Bone Deep by Randy Wayne White Read Free Book Online

first, it didn’t make sense those carvings being in Florida. Now maybe it does. Charmstones, you said. Or did you make that up?”
    I started to reply but was preempted. From a distant tree, the great horned owl thrummed again:
Boo-boo-boom
.
    “See?” Hannah said, sounding sleepy but excited. “Like he’s telling you it’s okay.”
    My chest bounced until her finger became five ready fingernails—a gentle warning.
    “I wasn’t laughing
at
you,” I said.
    “It’s okay if you were. I know you don’t believe in things, spiritual connections and all. But sometimes you have to wonder.” A hint of concern . . . or was it disappointment? Then I was reminded that Hannah seldom missed church when she added, “Reverend Nyman doesn’t give sermons, he just talks like a regular person. That was his topic on Sunday.”
    “Spiritualism?”
    “Not the way you mean it. No wonder either—Tomlinson could make a person gun-shy. He takes it way too far sometimes.”
    An opportunity to blame Tomlinson was so seldom offered by a woman, it took willpower to ignore. But I used it as a segue. “Tomorrow, I was going to drive north with Tomlinson and the Montana guy, but we could take my boat instead. Come with us or I candrop you here.” I had already told her about Venice, fifty miles up the coast, where, according to Fallsdown, there was a flea market frequented by an antiquities dealer.
    “I’m glad you’re helping your Indian friend,” Hannah said. She yawned and stretched, the porthole showing her breasts in profile, an undulant lift of hips . . . a glimpse of pubic hair. “Wish I could go, but I’ve got a fly-fishing trip in the morning.”
    All evening, I’d been wanting to ask about the man from Brazil and this was my chance. “One of your regular clients?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do I know him?”
    “Why’s it matter? Don’t be nosy.”
    “I was just making conversation.”
    “No you weren’t.”
    She was right, of course, but I said, “I can’t think of a more innocent question: How was your day? Catch any fish? It’s the sort of thing people say, Hannah. Christ.”
    “Please,”
she said.
“
No need to swear, sugar,” and returned to massaging my palm.
    Sugar.
It was an endearment Hannah seldom used, yet I felt a sudden claustrophobia along with a pointless jealousy. “I withdraw the question,” I said.
    “Don’t be mad. Those two weeks you disappeared in Venezuela—once I knew you were safe, I didn’t ask for details about who you saw. Lots of attractive woman down there, I’m sure, but not a single e-mail. Or why you came back with that cut on your face.” Her fingers detoured to explore the faint scar . . . raised her head to kiss my cheek, then settled back, hair warm against my chest.
    “I was working in a remote spot,” I explained, although
disappeared
was more accurate. The Venezuelan Guardia—special police—had been after me, so I had vanished into the rainforest—four days on foot to the Colombian border.
    The sudden stillness of Hannah’s fingers expressed doubt and prefaced what came next. “I’d rather not ask you than risk hearing a lie. And the way our relationship is, it’s none of my business anyway.”
    A door appeared in my mind. Open it, Hannah would be there, waiting, the two of us joined, obligated to speak honestly about our lives. I couldn’t do that—not yet, probably never—but I attempted to explore what lay on the other side of the door.
    “Ask away,” I said.
    “You don’t mean that.”
    “Try me.”
    Stillness . . . more doubt, so she chose a playful escape. “Did you hear about the party last night—those women skinny-dipping at Dinkin’s Bay? Jeth told me. All blondes, he said. I figure they must’ve been pretty because he stuttered so much.”
    “I was at dinner with you,” I pointed out.
    “You must have heard
something
.
I wonder what it would be like . . . you know, swimming naked with a bunch of strangers?” Her musing