The Bones of Paradise by Jonis Agee Page A

the fever was on her, she drew on the mattress ticking and the dirt floor, until her nails wore down, and her fingertips bled from the scraping. Even after he bound her hands, the motion continued, sometimes scrawling the air between them, sometimes the front of her nightgown, or the bed again. He was glad to burn the bedding when it was all over, afraid he might recognize the portraits.
    He shook himself. Why had he never asked her if it was worth it, what she gave up for him? He knew he didn’t want the answer, and was glad she never offered. The truth couldn’t be known until the end of a person’s life, and then what’s the use. He should never have taken her love, like a gift that was out of proportion for the occasion. But it was a young man’s mistake, one he’d never repeat. He wiped his face with his hand and wasn’t surprised to find it sweaty. Ever since he was shot, he felt chills and twisting cramps in his gut like his body fought to rid itself of the poison. His mind wandered, too, right when he needed to pay attention to things at hand, like it was trying to trick him.
    â€œCan you think of anything else about that day?” Higgs asked Graver while Larabee smoked and watched. Graver shook his head. A breeze drove the windmill blades, producing a high, persistent squeal, and then quit and they slowed to a stop. “Larabee, you got any grease on you?” Higgs asked. “Might as well fix that son of a bitch while we’re here.”
    The man sighed, finished his cigarette, and rubbed it out on the toe of his boot before climbing down and searching his saddlebag for an old tobacco tin.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Higgs asked with a frown.
    â€œHair grease, hand healer, leather protector, waterproofer, bag balm, wound dressing. Want some?” Larabee grinned.
    Higgs waved his hand. “Get going.” He shifted his eyes to Graver. “You get down and show us how it happened. Every inch of it.”
    â€œThing is, my knee’s been giving me fits lately, and climbing’s . . .” Larabee stood next to his horse and glanced at the windmill as if it were a Wyoming mountain peak. Higgs snorted and shook his head.
    â€œI’ll do it,” Graver said.
    â€œYou up to a climb?” Higgs asked.
    Graver maneuvered his horse to Larabee’s side, took the can of grease, and headed for the windmill on the far side of the tank. Anything was better than acting out the shooting again. Maybe they were going to finish him here, the thought had occurred to him several times throughout the ride.
    â€œCan’t fault a man for wanting to work,” Larabee said as he stepped into the stirrup and settled back into the saddle.
    â€œHope that arm’s healed enough. Hate to have you haul him back on your horse, you walking the whole way,” Higgs said.
    â€œLooks like he’s doing fine.” Larabee lifted his chin to the windmill, where Graver was straddling the crossarm and digging into the grease tin.
    â€œYou need to get back down there and start looking for clues,” Higgs said.
    Graver slowly worked his way around the scaffolding of the windmill, pretending to examine the machine while he memorized the way the small hills folded into the larger ones that were actually sand dunes underneath a thin layer of soil and grass. To the east aseries of shallow hills like steps cut into the front of a tall hill. The killer must have waited there, Graver thought, where the grass was cropped short by his horse. He tried to remember the voice from that morning. At the time, he’d thought it was a young man, but maybe it was a woman? Or perhaps the shooter had been lying in an uncomfortable position, say on his back, where the soapweed took over the hillside. Person’d have to be cautious of rattlers sleeping in the shade of those wide stiff leaves. And the prickly pear cactus, the yellow blooms peeking out of the spiny ears,