Except for the Bones Read Free Page B

EDT
    S UDDENLY DIZZY, NAUSEATED, THE bile rising in his throat, Daniels dropped to his knees beside the body, lowered his head, closed his eyes. He must breathe deeply, mind over matter. Because if he lost control, everything ended. Here, now, he was alone: himself struggling to master himself, his only hope.
    Please God, himself the master of himself.
    Born alone, destined to die alone, those were the givens. But if that was the game, then where was the justice? Because the Forbes biography made him more vulnerable, not less. Everyone yearned to see the mighty fall.
    So fate had stalked him, finally cornered him here in this empty house. Forced him to kneel beside her body, the penitent to his own terror.
    Cautiously, he opened his eyes, raised his head.
    Could he do it?
    Could he touch that cold flesh again? Could he roll her onto the blanket, cover her carefully, then truss the bundle up with the rope he’d found in the carport, an unexpected boon?
    Yes, he could do it. If he could raise his head, clear his throat, blink his eyes back into focus, then he could do it.
    Soon it would be midnight. Almost three hours since he’d placed the envelope with the check inside on the arm of the sofa. It was a scene he’d often played before; he’d had no doubt of the outcome. Angry words, a few tears, a brave show of anger before the envelope disappeared into her purse and the exit lines began.
    Cautiously, fearful that he might gag, he cleared his throat. Yes, the nausea had passed. Signifying that he could begin.

11:50 P.M., EDT
    A HEAD, SHE RECOGNIZED THE turn of the road that would reveal the beach house, see and be seen.
    No, not see and be seen. Just see. I spy, a game for children.
    Meaning that, I spy, she must pull off the narrow blacktop road, switch off the headlights, switch off the engine, make sure the transmission was in gear.
    All done. To think through it was to do it unconsciously, her mind in control, leaving her body to soar.
    I spy time.
    Had she said it, or only thought it?
    “Why’re we parking here?” he asked.
    Meaning that she hadn’t said it, hadn’t said the words aloud. Meaning that she must turn to him, smile, reach across him for the door latch while she said, “It’s I spy time. All out.” She swung the door open. “Alley-oop.”
    Alley-oop. It was another phrase from childhood. When her dad lifted her off her feet, swung her high above his head, he always said Alley-oop. Laughing. Always laughing.
    I spy. Alley-oop. Leftovers from childhood. Were there more? Was life one big leftover?
    “I spy,” Jeff repeated, mumbling the words. Laughing. Eyes empty. Stoned.
    “Come on.” She swung her legs out of the car, stumbled, recovered, pushed the door shut. “I spy.”
    Just ahead, through the knee-high cut grass, a sandy footpath led from the road down to the beach. As she descended, her feet sank into the sand, another childhood memory. But not this sand, not Cape Cod sand. California sand, the beach at San Francisco. She and her father, Alley-oop. And her mother, too. Even her mother, then. They’d—
    From behind her, Jeff swore softly. Had he stumbled? Was Jeff surefooted? His father was gone, too. Long gone, killed in a motorcycle accident. Alley-oop.
    On the beach now, walking in deeper sand, she watched the ridge of low dunes to her left. From beyond that ridge, she could see the beach house. Preston Daniels’s beach house. All glass and natural cypress and stone, once featured in Architectural Digest, a big spread. Yes, now she could see the whole house. Part of it was cantilevered out toward the ocean, built on concrete piers. In the living room, light glowed golden behind drawn drapes. And in the carport, she saw the outline of the Jeep Cherokee. The BMW and the Cherokee were the two cars she most liked to drive.
    She was standing motionless in the sand, looking at the house. With a can of beer in each hand, Jeff was standing beside her.
    “Here.” He handed her a beer. Then: