Carved in Bone

by then.”
    “Mister, I got no earthly idea.”
    His companion wheezed to life. “Hell, course you ain’t. You ain’t been livin’ here but twenty year. You don’t know jack shit about Cooke County.” He worked his gums together thoughtfully. “Blonde-headed? About six foot? Likely-lookin’ girl?” I nodded hopefully, though I couldn’t vouch for her prettiness based on the waxen death mask I had seen. His stubbled jaw slid from side to side. “Bonds.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Bonds. That was that girl’s name. I disremember her first name. She was a looker, though, I ’member that real clear. Kindly high-spirited—sorta gal might need a little tamin’—but you could tell the ride would be worth gettin’ thowed off a time or two, if you know what I mean.”
    “You remember what happened to her?”
    “Just up and left. Run off, story I heard. Don’t know why. Wisht she hadn’t of—left a big hole in the scenery round here once she was gone.” The memory inspired more gum-grinding.
    I thanked him and headed back toward Art, who was waiting on the steps. A wheezy voice called after me. “Sheriff might remember her given name. Ought to, leastwise. She was his kin.”
    Tom Kitchings was cleaning a rifle when I flung open his door and stormed into his office. He looked up, startled at the intrusion, then startled at the expression on my face. “Easy there, Doc, you shouldn’t oughta startle a man holding a gun. What’s up? You come to bring me that skeleton?”
    “No, I come— came —to see why you’re lying to me about this case.”
    He laid the rifle down across the desk and looked up at me slowly. “Hold on a minute, Professor. Those are pretty strong words. You got something to back ’em up?” He looked over my shoulder at Art, who’d followed me into the office. “Who is this?”
    “This is Art Bohanan, a criminalist with KPD.”
    “What the hell is he doing in my county?”
    Art spoke up calmly. “Just sightseeing. Just along for the ride.”
    “Well, sightsee somewhere else. I hear there’s a big national park not far from here’s got some kickass scenery.”
    “Maybe we can swing by there on our way home,” said Art amiably.
    “Best get going, then.”
    I slapped the desktop with a force that surprised everyone, including myself. “Goddamnit, what’s her name, Sheriff? You know damn well who she is.”
    He reddened, glowering at me. “I haven’t finished checking the old files.”
    “You don’t have to check your files. Check your family bible. Last name Bonds. This skeleton is dangling from your own family tree. What happened, Sheriff—she disgraced the family, so she had to be disposed of?”
    Kitchings jumped to his feet. “Don’t you dare come in here and insult me and my family. Get the hell out of my office, the hell out of my county, and the hell out of my business.”
    “The hell I will. This a murder case, and I won’t let you sweep it under the rug just because you don’t like where it’s going all of a sudden.”
    The sheriff grabbed the rifle off the desk and began to swing it up. Instinctively I grabbed the barrel and wrestled for control. Suddenly the sheriff froze. I looked up to see Art Bohanan standing beside him, one hand clutching a fistful of hair, the other holding a pistol to Kitchings’s temple. “Okay, let’s everybody take a deep breath and calm down here,” said Art. “Sheriff, let go of that rifle.” He did. “Bill, set it over there by the door.” I did. “Okay, we’re gonna just head on back to Knoxville now,” Art continued. “We see anybody in the rearview mirror, and I’ll be on the radio like a duck on a June bug to the FBI, the TBI, and a couple undercover cops that would make your worst Cooke County badass look like a mama’s boy.”
    Kitchings was panting through clenched teeth. “You listen up, Doctor. I’m getting a warrant for the arrest of Jim O’Conner. I’m bringing him in on a charge of murder, and I’m sending Williams over to retrieve those remains as evidence.”
    I shook my head. “I’ll turn them over to the district attorney, if he subpoenas them, but I won’t turn them over to you.”
    “You’ll do whatever the man says,” came a voice behind me. I turned to see a younger, slimmer version of Tom Kitchings, wearing a deputy’s uniform and a brass bar that read “Orbin Kitchings, Chief Deputy.” He was sighting down the barrel of the sheriff’s rifle, which was pointed straight at