Bloody Bones   ::   Гамильтон Лорел

Larry scootedup in his seat, grinning. "You're just telling me that to make me feel better."

"Would I tell a story like that about myself if it wasn't true?" I asked.

"You really threw up on a body at a crime scene?"

"You don't have to sound so happy about it," I said.

He giggled. I swear he giggled. "I don't think I'll throw up on the body."

I shrugged. "Three bodies, with parts missing. Don't make promises you can't keep."

He swallowed loud enough for me to hear it. "What do they mean, parts missing."

"We'll find out," I said. "This isn't part of your job description, Larry. I get paid for helping the cops; you don't."

"Will it be awful?" His voice was low, uncertain.

Chopped-up bodies. Was he kidding? "I don't know until we get there."

"But what do you think?" He was staring at me very earnestly.

I glanced back at the road, then at Larry. He looked very solemn, like a relative who'd asked the doctor for the truth. If he would be brave, I could be truthful. "Yeah, it'll be awful."



7

It was awful. Larry had managed to stagger from the crime scene before he threw up. The only comfort I could offer him was that he wasn't the only one. Some of the cops were looking a little green around the edges, too. I hadn't thrown up yet, but I was keeping it as an option for later.

The bodies lay in a small hollow near the base of a hill. The ground was nearly knee-deep with leaves. Nobody rakes in the woods. The drought had dried the leaves to a fine, biting crunch underfoot. The hollow was ringed by naked trees and bushes with branches like thin brown whips. When the leaves came out, the hollow would be hidden on all sides.

The body nearest to me was a blond man with hair cut so short it looked like an old-fashioned butch. Blood pooled around the eyeballs, flowing from them down the face. There was something wrong with the face, besides the eyes, but I couldn't quite figure out what. I knelt in the dry leaves, glad that the leg of the coverall was protecting my hose from the leaves and the blood. Blood had pooled to either side of the boy's face, soaking into the leaves. The blood had dried to a tacky maroon substance. It looked like the teenager's eyes had been crying dark tears.

I touched the tip of my gloved fingers to the blond's chin. It moved in a boneless, wiggling movement that chins were not meant to do.

I swallowed hard and tried to take shallow breaths. I was glad it was still spring.