Page 8 of Again with Feeling

“What am I going to say, Dash?”

I couldn’t bring myself to meet his eyes, so I kept my attention on the road. “You’re going to say that the Astoria police can handle it, and if she’s innocent, they’ll sort it out, and it’s none of our business.”

“No, that’s not what I was going to say.”

“Okay. Were you going to say that you understand this kind of thing is important to me, and that justice matters, and this is our chance to do something good?”

“No.”

We passed a faded sign of painted plywood advertising a produce stand, but there was no indication where the stand might have once stood or where we were supposed to go. The state highway carried us inland until the ocean was no longer visible. The trees thinned out, and we started to drive between agricultural fields. In one, an aging outbuilding of corrugated metal, with rust-eaten skirting and paint peeling from its roof, stood alone on ground allowed to go fallow. In another, a woman had crawled under what I wanted to call a combine, and she appeared to be venting her frustration with a wrench. Brush grew in patches along the sides of the road—not the ferns I was accustomed to around Hemlock House, but desiccated tangles of blackberry and hawthorn. Startled by something I couldn’t see,a sparrow launched itself from one of the blackberry bushes and zipped away.

In what I thought was a moment of particular genius, I said, “Do you want to tell me what you were going to say?”

“Not particularly.”

I had to work some spit into my mouth before I could talk, and then—somehow—what came out of my mouth was “Okey-dokey.”

That should have been my cue, ladies and gentlemen. That, right there. I should have steered straight for the closest outbuilding, combine, or utility pole and put myself out of my misery. (I assume Bobby would have been thrown clear and escaped without a scratch.)

After a deep breath—or three—Bobby said, “The county medical examiner doesn’t have much to work with, but she didn’t see any signs of physical trauma.”

I wasn’t sure how much soft tissue would remain after thirty years in the water, but my guess was not much, which meant that the only place the medical examiner would be able to look for signs of whatever killed Richard Lundgren were his bones. And while bones could provide a lot of evidence—hey, they made a whole TV show about that—people could be killed in all sorts of ways.

“What you’re saying,” I said, trying to keep my voice light, “is we’re not going to luck into an obvious cause of death and an even more obvious and personally identifying weapon, and have everything wrapped up by dinner.”

“Interesting,” Bobby said. “You knew what I was going to say. Again.”

“No, that’s not what I—” But I stopped myself. “Maybe I should stop talking.”

Bobby didn’t say anything, but he did make a noise that sounded an awful lot like “Hmm.”

In my infinite wisdom, I decided driving the rest of the way in silence was the best course. The fields and pastures gave way to homes. Then neighborhoods began to appear. To my surprise, the GPS didn’t take us into Astoria itself but kept us south of the city. The homes here were small frame constructions. I put most of them somewhere between fifty and seventy years old, with slab foundations and—where it hadn’t been replaced by vinyl—aluminum siding. One house needed its roof replaced. Another had a gutter hanging like a dropped jaw. Green algae bloomed on the north side of one little box of a house. The lawns varied—most were cut short, with a kind of ruthless utilitarianism that exposed brown patches and crabgrass. Just to keep things interesting, though, others were overgrown. One homeowner had chosen to go with the “abandoned toys” theme, and their yard was littered with action figures, trikes, and a Batman bicycle. It had the Bat Signal in yellow against the black body and shiny black tassels on the handlebars. I wondered if they made the same model, but for an adult.

Bobby was looking at me. My brain snapped the realization at me, and my face flushed. Because I was still—perpetually—Dashiell Dawson Dane, I blurted the first thing that popped into my head: “I know you’re going to think I’m crazy, but those tassels would definitely make that bike go faster.”

To my surprise, Bobby let out a breath that was almost a laugh. He rubbed his face, and when he lowered his hands, he looked like Bobby again—as though, until this moment, he’d been wearing a mask that just looked like Bobby. It was disorienting because it hadn’t been until now that I’d realized the difference. When he spoke, his voice was Bobby’s voice. “There’s no way they’d make the bike go faster.”

“Oh, they totally would. They’re awesome.”

“How would that make the bike faster?”

“It’s science, Bobby. Try to keep up.”

For a heartbeat, that goofy smile flickered on his face. And then he said, “I’m sorry I’ve been short with you. Kiefer—”

But he stopped.

Kiefer what, I wanted to know. Kiefer yelled at you? Kiefer picked a fight? Kiefer got angry because you’re a deputy and sometimes your job comes first? (Echoes of West.) And then another option sent a dark little thrill through me: Kiefer was furious because you chose to spend time with me over the date you’d planned with him. I wasn’t sure I liked what that feeling said about me, but it was there, and I couldn’t deny it.

Bobby didn’t look like he was going to finish that thought, so I said, “Bobby, I’m sorry.”

He shook his head.

“No, I am. I shouldn’t have asked—it’s just, you told me you wanted me to tell you—”

“I do want you to tell me.” The words were firm. “I don’t want you doing anything risky without telling me.”

“But I should have thought about your date.”

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