Bone Secrets 03 - Buried

going to happen.
    They were safest away from everyone. Away from society, crowds, reporters, sick men.
    “What can I get for ya?”
    Chris’s head came up, his eyes flew open, and he double blinked. The waitress was darn cute. She couldn’t have beenmuch over twenty years old. She tilted her head and repeated her question, with a knowing smile that said she was used to second looks from men.
    Chris pointed at Brian. “Grilled cheese, fries, and milk. I’ll take the bleu burger and a Coors Light.”
    “Gotcha. Be right back.” She bounced away, stopped behind the bar, poured his beer, grabbed Brian’s milk, and was back to them in under a minute with a cheery smile. He sipped at the cold beer and appreciated the iciness on the back of his throat. Brian kept his head down, concentrating on his coloring. His son didn’t talk continually like some kids. Like Chris had…before. He’d been one of those kids who gave a running commentary on everything he saw to anyone around him. After he came back, he spoke as little as possible. He still watched his surroundings closely but kept his words to himself.
    “Bathroom?”
    Brian was staring at his father, his hazel eyes confused, and Chris had the impression Brian had asked the question twice. Chris spotted the bathroom sign past the bar and stood up.
    “I can go alone,” Brian whined, but he stood and started to follow his father.
    “I’ll just walk you in.” Chris pushed open the men’s room door and checked the stalls. All empty. “I’ll be back at the table. And wash your hands good.”
    Brian nodded.
    Chris slid back into his booth. Sure his son could use a public restroom alone. After he checked the inside and watched the door after. That wasn’t overprotective. That was smart parenting. He shuddered as he remembered how he used to run wild around his neighborhood when he was growing up. One dinner he’d been late and his father had been furious. Looking backnow, his father hadn’t been worried about Chris; he’d been upset that his mom had been worried.
    His son being snatched by a pedophile hadn’t crossed his father’s mind.
    Chris didn’t look away from the men’s room door.
    The waitress set a skinny basket of saltines on the table. “In case he’s got the munchies,” she said with a perky smile. Chris thanked her. And watched the door.
    The door swung open, and Chris relaxed. He took a packet of cellophane-wrapped crackers and ripped it open, setting it on Brian’s coloring book.
    “Awesome!” Brian proceeded to munch down on the crumbliest crackers ever created. Chris never bought them. They required too much clean-up.
    A word from the television caught his attention, and his focus swiveled toward the bar.
    …
murdered…
    A female reporter was standing in a city Chris knew all too well, a serious look on her face. Across the bottom of the screen, it said, “Murder in Demming.” He couldn’t make out her words.
    Chris stood up, moving toward the bar, his gaze fixed on the screen. The waitress crossed his path with two plates.
    “Your lunch is ready.”
    He gestured in the direction of the table, attention on the television. Suddenly, he wasn’t hungry. Closer, he could make out the reporter’s words.
    “…deceased is the owner of the bakery, Juan Rios, who was killed during a break-in of the bakery overnight…”
    Juan.
Chris’s knees wobbled. He reached the bar and rested his hands on it, leaning heavily.
    “Police haven’t revealed the exact cause of death but say it appears to be a result of homicidal violence.”
    Juan.
    What if Chris hadn’t been watching his house and hadn’t seen the Ghostman and decided to leave? Would she be reporting three deaths?
    How had the Ghostman gone from his house to Juan’s?
    He had no doubt who’d killed Juan. Chris thought hard. There’d been no evidence at his home that could have led anyone to Juan. But people knew he often visited old Juan. People knew he took Brian to play with Juan’s dog. The Ghostman must have talked to someone in town who mentioned his habits.
    He glanced over his shoulder at Brian, who was busy devouring his grilled cheese. The boy hadn’t noticed the television story.
    “…so far no suspects…”
    Of course not. He’s a ghost.
    The camera switched views to Juan’s bakery, a group of cops and onlookers milling outside. Chris recognized Sheriff Spencer from a distance. The cop was okay. He’d kept out of Chris’s business for the most part and