Except for the Bones Read Online Free PDF

rejoinder: a boy on the school yard, taunting another boy, picking a fight. The two words were always the same: Oh, yeah?
    “I saw it too,” he was saying, still speaking in a low, tight voice—hissing, almost. “I saw everything, just like you did. I’ve got the same rights.”
    “The same rights?” She shook her head. “What’re you talking about, you’ve got rights? What rights?”
    “What’re you saying? You just going to forget it? Is that what you’re saying? Someone—Christ—someone gets killed, gets buried somewhere out in that landfill, for Christ’s sake, and you aren’t going to do anything? Is that what you’re saying?”
    “You go to Boston. I’m going back to sleep. When I wake up, I’ll think about it.”
    “And then what? After you think about it, then what?”
    “Look, Jeff—forget it, all right? It’s got nothing to do with you.”
    He was standing with his booted feet spread wide, hands in the pockets of his not-quite-clean jeans, another muscle-bound biker imitation. Now, she knew, he would run through his tough-guy sequence: two or three disgusted shakes of the head, followed by a hunching of the shoulders. “No, you look, Diane. You look, and you listen. And you better listen good, because I’m only going to say it once. Now—” Another bully-boy pause, for emphasis. “Now, neither of us knows what happened last night. But both of us saw Preston Daniels, Mr. Big himself, stuffing someone in his Cherokee and driving out to the landfill. And, surprise, it turns out that we’re the only ones to see him do it. There was just me and you and Preston Daniels—plus whoever was wrapped in that blanket, or whatever it was. Now—” Another pause. “Now, it’s pretty plain that whatever plans you got, they don’t include me. Which means that, as of now, as of right this minute, whatever plans I’ve got—well—that’s my business. Right?” He turned, went to the door, opened it, and left.

9 A.M., EDT
    D ANIELS PLACED THE SPRAY can of cleaning solvent on the coffee table, placed the sponge and towels beside the spray can, stood motionless, staring down at the assortment.
    A slab of stone …
    Clearly, he could visualize the tabloid headline: TWO-TON COFFEE TABLE IS BILLIONAIRE’S UNDOING.
    And the lead paragraph: “Unable to remove the rug stained with the telltale blood of his mistress, unable to clean the rug without leaving telltale stains on the polished oak floor beneath the rug, Preston Daniels was arrested yesterday for the murder of Carolyn Estes, who was known to have spent at least two love-nest weekends with Daniels on Cape Cod.”
    A plastic drop cloth, the kind painters use … If he could find a store open, he could buy a drop cloth, put it under the rug, protect the floor. There was a hardware store in the village. When did it open? Was it open now? Could he—?
    The telephone, warbling.
    Should he answer?
    Yes, he must answer. There were decisions to be made, contracts to sign. Monday morning, nine o’clock. On his desk, Jackie would have already placed a digest of his appointments for the day, all neatly typed. So he must talk to Jackie, the only associate who had his private Cape Cod number. Only Jackie, the one person he could really trust.
    “Yes. Hello?”
    “Preston?” Just two puzzled syllables. But with it went all hope, everything gone, lost. Millicent, calling from New York.
    WIFE EXPOSES BILLIONAIRE’S LIES, SUES FOR DIVORCE.
    “Millicent?” It was, he knew, a silly-sounding, ineffectual response.
    But why was she calling? How could she have—?
    “I thought you were in Atlanta.” Her voice was cool, measured, cautious. Millicent, reflexively suspicious. Speculating.
    “I—the conference blew up. One of the principals—his name is Powell, I don’t think you know him—he had chest pains after lunch yesterday. So I decided to come up here, unwind. I should’ve called you. Actually, I was headed for New York, but the weather turned bad.