Bone Harvest - Mary Logue [28]
He cut and squeezed until he had gotten all the juice he could out of the lemon. Not as much juice as he had hoped, but it would do. He added a cup of water, then dumped the contents of the vial into the jug. After screwing the top on tight, he shook the jar and the dark granules dissolved. Then he poured as much of the liquid as he could fit into a silver flask, the old drinking flask of his father’s.
The next step would be taken tonight. Even though he would be the one to carry it out, he could not control what would happen. Four times seven was twenty-eight. It was always twenty-eight. You counted the numbers, you followed the steps.
The letter had been in the paper today. Now everyone would know what this was about; everyone would be thinking about it. The collective energy of the county would be on the old Schuler murders. This next step would start the talking. Everyone would be talking about it, and the truth, like the juice from the pulp of a fruit, would squeeze out.
It could be held inside its skin no longer.
The truth could save them all. If it would come in time.
The last step. He took out his special box, the one he had made when his mother died, and he opened the lid. A pile of delicate bones like links on an ivory chain were arranged inside. Gently he lifted out the smallest bone—Arlette’s, probably—and put it next to the jar. He was ready.
CHAPTER 9
Originally, Claire had asked Rich to come over and spend the day. She had promised to make everything for their holiday feast—a real American celebration: grilled chicken, potato salad, and rhubarb pie. She had asked Rich to pick up a six-pack of beer and just bring himself.
It was his idea of the perfect Fourth of July—complete with fireworks at the end. He had great hopes for this day and set the engagement ring out on his chest of drawers so he wouldn’t forget it.
But this morning, when the phone rang before nine, Rich had a bad feeling. Sure enough, when he picked up the phone, it was Claire.
She started right in. “Plans have changed. I have to go in to work. I’m taking Meg with me. I won’t stay long, but let’s keep it simple. How does wieners and potato chips sound?”
“Fine.”
“Sorry, I know you were looking forward to my potato salad.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Did you see the letter in the Durand paper?”
“Yeah. Kinda cryptic.”
“I think this guy is nuts. I just hope we catch him soon.”
“Do you think he’s going to do something today?”
Claire didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “I hope not.”
Because her hope sounded rather fragile, he decided not to push the subject. “What time do you want me to come over?”
Claire paused, then asked, “Can I call you?”
He hated the idea of waiting the whole day for her to call. “Give me a guesstimate.”
“No later than seven.”
There went their day together. He had finished his chores first thing in the morning, assuming he would meet her around noon. “Fine.”
“I’m sorry.”
He was peeved, but he didn’t feel like discussing it with her. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m worrying.”
“You’ve got enough on your mind.”
“What do you know about the Schuler murders?”
“I was only a toddler.”
“I know. I want a full report tonight. Love you. ’Bye.”
He liked how easily and casually she had said she loved him. As if it were that much a part of her life. That felt good. So she had to work. Big deal. Maybe he would wander down to the beach. He hadn’t spent any time looking for arrowheads in quite a while.
But before he did anything, he would call his mother. She expected him to at least check in on holidays.
“Happy Fourth of July. Beatrice Haggard here.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, Rich, I’ve been waiting to hear from you. What did she say?”
“Who?”
“Claire. Did she say yes?”
Shoot, he had forgotten to call his mother and tell her what had delayed the proposing. Since he had gotten the ring from her, he should have known