Where the Bones are Buried Read Free Page B

pot and boiled till she was done.’”
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?” asked Margaret.
    â€œNothin’ at all. It’s just a silly verse about caring.”
    Swan had a rhyme for every occasion. Dinah knew that the “silly verse” was a not-so-oblique gibe at her. For her lack of hospitality. For throwing cold water on their cockamamie plan to track down one of Cleon’s accomplices. For not caring. She might have pointed out that caring was a two-way street. But reasoning with Swan was like jousting with smoke. She changed the subject. “Do you plan to meet Mr. Thunder Moon, aka Farber, while you’re in the country?”
    â€œI do. He invited me to one of their powwows. I told him my daughter is a cultural anthropologist who knows simply everything there is to know about native rituals and beliefs. I promised I’d bring you along to—”
    Something whammed against the left rear of the Golf, knocking it sideways. Swan screamed and a loud crack exploded in Dinah’s ears. She gripped the wheel and steered the car back into its lane, but a black hulk in her blind spot rammed them again. She couldn’t correct and swerved into a concrete guardrail. The right fender and doors scraped along the rail, metal screaking. Dinah stood on the brakes and the Golf skidded to a stop. The red taillights of the car that hit them surged away in the left lane and disappeared.
    Heart racing, Dinah reached for her mother. “Are you all right?”
    â€œYes. Just scared.”
    â€œMe, too.” She turned on the overhead light and looked in the backseat. “Margaret?”
    â€œI think so, except I’ve got a lap full of glass pebbles from the broken window.” She unbuckled her seatbelt and tried to open the rear door, but it was too close to the guardrail. She started to brush off the glass with her hand.
    â€œYou’ll cut yourself,” said Dinah. “There’s a snowbrush under your seat.”
    Margaret found the brush and swept the rubble off her slacks onto the floor. Dinah squinted through the downpour and took stock. They were in the middle of a bridge over one of Berlin’s many canals. She looked for an emergency phone box. They appeared at intervals all along the autobahns, but apparently not here. A blur of red lights whizzed past them. Where was a cop when you needed one? She took out her mobile.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Swan asked.
    â€œCalling the police.”
    â€œDo we really need to bother the police?”
    Dinah stared at her mother in disbelief. “Some lunatic tried to run us off the road, twice, and then fled the scene. Of course, we need to bother the police.”
    â€œThey won’t catch him. He’s already ten miles gone by now.”
    The whoosh of traffic made the Golf shimmy and wind rushing through the broken rear window whipped Dinah’s hair across her face. Since she’d been in Germany, she hadn’t seen a single jaywalker or litterbug, and while Berlin drivers were aggressive, they adhered to the rules of the road and honked when others did not. This was bizarre. She dialed 1-1-0, the police emergency number, and asked for assistance in English. The dispatcher responded fluently, asked her location, and advised her to wait for help.
    Dinah hung up and turned on the emergency blinker. “It shouldn’t be long.”
    Margaret sneezed explosively and Swan jumped.
    Dinah took off her sweater and handed it over the seat. “Put this around your shoulders and move away from the window so you don’t get damp.”
    â€œThanks.” She blew her nose and scooched into the middle seat. “Has your boyfriend been in any shoot-outs lately?”
    â€œWhat?” Dinah turned around.
    â€œSomething’s punched a hole in the seatback.” She pointed the snowbrush at a dark spot in the upholstery of the seat behind Dinah. “Looks like a bullet hole to