, nine inches long, and weighs 130 pounds.”
    For the past five years I’ve been the chief medical examiner for the county. I’ve testified in a dozen homicide cases, plus an equal number of civil actions brought as the result of claims of wrongful death.
    “The head is covered with shoulder-length brown hair. The eyes are blue. The conjunctival membranes, unremarkable. There is no congestion, nor are there petechial hemorrhages. There are freckles over the face, primarily on the sides of the nose.”
    Several years ago the county prosecutor called me with questions regarding one of my reports. He wanted to know the possible length and width of the knife that had been used to kill a young woman.
    “Can you give me any idea?” he asked.
    “I can do better than that,” I