Carved in Bone - Jefferson Bass [67]
“Yes, it does. Her baby, too—seems like that baby could also use some good folks in its corner.”
Liquid gurgled into the sheriff’s mouth. “Doc, you ever raise your head and look around and wonder what happened?”
“How do you mean?”
“Wonder how the hell you ended up where you’re at, dealing with the shit you’re dealing with? ’Scuse me.” I waited for him to continue. “This sure ain’t what I pictured for myself, you know? Man, back when I was playin’ ball, I had my ticket out of here. I was gonna shake the dust of Cooke County offa my cleats.” Even from my brief time in his jurisdiction, I could imagine how thrilling that prospect must have seemed. “And then I got sent sprawling back home. Crawling back home.” He exhaled loudly. “Hell of it is, I been trying to do a good job. Which ain’t always easy to do up here. Lots easier to do a bad job, you know? Now, I ain’t even sure what a good job is anymore.”
“Well, don’t give up. Maybe it’ll get clearer before long. Like your coach used to tell you, look for daylight and run like hell.”
“Did he say that?” He pondered. “Daylight. Yeah. Maybe.” He drew another long breath, like he was winding up to something. “Doc, I trust you, and that’s more’n I can say ’bout a lot of people. I was outta line when I tried to shoot you, and I ’pologize.”
“Thanks.”
“You just do the best damn job you can, you hear?”
“I will. You too, Sheriff.”
“Awright. We’ll see you, Doc. You better get some sleep.”
Amazingly, I did.
CHAPTER 23
MIRANDA WAS LAYING THE last of Billy Ray Ledbetter’s ribs on a tray when I walked into the bone lab. The torso had simmered for a day and a half in our biggest kettle, a steam-jacketed vat nearly the size of a frontier-era bathtub. The kettle wasn’t the only thing simmering, judging by Miranda’s face. She looked away when she saw me. Keep things light and breezy, I told myself. “Anything interesting?”
She flushed. “I’ll let you decide for yourself.” She shoved the tray along the counter in my direction and headed for the door. So much for light and breezy.
“Miranda, wait.” She paused, her hand on the knob. “Please. Come talk to me about this.”
“You don’t need me to tell you anything about this. You don’t need a pathologist, either. Hell, an undergraduate—a goddamn undergraduate—could tell you the story on these ribs.”
She wasn’t making it easy. “I don’t mean what’s wrong with the ribs. I mean what’s wrong with you and me.”
She turned. “You and me? There is no ‘you and me,’ Dr. Brockton.” She turned the knob and cracked the door.
“Miranda, wait. Look, I made a mistake. I’m sorry I did, and I’m sorry you saw me make it.”
“Yeah. Me, too.” She shoved the door open furiously. It banged against the doorstop outside and careened back into her, catching her on the forearm. She yelled in pain. “Ow, shit! Oh, goddamn! Oh, son of a bitch. Oh, oh, oh!” I started toward her, but she saw me coming and shouldered on through the door to get away. The heavy steel door slammed shut behind her.
Yeah, Einstein, that went well, I sneered at myself. What a screwup. I plopped onto an ancient stool and laid my forehead on the counter. Closing my eyes, I took three deep breaths and tried to calm my mind by focusing on the sounds around me instead of the turmoil inside. Somewhere in the bowels of the structure, the ventilation system thrummed. Outside, beyond the maze of girders and concrete pilings, a weed-eater buzzed relentlessly, then gave a strangled cry and died. Moments later, the ventilation system fell silent, too. In the sudden quiet, all I heard was a deep groaning, the sound of an animal in pain. I looked out the lab’s wall of windows for the source of the sound.
Miranda sat crumpled on the concrete steps outside the stadium, her purse and backpack a few steps below her. Hunching over, she clutched her right arm to her chest, sobbing from