Page 23

“Okay.” I hesitated. “Sounds serious.”

“Believe me, I wouldn’t order it if I thought you were anything but smart with a weapon, but I want you on guard.”

“Okay,” I said again.

“Come with me.” Calloway turned and trudged back to where I’d spotted him out in a genuinely wild part of The Wild.

We were silent as I followed, both of us watching the scrub and cacti covered ground for another threat. There were plenty, but we both knew how to keep our ankles safe from cactus needles. We didn’t hear another rattle, but the hum of the hot wind seemed to get louder as we approached the thing I’d been called out to see.

Though I’d already seen the work of the mystery bone artist’s first desert sculpture, this one still pulled my eyes wide, my throat tight. I’d seen lots of gruesome and bothersome things over the years. These sculptures weren’t necessarily gruesome—no blood or bloated bodies—but it was impossible to look at any sort of potential crime scene and not immediately wonder: why? Whoever had done these sculptures wanted to make some sort of shocking statement, that much was obvious. What suddenly became a more concerning unknown was whether this was just someone finding and making things with bones—or was this murder?

These were not recently defleshed and cleaned bones, making me wonder about my immediate assessment of the first set.

I stopped next to Calloway and went into a crouch, letting my eyes wander. The same materials had been used. I couldn’t imagine the hours put into the artifacts.

Someone had sculpted, again obviously using wire and pieces of wood, the form of a scorpion. The subject matter was immediately recognizable. The arm bones had been stuck out and up, the hands making pinchers, the leg bones were bent to look like a set of the creature’s legs. A scorpion had six legs, but four that were made of extra shards of wood were convincing enough.

“Is that a barbeque fork?” I asked after my eyes had finished their first once-over.

“Yep,” Calloway said.

Stuck up from the tailbone was a barbeque fork, something you could buy in a supermarket or discount store. No matter the strange choice, there was no question that the fork was put there to represent the scorpion’s stinger.

“Wow,” I said as I stood. “How did …”

When I didn’t finish my question, Calloway said, “A teenager headed out to hunt found this one. Hazel, I want you to meet Graham Kucera. He’s here from the University of Colorado in Boulder.”

Graham extended his hand but didn’t smile as his eyes squinted at me. “I specialize in artistic forensics.”

We shook. “That is a specialized profession.”

“When you think you’re going to study art but find out you like science too, things like my job can become a thing.” His voice was deep but almost hesitant, like he wondered if I might judge him for his profession. I was the last person to judge anyone for much of anything, most particularly how they got their jobs.

“Good to meet you.” I nodded toward the sculpture. “This feels right in your skill set.”

“Possibly.”

“Where are the Tucson people?” I asked Calloway.

“On their way here again.”

I nodded and gave Kucera a quick and hopefully furtive inspection. On the far side of middle-aged with a dirty old blue Mobil Motor Oil cap on his head, he wore faded jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned with the stuck-out tongue associated with the Rolling Stones. His ratty running shoes bothered me, and I thought maybe Calloway should have at least offered the man some boots. I hoped the gunshot had scared away all the local lethal creatures, or Graham’s ankles might be tempting targets.

I turned my attention back to the sculpture. Though I was sure it had been created by the same person who’d made the first one, these bones were very different than the first set. These were older bones, discolored, not chipped at the joints as if the limbs had been cut from the body. I spotted a few smudges of dirt here and there, but no organic tissue. These were older bones and had been buried, I thought, but the lab would confirm.

“What do you make of this?” I asked Graham.

He nodded. “My quick conclusion is that whoever created this is very patient and talented.”

“I thought the same thing. I now also wonder if what we’re seeing will lead back to murder or just someone finding bones and wanting to make things with them. Anything from Tucson that might give us more details about the first set? Did they say when they thought they were defleshed?” I looked at Calloway.

“Not yet.”

It had only been one day.

Graham said, “The perp or creator, whichever, knows art, they have patience. They know animals, but,” he paused dramatically, “they don’t know bones.”

“What makes you say that?” I asked.