Bone Harvest by Mary Logue Page A

watched her leave the press office, he noted that all of her was in slight disrepair: her handbag dangling from her drooping shoulder, her blond hair pulling out of a loose ponytail, and the hem of her light summer dress falling down in back.
    This was a bad business. Sitting at his desk, Harold Peabody worked his forehead with his fingers. He had made a list and he didn’t like the looks of it at all. His role as editor was not to scare the public, but rather to give them the news, warn them if necessary. So he wouldn’t connect it all together for his readership. At least, not yet.
    Chickens twirling and dying. Pesticide in their feed. This was the second incident since the break-in at the Farmer’s Cooperative. The destruction of the garden in front of the sheriff’s department, he had decided, could go on the third page. This piece he would put on the front page, but below the fold.
    Glancing at the clock on the wall, he saw it was after five. Agnes knew that he was often late for dinner on weekdays. She was in the habit of cooking something that could be held indefinitely in a warm oven or a cold refrigerator. In winter it would be some mishmash of noodles and ground beef and cream of mushroom soup. Summers she often made a cold salad of macaroni noodles, canned shrimp, and peas. Suited him fine.
    Tomorrow was the Fourth of July. Middle of the summer. The air conditioner in the back window droned on. Nearly ninety out and very soupy. For the holiday, he planned on grilling a chicken; Agnes would make her potato salad and strawberry shortcake. When it started to get dark, they would drive to the river and watch the fireworks.
    Harold heard the door to the front office open. He thought of getting up and talking to whoever had entered, but he wanted to finish this last piece before interrupting his work. When the door opened and closed again, he figured his visitor had come in to buy a paper.
    A pile of papers was always left on the counter, and a box sat next to them for quarters. The honor system worked pretty well in these parts. Once or twice they had even come out ahead on the money. Maybe he wasn’t charging enough for his paper—although circulation was not where the money came from; the money was all in advertising. With two more businesses closing on Main Street, he’d be losing some other reliable clients soon.
    Sighing a deep sigh, Harold pushed himself out of his chair. He needed to get up and walk around from time to time. Otherwise his legs bothered him. It was time to lock the front door. He walked out to the front desk and turned the dead bolt.
    He waved at Harriette Pinkerton as she passed on the street. She’d be a pretty woman if she didn’t pull her hair back so tight and if she put on a little lipstick. Women walked around these days looking more informal than his mother would have ever allowed herself to be seen out of the bedroom: skimpy T-shirts, slippers on their feet, and their bra straps showing on purpose. But he was certainly glad that he didn’t have to wear a suit to work every day. Or a hat for that matter.
    When he turned to walk back to his desk, he saw an envelope sitting on the counter with his name on it. mr. harold peabody, it was labeled, then underneath, put in the paper, please. Assuming it was a letter to the editor, he wondered who was ranting about what this week.
    Curious, he opened the envelope and pulled out a single piece of paper. Not much writing on it. He peered down through the bottom half of his glasses. At the top of the paper was written a series of numbers:
7, 7, 10, 52.
    Offhand, he couldn’t make them mean anything. Then he read the body of the note:
The killer has gone free for far too long. The truth must be told. Or more will die. The flowers and the birds were only the beginning. The murdered are crying out for revenge. I have listened to them for half a century.
It is enough.
Wrath of God
    Wrath of God. Harold read it again and felt the seriousness of