Boneyard by Michelle Gagnon

after his comment last week she’d immediately gone to the salon to address the problem. Botox treatments had eased the fine lines on her brow and around her eyes, and regular Pilates sessions in combination with a tummy tuck had erased any sign of her pregnancies. She had wanted to wait, suggested they try for another one, perhaps a boy this time, but he had mandated the tubal ligation. Funny, she had such difficulty believing that he had no interest in a son, poor thing assumed that was all any man wanted. He repressed a shudder at the thought of a filthy little boy in their midst. He wouldn’t have permitted it, if either of the amnios had indicated a male he would have insisted on aborting. No, he loved his perfect little girls. Boys were nothing but trouble.
    They were watching the news on television. The lead story continued to deal with the boneyard found in Clarksburg State Park. The station had run out of new footage and was simply panning through earlier recordings: police ducking under yellow crime-scene tape; emergency vehicles stacked along the sides of the road five deep; that redheaded FBI agent holding up a hand to block the cameras as she marched past. His grip reflexively tightened on his beer bottle at the sight of a gurney being rolled toward a waiting van. How dare they, he thought to himself, rage flushing his cheeks. Those bodies belonged to him and no one else.
    “Feeling okay, dear?” his wife asked with concern, pressing a cool hand to his face.
    “Think I got a little sunburned out there today,” he grumbled, before shaking off her hand and sipping his beer.
    “It’s all my fault, letting you run out of sunblock,” she said, brow furrowing. “If you’d like I could go to the store right now, make sure you have some for tomorrow?”
    He glanced at the clock, then replied reprovingly, “That wouldn’t leave you much time to get dinner on the table by six-thirty, would it? No, it’d be better if you went first thing tomorrow.”
    “You’re right,” she agreed. Her eyes shifted back to the television and she shook her head. “I just can’t believe this is happening here. Those poor families.”
    He considered responding, but thought better of it and watched along in silence. The picture switched over to a blond reporter conducting man in the street interviews. She was talking to an obese guy leaning against a minivan piled high with bags. He nodded along to her questions: yes, he was scared, had packed his family up early. “Won’t let my kids outside by themselves anymore,” he said. “Not until they catch this weirdo.”
    “That’s so sad,” his wife said. “What do you think, dear? Maybe we should keep a closer eye on the girls?”
    He looked at his watch. “I thought you said the chicken would take twenty minutes to cook.”
    She jumped off the couch. “You’re right, I’m getting sidetracked. I’ll go put it in the oven.”
    He reached over and grabbed the remote, listening to her footsteps retreat toward the kitchen. The blonde was talking to a hiker now, grubby from weeks on the trail. The hiker shook his head. “Nah, I’m not worried. Those bodies were hella old, man. I doubt whoever did it is still around.”
    He clicked off the television and stared into space for a minute, reviewing his most recent conquest. He’d been extra careful, had buried him deep, far off any trail and miles from here. Still, it had been a risk, taking another one. At this point it was probably best to wait until next year—by then things should have settled down. And he had his tokens to comfort him through the long winter ahead.
    “So, what’d you think?” Monica asked, looping her arm through his.
    Howard Stuart shrugged. “Completely implausible. I’ll never understand why they don’t even make an attempt to get their facts straight.”
    Monica chortled. “Howie, it was a film about aliens. How exactly were they supposed to get their facts straight?”
    “The laws of