room that carried over the same sterile theme. The floral arrangement on the table had been dead for weeks, or longer. They walked down a short hallway. The man rapped twice on the door at the end. “My brother’s office,” he said laconically as he turned and walked back down the hall.
A moment later, Dave Getter opened the door. “Car trouble?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
Crow jerked his head from side to side. The odor that he had noticed before was much stronger here.
Getter ran his eyes down Crow’s well-worn brown herringbone sport coat, black cotton turtleneck, and faded twill pants. He stared for a moment at the beat-up wing tips, then took it all in again in reverse.
“Looking sharp, Joe.”
“Thanks, Dave.” He looked past Getter. “Oh,” he said, recognizing the smell at last—the smell of leather and bone.
The “office” was as large as the living room but had been decorated after a somewhat different aesthetic. Grayish pink suede wallpaper was sandwiched between the oak wainscoting and a picture rail, from which a collection of elaborately framed wildlife paintings—a bull elk, a herd of bison, a stalking mountain lion, a flock of Canada geese—hung on braided maroon cords. A chandelier made from bleached deer antlers and wrought iron hung to within seven feet of a grizzly bear rug that lay in ambush in the center of the room. A gas flame flickered in a fieldstone fireplace at the far end of the room. Above the mantel, a mounted bison head was flanked on one side by an eight-point whitetail and on the other by a four-foot-long elephant tusk mounted on a teak plaque. A snarling leopard, seven feet from nose to tail, crouched against one wall, frozen in time. The rest of the room was crowded with furnishings that appeared to have been constructed exclusively from the hides, antlers, horns, and bones of large dead animals. A sofa and a love seat—pale leather accented with zebra hide—looked almost sedate beside an uncomfortable-looking but cleverly designed chair made from moose antlers and woven strips of dark leather. Crow felt as if he were in the belly of a great beast, about to be drenched by stomach acids, surrounded by the indigestible parts of previous victims.
A man wearing professionally faded jeans, an ornately embroidered red rodeo shirt, and a deep suntan stood with his hip resting on the corner of an antique mahogany desk, the only piece of furniture in the room that did not include parts from dead animals. When he saw that he had Crow’s attention, he walked across the grizzly bear’s flattened back, holding out his hand.
“Thanks for coming, Joe,” he said, flashing a wide, white smile. “Dr. Nelson Bellweather. Good to have you on board!” He stood about five-nine in his ostrich-hide cowboy boots, giving him a couple of inches over Crow. He raised his chin, took Crow’s hand in a firm, precise, ephemeral grip—long fingers clasped and released and were gone. Tipping his head back a few more degrees, he looked at Crow expectantly, waiting for a response. Getter followed the encounter with the intensity of a dog on point. Crow examined Bellweather’s face: soft, smooth, regular features. Narrow lips. Gray eyes, wispy blond hair. Somewhere between forty and fifty. Dr. Nelson Bellweather looked like his brother the nonbutler, but younger and with more attitude. He kept his head tipped back. Crow’s eyes fixed on the small, perfect ovals formed by his nostrils.
“Nice place,” Crow said. “You shoot all this furniture yourself?”
Bellweather cocked his hip and hooked a thumb in his belt. It looked utterly artificial, like a pose he had seen a bad guy strike in a fifties horse opera. He laughed, a little too loud. “Some. You remember me, don’t you?”
Crow hadn’t, but suddenly he did. “I remember you,” he said. He felt as though someone had shoved a long, rusty pin into his likeness. “The pink Jag, right?”
Bellweather grinned, showing most of
A moment later, Dave Getter opened the door. “Car trouble?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
Crow jerked his head from side to side. The odor that he had noticed before was much stronger here.
Getter ran his eyes down Crow’s well-worn brown herringbone sport coat, black cotton turtleneck, and faded twill pants. He stared for a moment at the beat-up wing tips, then took it all in again in reverse.
“Looking sharp, Joe.”
“Thanks, Dave.” He looked past Getter. “Oh,” he said, recognizing the smell at last—the smell of leather and bone.
The “office” was as large as the living room but had been decorated after a somewhat different aesthetic. Grayish pink suede wallpaper was sandwiched between the oak wainscoting and a picture rail, from which a collection of elaborately framed wildlife paintings—a bull elk, a herd of bison, a stalking mountain lion, a flock of Canada geese—hung on braided maroon cords. A chandelier made from bleached deer antlers and wrought iron hung to within seven feet of a grizzly bear rug that lay in ambush in the center of the room. A gas flame flickered in a fieldstone fireplace at the far end of the room. Above the mantel, a mounted bison head was flanked on one side by an eight-point whitetail and on the other by a four-foot-long elephant tusk mounted on a teak plaque. A snarling leopard, seven feet from nose to tail, crouched against one wall, frozen in time. The rest of the room was crowded with furnishings that appeared to have been constructed exclusively from the hides, antlers, horns, and bones of large dead animals. A sofa and a love seat—pale leather accented with zebra hide—looked almost sedate beside an uncomfortable-looking but cleverly designed chair made from moose antlers and woven strips of dark leather. Crow felt as if he were in the belly of a great beast, about to be drenched by stomach acids, surrounded by the indigestible parts of previous victims.
A man wearing professionally faded jeans, an ornately embroidered red rodeo shirt, and a deep suntan stood with his hip resting on the corner of an antique mahogany desk, the only piece of furniture in the room that did not include parts from dead animals. When he saw that he had Crow’s attention, he walked across the grizzly bear’s flattened back, holding out his hand.
“Thanks for coming, Joe,” he said, flashing a wide, white smile. “Dr. Nelson Bellweather. Good to have you on board!” He stood about five-nine in his ostrich-hide cowboy boots, giving him a couple of inches over Crow. He raised his chin, took Crow’s hand in a firm, precise, ephemeral grip—long fingers clasped and released and were gone. Tipping his head back a few more degrees, he looked at Crow expectantly, waiting for a response. Getter followed the encounter with the intensity of a dog on point. Crow examined Bellweather’s face: soft, smooth, regular features. Narrow lips. Gray eyes, wispy blond hair. Somewhere between forty and fifty. Dr. Nelson Bellweather looked like his brother the nonbutler, but younger and with more attitude. He kept his head tipped back. Crow’s eyes fixed on the small, perfect ovals formed by his nostrils.
“Nice place,” Crow said. “You shoot all this furniture yourself?”
Bellweather cocked his hip and hooked a thumb in his belt. It looked utterly artificial, like a pose he had seen a bad guy strike in a fifties horse opera. He laughed, a little too loud. “Some. You remember me, don’t you?”
Crow hadn’t, but suddenly he did. “I remember you,” he said. He felt as though someone had shoved a long, rusty pin into his likeness. “The pink Jag, right?”
Bellweather grinned, showing most of
Similar Books
