Bone White

The old man’s eyes narrowed, and he made no effort to conceal either his confusion and his agitation at Paul’s sudden arrival, not to mention this strange detour into photographs and missing brothers. “Ain’t no one come out this way, ’cept cops. All week it’s cops. Up in them woods. Bad idea. You a cop?”

  “I’m not a cop.” Judging by the man’s demeanor, Paul realized he’d be of no help, but he dug his cell phone out of his coat anyway, and scrolled through Danny’s text messages until he found the most recent one, from over a year ago—the one he’d shown Investigator Ryerson earlier that day. Paul held out the phone so the old man could examine the photograph.

  “Hmmm,” said the man as he peered at the photo on the cell phone’s screen. Then the man’s suspicious gaze shot back up at Paul. “That’s a picture of you,” he said, his voice grating. “This some kind of joke?”

  “We’re twins,” Paul said. “Like I said, his name is Danny Gallo. He came out here about a year ago. But then he disappeared.”

  Scrutinizing the photo once again, the old man muttered, “Uh-huh.”

  “So you recognize him?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are you sure? It was only a year ago.”

  “He ain’t familiar. Neither are you.”

  Paul exhaled. He was exhausted. “How about that room?”

  “What room?”

  “You said . . . the room. You have a room available, don’t you?”

  The old man’s lower lip protruded. “You with the IRS or something, fella?”

  “No. No, I’m not with the IRS. Listen, is there someone else working here? I’m very tired.”

  “There’s Igor,” said the man.

  “Igor?”

  The old man pistoned a finger over his head and at the stuffed moose head fixed to the wall behind him, dusty black marbles for eyes. One side of the old man’s mouth tightened into the approximation of a grin, which told Paul that this was some sort of joke—perhaps the only joke this old-timer knew.

  “Oh. All right.” Paul tucked the cell phone back into his coat pocket. “That’s funny.”

  “You here ’cause of this brother, or are you here ’cause of them murders? Them bodies they found up in them woods?”

  “I’m here because those two things might be related.”

  “Think your brother was killed, eh?” There was not a trace of emotion in the old man’s voice. He was asking a question that could have been handed to him on an index card.

  “I’m not sure what happened,” Paul told him.

  “Chopped off their heads. You know that?”

  “What?”

  “Ol’ Joe Mallory from up Durham went crazy, chopped off their heads. All of ’em.”

  “The victims’ heads? They’d been decapitated?”

  “Wasn’t in any of the newspapers, was it?”

  “No,” Paul said, feeling his stomach sink. “It wasn’t.”

  “So don’t you go printing it, neither.”

  “I’m not a reporter. I’m not a reporter and I’m not a cop. I’m just tired. Can I get that room?”

  The inn’s door opened on a gust of frigid wind and squalling hinges. A largish woman came in from the outside, her face squinty and red from the cold.

  “I told you not to move from that chair, Daddy,” she scolded the old man, though her stare was fixed on Paul. Her hair was tied back beneath a kerchief, and she was dressed in a man’s flannel shirt and barn coat.

  She went around the front desk and placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Go watch your TV and stop pestering folks.” Then she turned to Paul. It was the old man’s stoic face that stared back at him, though perhaps twenty-odd years younger, and without an ounce of femininity. A sheen of white down bristled from the woman’s chin. “Can I help you?” she asked him.

  “He’s police,” said the old man as he lowered himself back down into his lawn chair with shaky sluggishness, his hands planted on the chair’s armrests, his elbows wobbling for balance.

  “I’m not police,” Paul said to the woman.

  “Don’t mind Daddy. He’s got the dementia.”

  “Goddamn you, Janice,” the old man bellowed at her, his voice hoarse and cracking. “I’m trying to watch my program here.”

  “Ma’am, my name’s Paul Gallo. My brother came out here about a year ago, just before he went missing. Would you mind looking at a photo to see if you recognize him?”

  “Don’t get many people out this way, Mr. Gallo. But sure, I’ll take a look.”

  He showed her the picture on his phone.

  “That’s a picture of you, ain’t it?” she said.

  “We’re twins.”

  She looked back down at the photo again, this time studying it a bit closer. “Yeah, I see that now. Small differences.”

  “Do you recognize him?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “His brother’s dead,” barked the old man.

  “All right, Daddy,” the woman called to her father.

  “Madman Mallory took the fella’s head clean off.”

  “Daddy, that’s enough.”

  “Took all ’em heads off. Whoop! Just like ’at.”

  The woman returned her gaze to Paul, her face brooding and unapologetic. “Don’t pay him no mind. We’ve had some trouble out here lately.”

  “I know about the murders. That’s what brought me out here.”

  “Well, if you’re worried your brother might be messed up in all that, you’re better off talking to the police down in Fairbanks. Ain’t gonna do you much good prowling around out here. We’re fixing to get some early snow, too. Road to the highway shuts down after the first big snowfall. The state don’t plow way out here.”

  “I’ve got a police report that mentions a woman named Valerie Drammell. Is she like the town constable or something?”

  “She’s a he,” said the woman. “He’s public safety. He might help you put out a grease fire, if he ain’t out at Whitehead hooking pike. That’s about the extent of his policing.”

  “He’s a lousy pissant son of a bitch,” the old man commented.

  “That’s enough outta you,” the woman called back to him over her shoulder.

  “So what happens if there’s an emergency?” Paul asked. “You gotta wait for the police or paramedics to drive the ninety miles up from Fairbanks?”

  “We’re real good at taking care of our own out here,” she said. “Was there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Gallo?”

  “I’d like to rent that room you’ve got.”

  “I can do that, although you might be more comfortable out by the highway.”

  “I prefer to stay here in town.”

  “Just figured I’d mention it, is all. The room’s forty bucks a night, in advance. Credit card machine’s busted, so it’s cash.”

  Paul forked over two twenties and was handed a brass key affixed to a plastic fob with the inn’s name printed on it in permanent marker.

  “We shut the lobby down at ten,” the woman said, “but your room key will get you in and out of the front door. Daddy and I stay next door, if there’s anything you need in the night. And I prepare breakfast at seven sharp, if you’re up and hungry come morning. I’m Jan Warren, by the way.”

  “Thank you, Jan. I’m Paul.”

  She leaned over the desk and held an arm out toward the narrow shaft of hallway beyond the lobby. “Yours is the first door on the right, just past the dining room.”

  “Thanks.” Paul glanced up at the moose head mounted to the wall above the old man’s TV. “Thanks, Igor.”

  He carried his bags in from the car and down the cramped little hall, passing a gloomy dining area that boasted a single rectangular table slotted up against a pair of shaded windows, and a lunch counter that accommodated two stools. It looked like a 1950s soda shop that had been evacuated following the knell of an air-raid siren.

  The door to his room sported a heavy-duty dead bolt, while the wooden door itself
looked about as substantial as a plank of balsa wood. The lock on the door was uncooperative, so it took some finessing with the key to get it unlocked and opened.

  The room was tiny. Had it not been for the narrow little bed shoved against one wall, Paul would have thought he’d walked into a broom closet. There were just enough animal heads adorning the walls to make Paul think that Norman Bates was watching him from behind one of those sets of eyes. There were crosses on the walls, too, some of which looked as if they were handmade, carved from unpolished staves of wood or woven from lengths of dry, brittle palm. Most disturbing of all was the enormous macramé tapestry of the Virgin Mary hanging where Paul would have preferred a television to be—there was no TV in the room—and the rudimentary style of the artwork made it look almost like modern art. The eyes, Paul noted, looked unfinished; they appeared as large white orbs.

  There was a peculiar gluey smell to the room, too, he noticed, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. It was as if new wallpaper had been recently put up. Researchers have said that the olfactory sense is the one most closely connected to memory, and the smell of the room brought him back to grade-school art class, and the time Danny had pulled his hands up into the overlong sleeves of his art smock, which had been one of their father’s old shirts. Mrs. Proctor, the art teacher, had grabbed the sleeves and snipped them with a pair of shears. Danny had unleashed an agonized cry, and Mrs. Proctor, terrified that she had snipped Danny’s fingers along with the sleeves, had turned white. But then Danny started laughing, and wiggling his fingers from the shortened sleeves. Mrs. Proctor had sent him to the principal’s office, and then had spent the remainder of the class studying Paul, as if he had somehow conspired with Danny to trick her.

  The memory was a strong one, yet he was still surprised to find his heart thumping in his chest. His skin felt prickly beneath his clothes.

  He dumped his duffel bag and suitcase on the bed, pulled off his coat, then went to the tiny bathroom, where he washed his face and hands in a sink that was too low to the floor. Then he stared at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Carved into the glass at the bottom of the mirror was the phrase:

  YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE

  “No shit,” he muttered.

  For the briefest moment, he thought he saw Danny standing over his shoulder in the mirror. He didn’t turn around, but instead wiped an arc through the steam. Danny was gone.

  You should not be here.

  His cell phone chimed in his coat pocket, startling him. He fumbled it out and saw that it was Erin Sharma.

  “Hey, Erin,” he said.

  “Paul? You sound out of breath. Are you okay?”

  “Oh, I was just working out. You know me.”

  Erin laughed, and the sound of it helped anchor him to reality. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized just how detached he’d been feeling.

  “I haven’t heard from you, and I was beginning to get worried,” she said.

  “I’m sorry. I guess I should have called.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Fairbanks,” he said. It was a slip of the tongue—he’d answered without thinking. “No, wait. I’m in Dread’s Hand.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s the town where Danny went missing.”

  “Have you spoken to that police detective?”

  “Ryerson,” he said. He crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the small bed. A headache was coming awake in his left temple. He shrugged himself out of his coat. “She’s an investigator with the state troopers. Yeah, I met with her earlier today.”

  “And? What’s going on, Paul? The news out here stopped reporting on the story. I guess they’ve lost interest. It’s back to Justin Bieber and the Kardashians.”

  He cut off their heads, Erin. How’s that for a news bulletin, huh? Something they didn’t put in any of the newspapers, as far as I know. Heck, maybe the old bastard in the lobby was full of shit and just trying to spook me into good behavior, but I don’t think he was. I don’t think he was full of shit, Erin. I think that psychopath Joseph Mallory cut those people’s heads off, just like the old bastard said.

  “They’ve identified the victims. Danny’s not one of them.”

  “What? No?” She cleared her throat. “Okay. Okay, then.”

  “Yeah, so . . .”

  “What does that mean for you? Are you coming home?”

  “In a couple of days, I think,” he said. The headache had matured to a full-blown migraine in a matter of thirty seconds. He pressed the heel of his free hand against his pounding temple.

  “What else is there for you to do out there?”

  “Try to find out what happened,” he said.

  “Oh, Paul.”

  “What? What is it?”

  “Nothing. You sound tired. Poor Paul. How are you holding up?” Her tone was more delicate now.

  They’d made love on three occasions during their brief courtship, over two years ago now, but he found himself picturing her smooth, brown body, and the way she’d leave her warm scent on his pillows for days after. The way she’d set her black-framed glasses on his nightstand before bed. The pale whiteness of the soles of her feet. He missed her.

  “I’m holding up just fine,” he told her.

  “And your Manipura? Have you used it to save the world yet?”

  He smiled despite the jackhammering in his skull. “I’ll get on that just as soon as I’m done pumping all this iron.”

  “I am not joking,” she said, though he knew her well enough to sense the taunting in her voice. “You think I’m foolish, but I am praying for you, Paul.”

  “You’re too kind to me. You worry too much.”

  “I have never had to worry about you before. Ever. Until now.”

  “Why now? What’s to be worried about?”

  “You have your Manipura and I have my Ajna.”

  “Are you talking dirty to me now?”

  “The Ajna—the third-eye chakra. My woman’s intuition, if you prefer your crude Western parlance.”

  “Erin, there’s nothing to be worried about. I’ll be fine. You were the one who urged me to come out here in the first place, remember?”

  “Not true,” she said. “I urged you to make the telephone call to that policewoman. This circumambulation to the ends of the earth was your brilliant idea, professor.”

  “Quit using big words. It’s getting late and I’m tired.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s four hours later here, you know. And I have work in the morning.”

  “Then get some sleep,” he said.

  “I will. Just promise me that you will be safe.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be safe? I’m fine, Erin. Everything is fine.”

  “Then just promise me that whatever you find out about your brother—whatever happens out there—you’ll keep in mind that you did all you could for him.”

  I wonder if that’s true, he thought, and had even opened his mouth to say as much. But he caught himself at the last minute.

  “Of course,” he said into the phone. “I promise I’ll keep that in mind. But please, don’t worry.”

  “Be good, Paul.”

  “Good night, Erin.”

  He hung up.

  There was a tub of Advil in his duffel bag. He dug it out now, popped two tablets into his mouth, and swallowed them dry. Also inside the duffel bag was the unlabeled box that had sat for a year on the shelf in Paul’s bedroom closet—the box filled with Danny’s cell phone records, credit card statements, and all the police reports that had been filed with the case. He took that box out now and opened it. The papers inside smelled stale, and the English teacher in him couldn’t help wondering if their odor was symbolic.

  He located the police report that had been filed soon after Paul first spoke with Investigator Ryerson over the phone, one year earlier. He reread it, noting that Ryerson had requested two state troopers, Olsen and Mannaway, to travel to Dread’s Hand. There were a few photographs at
tached to the report that showed Danny’s rental car, an aquamarine Oldsmobile Bravada, on the shoulder of a wooded dirt road. It could have been any one of the desolate roadways that traversed the country, but Paul thought it looked very much like the ninety miles of road that led from the highway outside Fairbanks out here to Dread’s Hand. He could make out the mountain range at the horizon in a few of the photos, just beyond the trees, the green-black dinosaur shapes of the White Mountains.

  He’d examined these countless times before, when he’d first received them in the mail, but he noticed something now in one of the photos that hadn’t registered with him before. Probably because he hadn’t had the context at the time to recognize it for what it was.

  In one photo, there was something thin and white reflected in the Bravada’s tinted rear window. Only now did Paul realize it was one of the large wooden crosses that he had passed along that nameless road—a road that was, in fact, called Damascus Road—on his drive into the village this afternoon.

  What do you expect to find out here? a voice spoke up in his head. Do you think you’ll actually find something the trained professionals missed?

  But those trained professionals had no reason to believe Danny had been one of Mallory’s victims. They were too narrow-minded, too focused on what they already had right in front of them. Ryerson hadn’t noticed the look of recognition in Mallory’s eyes. Danny had been written off. No one else would be out here looking for him.

  Enough. His head hurt too much to go over this stuff right now.

  He set aside the box of records and reclined on the bed. The mattress was hard and unyielding, but he realized that, in his exhaustion, he didn’t care.

  He was asleep in less than a minute.

  13

  Ryerson grabbed two cartons of beef lo mein and a bag of egg rolls from Luck Joy Beijing, then hustled back to the station beneath a light drizzle of rain.

  “You’ll be next to catch the flu,” McHale said as she came into the squad room. He had his feet up on his desk and was hammering out a text message on his cell phone. “Isn’t this supposed to be your day off, anyway?”

  “Supposed to be,” she said, setting one of the containers down on his desk. “Dinner.”