Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(97)

Her back was to me, so I couldn’t see her face. But I could tell she was tall and broad-shouldered. Long neck. Slender legs. High boots.

She held an object in one hand. A larger one lay at her feet.

Above and around her, a tower of leaves gleamed slick as black ice. Here and there, a dull underside looked darkly opaque.

One deep breath. I began zigzagging from tree to tree, placing my feet soundlessly on the wet lawn. Jealously guarding the element of surprise.

When only one live oak stood between us, I tightened my fingers into a death-grip on the knife. Checked my hand.

No trembling. Good.

As my mind tore through options, she squatted and leaned over the thing on the ground. Head movements suggested speech, but no words made it to where I stood.

The thing on the ground changed shape.

She reached out.

The thing twisted, rounded like a sprout in time-lapse video.

Sat up.

White-hot fury sent wasps whining in my brain.

Blowing off caution, I strode forward.

“Alice.” Loud. “Or should I say Kim?”

Both heads swiveled at the sound of my voice. One fast, one slow, as though dazed. Or drugged. Two pale ovals pointed my way in the darkness.

“Which is it, Tawny?” Coming in hot on adrenaline. “Did you kill her to steal the name?”

Tawny McGee rose to her full height and regarded me mutely.

“Or did you just like the ring of it? Alice Kimberly Hamilton.” The steadiness of my voice surprised me.

“Go away.”

“Not a chance.”

I took another step. The oval topping the stalk neck took on detail. Eyes. Nose. Mouth. The same face I’d seen framed in motherof-pearl.

I couldn’t read her expression. It might have been surprise. Or fear. Or anger. Or nothing.

“Kim’s name was in a journal left at de Sébastopol. It survived the fire that Pomerleau set.”

No response.

“Was Kim a fellow captive in the basement? Did Pomerleau or her sidekick murder her?”

Nothing but the patter of rain.

“Or was it you? Did you hunt Kim down and kill her?”

“I would never hurt Kim.”

“Where is she?”

“I loved her.” A statement about feeling, devoid of feeling.

“Where is she?” Cold.

She might have answered. But in that splinter of silence, Mary Louise whimpered, a sound like the mewing of a kitten.

“Let the child come to me.”

“No.”

“Now.” Diamond-hard.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I love her, too.”

“You don’t know her.”

“She won’t endure what we did. What Kim did.”

“Where is Kim?”

“She died.” Flat.

“In the cellar?”

Again, no answer.

“Did you kill Anique Pomerleau?”

“I loved her.”

“She tortured you.”

Her eyes held, unblinking, wormholes into evil. Or madness. But her jaw slackened as she withdrew into her mind.

Several beats passed.

Sensing an altered vibe, Mary Louise raised her knees and planted her heels.

McGee placed a restraining hand on her head. “Stop. You’ll get muddy.”

“Let me go.” Half pleading, half defiant.

“Soon.”

“I don’t like you. I want to go home.”

“Down.” With gentle pressure.

As Mary Louise lay back, a small ragged sob floated on the night.

At the sound, McGee tensed and looked down at the thing in her hand. For a moment my heart stopped beating. Was she holding a weapon? A gun?

I imagined my blade piercing her flesh. Her bone. Crushing through honeycombed marrow. The black cavity filling with blood. I didn’t want to stab this woman. But I would. Dear God, I would.

McGee had escalated beyond her previous pattern. Perhaps due to pressure from Slidell. Maybe Ajax. The trigger didn’t matter. The fact was, she was spinning out of control.

If armed, would she shoot the person closest to her? The one spoiling her game? Could I act quickly enough? Overcome her before she hurt Mary Louise?

The hollow stare. The disembodied voice. I feared the slightest thing would cause her to snap. Better to stall. To wait for Hull.

Unless McGee made a move.

Unless.

“You’re a healer, Tawny. Not a killer.”

“I’m a freak.”

“No. You’re not.”

“How would you know?”

“I’ve spoken with Dr. Lindahl.”

“She’s useless.”

“I’ve talked to your mother.”

“My mother.” Whip-crack sharp. “The bitch who never searched for me? The bitch who just moved away to start over?”

“She did search.” Emptying my voice of all emotion.

“Not hard enough to find me.”

“She—”

“Shut the f*ck up about my mother!” The first note of hysteria.

Fast change of tack.

“You helped the girls.” I said the names slowly, a mantra meant to calm. “Nellie. Lizzie. Tia. Shelly. You made them pretty. Made sure they wouldn’t suffer.”