Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [85]
“What do you want from me? I was hired to do a job, and that job has brought me—has brought us here.”
“This isn’t archaeology. You were hired to find some bones, not traipse around the world angering government officials. Not to hunt down someone you think killed your brother.”
Or put my other loved ones in the crosshairs. I wonder, briefly, if Espy falls under that umbrella, but I quickly bury the thought. I don’t have time to consider something like that. It wasn’t on the agenda when this whole thing started, and I hate penciling things in. I let go of her hand.
“You’ve taken this far beyond where you should have,” she continues. “It’s become your personal crusade now.”
“Even if it is, what of it?” I retort.
“For one thing, I’m still not convinced your primary target is Victor Manheim. Or Gordon Reese. I think you’re angry enough at God to follow the bones anywhere they take you.”
“There you go with God again. What’s gotten into you?”
She shakes her head, as if in disbelief at my ignorance. “You’re looking for bones that have the power to raise the dead, and you want to keep God out of it?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, I can’t.”
Silence falls over us and I notice that everyone in the café is looking in our direction. Lowering her voice, Espy says, “You and I haven’t talked about this. Way too much baggage. But God means a lot more to me now than He used to. And before you go much farther, you should evaluate where you stand.”
What saves me from having to respond is the ringing of my phone. I fumble in my pocket until I feel the phone.
“Ducks?”
“She’s safe, Jack.” He coughs. “But she wasn’t happy about it.”
That elicits my first genuine smile of the day. “I can imagine.”
“Carrie called me and I talked to your mom and convinced her to go.”
“I’m surprised she listened. I didn’t think she liked you.”
“It would have helped if you’d told her they were coming.”
“The line was busy. I think she’s still on dial-up. Where did they take her?”
“Carrie wouldn’t tell me. Only that they couldn’t use a real safe house because it’s not official police business. But Carrie’s good people, Jack. I’m sure your mom’s safe.”
“Jim Duckett, you’re a beautiful human being.”
“You’re right, I am. But I’m also someone who needs a few good answers right now. Carrie said I better have something solid for her soon or she’d hurt me. And she’s a cop, so she knows how to inflict pain.”
Duckey is trying to keep it light but there’s tenseness beneath the words—a suggestion that there have been too many unexplained favors. I know I owe him an explanation— several explanations—and so I give him what he needs. I tell him everything. By the time I’ve finished, I can almost see my friend processing the story. Were we back in the student union considering the same matter over dinner, now would be the time when he would lean back in his chair and run a hand over his breast pocket, feeling for his cigar case.
When he answers, his words are not entirely unexpected. “Isn’t it time you got yourself back here?”
“Denver?”
“You know what I mean.”
Of course I do. And yet, at a time when the most logical response would be a yes, preceded by some off-color exclamation, I find that I’m ill-equipped to make that call. It takes a moment for me to realize that my inability to answer the question in the manner Duckey wants is that I no longer understand where I belong. I have a brief and painful fear that I will never see Duckey again, but I shrug and the thought is gone.
“I can’t come back yet, Ducks.”
“When’s a good time? Before or after you wind up dead?”
“I’m aiming for before.”
“But the target’s small and you’ve had way too much caffeine.”
I have no reply but to smile, which doesn’t translate well via satellite.
“What time is it there?” I think to ask.
“Dark.”
The waiter comes by and clears my plate but I don’t hear the few words he exchanges