Cross Bones Read Free Page B

there’s anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to cal .”

    Exiting the viewing room, I noticed one of the bearded observers watching from across the hal .

    As I passed, the man stepped forward to block my path.

    “That was very kind.” His voice had a peculiar raspy quality, like Kenny Rogers singing “Lucil e.”

    “A woman has lost her son. Another her husband.”

    “I saw you in there. It is obvious you are a person of compassion. A person of honor.”

    Where was this going?

    The man hesitated, as though debating a few final points with himself. Then he reached into a pocket, withdrew an envelope, and handed it to me.

    “This is the reason Avram Ferris is dead.”

    2

    THE ENVELOPE HELD A SINGLE BLACK-AND-WHITE PRINT. PICTUREDwas a supine skeleton, skul twisted, jaw agape in a frozen scream.

    I flipped the photo. Written on the back were the date, October 1963, and a blurry notation.H de 1 H. Maybe.

    I looked a question at the bearded gentleman blocking my way. He made no move to explain.

    “Mr.—?”

    “Kessler.”

    “Why are you showing this to me?”

    “I believe it’s the reason Avram Ferris is dead.”

    “So you’ve said.”

    Kessler crossed his arms. Uncrossed them. Rubbed palms on his pants.

    I waited.

    “He said he was in danger.” Kessler jabbed four fingers at the print. “Said if anything happened it would be because of this.”

    “Mr. Ferris gave this to you?”

    “Yes.” Kessler glanced over his shoulder.

    “Why?”

    Kessler’s answer was a shrug.

    My eyes dropped back to the print. The skeleton was ful y extended, its right arm and hip partial y obscured by a rock or ledge. An object lay in the dirt beside the left knee. A familiar object.

    “Where does this come from?” I looked up. Kessler was again checking to his rear.

    “Israel.”

    “Mr. Ferris was afraid his life was in danger?”

    “Terrified. Said if the photo came to light there’d be havoc.”

    “What sort of havoc?”

    “I don’t know.” Kessler raised two palms. “Look, I have no idea what the picture is. I don’t know what it means. I agreed to keep it. That’s it. That’s my role.”

    “What was your connection to Mr. Ferris?”

    “We were business associates.”

    I held out the photo. Kessler dropped his hands to his sides.

    “Tel Detective Ryan what you’ve told me,” I said.

    Kessler stepped back. “You know what I know.”

    At that moment my cel sounded. I slipped it from my belt.

    Pel etier.

    “Got another cal about Bel emare.”

    Kessler sidestepped me and moved toward the family room.

    I waggled the print. Kessler shook his head no and hurried down the hal .

    “Are you ready to release the Cowboy?”

    “I’m on my way up.”

    “Bon.Sister’s busting her bloomers for a burial.”

    When I disconnected and turned, the hal was empty. Fine. I’d give the photo to Ryan. He’d have a copy of the list of observers. If he wanted to fol ow up, he could get contact information for Kessler.

    I pressed for the elevator.

    By noon I’d completed my report on Charles Bel emare, concluding that, however strange the circumstances, the Cowboy’s last ride had been the result of his own fol y. Turn on. Tune in. Drop out. Or down, in Bel emare’s case. What had he been doing up there?

    At lunch, LaManche informed me there’d be difficulty viewing Ferris’s head wounds in situ. X-rays showed only one bul et fragment, and indicated the back of the skul and the left half of the face were shattered. He also informed me that my analysis would be critical since mutilation by the cats had distorted the patterning of metal ic trace observable on X-ray.

    In addition, Ferris had fal en with his hands beneath him. Decomposition had rendered gunshot-residue testing inconclusive.

    At one-thirty I descended again to the morgue.

    Ferris’s torso was now open from throat to pubis, and his organs floated in covered containers. The stench in the room had kicked into