Read Online Bone by Bone by Carol O'Connell - Free Book Online

with a slender build, the iron gray hair of middle age—and that cane was no prop. He leaned heavily on it and walked with a gait slightly out of control, as if his house pitched and tossed upon a roiling sea. This stirred an old memory in Oren, but he could not connect that signature limp to a face. Perhaps this man was someone he had, once or twice, seen around town and then only from a distance.
    They entered a corner room, large and airy, filled with light from tall, arched windows, and it housed more books than could be found in the town library. The built-in shelves lined every bit of wall space. More volumes lay open on an antique writing desk, and others were stacked up on the floor.
    William Swahn turned to his guest and used his cane to point to an armchair. “Sit down, Mr. Hobbs.”
    Oren remained standing, staring, unable to look away.

Eight
    Oren had come face-to-face with the subject of his brother’s finest photographs. This was the Letter Man. The scar was not gruesome, but faint, and just as Josh had described it—a jagged A carved into the left cheek. The scar had not been visible in pictures taken of the man’s profile, for Josh had captured the ordinary side of William Swahn. None of his brother’s work had ever been titled, and so it had been the boy’s secret pun to sell the Letter Man portraits to the postmaster.
    “What fascinates you, Mr. Hobbs? Could it be my mutilation?” Swahn’s dark eyebrows arched with anticipation, probably awaiting the guilty shift of feet or the blush of a gawker caught in the act.
    “No, sir. I recognized you from the photographs in the post office.” Oren wondered if that trio of pictures was still hanging there after all these years. “My brother never knew your name, and neither did I—until just now.”
    Swahn settled into an armchair and laid the cane across his legs. “I understand you’re with the Army’s Criminal Investigations Division.” This was said with contempt, a virtual announcement that the two of them would never be close friends, for a cop was a cop, and this man’s hatred of police was old and very precious to him.
    “No, sir. I left the Army.” Oren stared at the cane, the symbol of a life derailed—all that they had in common.
    “I’m told that CID agents wear street clothes during an investigation, and they don’t have to salute superior officers. That must’ve given you quite a sense of power.”
    “Mostly, I just liked the idea of wearing my cowboy boots on duty.” And now the pleasantries were officially over. “I know you investigated my brother’s disappearance. The sheriff thinks my father hired you.”
    “Judge Hobbs?” A puff of air escaped Swahn’s lips in a mild show of incredulity. “How much sense would that make?”
    “None at all. He would’ve hired a first-rate agency before he’d use an ex-cop with only one year on the job. For all I know, my father did hire somebody, but it wasn’t you.”
    Swahn’s nod was almost imperceptible, the small acknowledgment of a glove thrown down, a contest begun. “Judge Hobbs never hired an investigator. I would’ve noticed that kind of activity in a small town. And he never asked for help from the state Justice Department—even though he had the political pull to call them in.” The man addressed the handle of his cane. “Don’t you find that odd?” He raised his eyes to Oren’s. “By that, I mean your father’s lack of interest.”
    “Josh was a missing person. There was no evidence of foul play.”
    “Of course there was.” Swahn’s tone said, Liar. “Everyone knew that boy didn’t run away. Your brother had a bank account, but he left his cash behind. He didn’t take any clothes, either. And we both know he wasn’t lost. This town has a wonderful reputation for finding people who lose their way in the woods. They always found you, didn’t they?”
    Oren ignored the question, knowing better than to fall into this old trap of turnabout, the