Bones to Ashes

Dawn lit the shade when I finally sat back. Stunned. Appalled. Certain of two things.

Sheldrake Island was, indeed, Île-aux-Becs-Scies. Hippo’s girl had suffered a hideous death.

26

I SUSPECT LACK OF SLEEP MUDDLED MY THINKING.

Or maybe it was Pete’s early morning call about grounds. And filing papers. And young Summer’s inability to find a caterer.

Or maybe Hippo’s shocker.

In looking back, there’s always the mental cringe. The suspicion that I could have done better.

After speaking with Pete, I woke Harry and explained what I’d learned on the Net. Then I apologized for abandoning her again.

I need to be certain, I said.

We could be back to square one, she said.

Yes, I agreed.

Harry went shopping. I went to the lab.

It took only an hour with the skeleton. The diagnosis seemed so obvious now. How could I have been so dense about the lesions?

It’s the horror of other places, other times, I told myself. Not twentieth-century North America.

True. Nevertheless, a sorry defense.

When I’d finished with the bones, I logged onto my computer, wanting to arm myself fully for the upcoming conversation with Hippo. I was closing the Web browser when a ping told me a new e-mail had landed.

Contacting a government office on a weekend is like phoning the Pope on Easter morning. Curious who’d e-mailed on a Saturday, I clicked over to my in-box.

I didn’t recognize the sender: [email protected].

When I opened the message, icy-hot barbs shot through my chest.

Temperance:

Staring your severed head in the face…

Death. Fate. Mutilation.

A photo had been inserted below the text.

Thursday night. Harry and I, backlit by the bulbs at Milos’s entrance.

I stared at the photo, breath stuck in my throat. It wasn’t only the shock of seeing myself. Or the idea that I’d been watched by a stranger. Something was off. Wrong.

Then it registered.

Harry’s head was on my body, mine on hers.

My gaze drifted to the italicized line in the message. Poetry? Lyrics?

I did another browser search using the words “death,” “fate,” and “mutilation.” Every link pointed me the same way.

Death was a heavy metal band formed in 1983, disbanded in 1999. Its founder, Chuck Schuldiner, was considered the father of the death metal genre. The group’s Fate album was released in ’92. One cut was titled “Mutilation.”

When I brought up the lyrics, my pulse jackhammered. The line from the e-mail was there. And the refrain. Over and over.

You must die in pain.

Mutilation.

Jesus Christ! Where was Harry?

I tried her cell. She didn’t answer. I left a message. Call me.

Who was this creep, [email protected]?

Same gut reaction I’d had to the phone call.

Cheech?

Same line of questions.

Alpha male courtship? Threat? Why?

And then I was angry.

Pulling air into my lungs, I punched Fernand Colbert’s number. He answered.

“Working on Saturday?” I asked.

“Got a wiretap in place.”

I knew not to ask details. “Hope my request isn’t jamming you up.”

“Mais non. And I need the barbecue sauce.”

“Any luck with the trace?”

“Yes and no.”

“Well, then.”

“Let me explain. Phone companies track everything going in or out of a landline, with the possible exception of local calls that are handled within the same switcher. This is also true of cell phones.”

“This is the yes part.”

“Yes. Here’s how a cell call to a landline works. You dial a number on your mobile. It calls the closest tower. Using the same technology as your caller ID, it says, ‘I’m Tempe’s phone and I want to call 1-2-3-4-5.’ The tower sends your call to the MTSO, the central Mobile Telephone Switching Office, which connects to the land-based phone system. You with me?”

“So far. I have a feeling you’re getting to the no part.”

“The MTSO connects with the landline’s main exchange, which sends the call to the main exchange serving your destination. From there your call goes to the destination’s local exchange and then to the destination phone.

“At every stop your phone’s identification is logged because everybody who touches the call wants to get paid. Your number is not only associated with you but also with your carrier. The kicker is, all your information isn’t kept in one place, and companies won’t release it without a subpoena and reimbursement of the cost of looking it all up.

“The other kicker is that with some wireless services, you don’t need to provide any ID, much less valid ID, to start the service.”

“And any mope can buy a convenience store throwaway mobile.”

“Exactly. Having the phone number doesn’t help if you don’t know who owns the phone.”

“My mope called from a cell phone bought at a Wal-Mart,” I guessed.

“Or Costco or Kmart or Pop’s Dollarama. If it’s really important, we could find out where the phone was purchased, then check the store’s surveillance cameras, maybe nail the guy that way.”

“No. That’s a bit extreme at this point. But I have another request.”

“It’ll cost you a case.”

“You’ve got it, barbecue boy.”

I described the e-mail, but not the contents.

“Same jerk?”

“I’m not sure. Probably.”