Speaking in Bones

  When I’d finished, a thick silence hummed from the mountains to the Piedmont. I knew Ramsey was pondering the same notion I was. The improbability of coincidence.

  “Have you worked with this guy before?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “He solid?”

  “Slidell’s got the personality of an anal polyp, but he’s a good detective.”

  “Want me to give him a call?”

  “Doubt that will move Skinny. Better to do it his way.” I circled back. “Both the Gulleys and the Teagues belong to Jesus Lord Holiness church. Cora and Mason could have met there.”

  “The priest’s estimate was correct. Those questioned thought Gulley dropped from sight in 2011. That puts his disappearance around the same time as Teague’s.”

  We both chewed on that. And on the brutal reality of Hazel Strike’s death.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “You game for another trip up here?”

  “I am.”

  We made plans, then disconnected.

  Birdie and I gave the tax issue our full attention. For about thirty minutes. Then I showered and we both settled in bed.

  Surprisingly, I was eager to talk to Ryan. Probably Slidell—a need to vent. Perhaps a need for more. Whatever. I was tired of trying to sort my untidy emotions.

  Ryan answered after two rings. “Just the person I hoped it would be.”

  “Glad I could make your day.”

  “Your calls always fill me with joy.”

  “Try to control your giddiness.” I smiled. This felt good.

  “Will do.” I could hear Ryan turning down some frenzied sportscaster in the background. He was at home. “What’s up?”

  “I rebooked my trip.”

  “C’est fantastique! When do you arrive?”

  “Next Friday. Sadly, it’s just for a long weekend. I’ll email the flight information.”

  “I’m really glad.” He let that lie for a beat. “So. Any news on your case?”

  I took a moment to organize my thoughts. So much had happened. I decided to start with the recent and work backward.

  “Do you remember our discussion about websleuthing?”

  “I do. And Lucky Strike.” I heard a hum, then the sound of ice cubes dropping into a glass. “She was looking for a kid named Cora Teague.”

  “Strike was killed last night. Bludgeoned to death then dumped in a pond.”

  “Jesus Christ. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” How to put it without overplaying my involvement? “After Strike left my office last Monday, I began looking into what she’d said.”

  “Does her theory have legs?” A liquid, probably Scotch, splashed onto the cubes.

  I told him about the printless fingertips from Burke County. The fragmentary bones from the Lost Cove Cliffs. The concrete mold from the Devil’s Tail. Brown Mountain. Zeb Ramsey. The Teagues. The Gulleys. Granger Hoke and the Church of Jesus Lord Holiness. Wendell Clyde.

  The account took half an hour. Throughout, all I heard was the clink of ice and the occasional swallow.

  As he listened, Ryan went through the same mental lassoing I had. His questions came back clear and succinct.

  “Why no prints?”

  “I’m not sure. Could be the result of chemotherapy. Ramsey asked at local hospitals, but found no AWOL cancer patients.”

  “What did the WCU anthropologist say?”

  “I’ve yet to hear back from her.” Note to self. Follow-up call.

  “And the Teagues refuse to give DNA?”

  “They insist Cora is elsewhere and fine.”

  “There’s no evidence of a crime so you can’t force them to talk.”

  “Voilà.”

  “You’ve got a vic with no cause of death and no way to ID her.”

  “Or him. With what’s been recovered, I can’t determine gender or race. I’ve sent samples to the lab for DNA testing, to try to establish that it’s just one person, maybe later to establish ID. But I’m not optimistic they’ll find enough to sequence. Everything’s badly chewed and weathered.”

  “And the younger Teague kid died under suspicious circumstances.”

  “So says the treating ER doc.”

  Ryan shifted gears.

  “You’re liking Wendell Clyde for the Strike murder?”

  “You should see these online exchanges, Ryan. They’re toxic. And the guy lives just outside Charlotte.” Or did.

  “Skinny’s not buying it?”

  “Who knows what goes on in the far country of Slidell’s mind. By the way, he’s undergone some sort of transmutation.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He’s lost weight and looks”—I groped for a word—“groomed.”

  “He’s got a girlfriend.”

  “Seriously?”

  “He’s back with Verlene.”

  Slidell and Verlene Wryznyk had been an item sometime in the Paleozoic. She’d dumped him, but, over the years, they’d remained friends. The previous winter Slidell had covered for his lost love when she accidentally shot her squeeze of the moment, a State Bureau of Investigation agent with a very tall ego and very loose hands.

  “No way!” I was so stunned that at first I missed the implication of Ryan’s comment. “Wait. How do you know that?”

  “He called me a couple weeks back. Had a question about shoes.”

  “Shoes.”

  “He admires my taste.”

  “Skinny?”

  “Can’t blame him. I’m the man when it comes to footwear.”

  “Ryan,” I said, a note of reproach in my voice.

  “I’ll tell you all about it when you’re here.”

  Before I could press, Ryan looped back.

  “You think Strike’s death is related to the Cora Teague situation?”

  “I don’t know what I think.”

  “Did you ever get the audio recorder from her?”

  “No. Hopefully Skinny will find it when he tosses her house.” Another note to self. Call Slidell.

  A moment of thoughtful silence, then, “Granger Hoke is a Catholic priest?”

  “Jesus Lord Holiness is a breakaway group that has issues with Rome. The congregation is small but fervent. And fiercely private. John Teague is a real piece of work.”

  “Could the remains you recovered tie in to some form of crazy involving Brown Mountain and Satan?”

  Ramsey had mentioned that same possibility. The implication for Hoke and his flock didn’t need stating.

  Until my father died and Gran whisked Mama, Harry, and me south to the land of Baptists and Presbyterians, my upbringing was Catholic. I was schooled by nuns peddling water-and-wine miracles, virgin birth, and resurrection. The hopelessness of unbaptized pagan babies. The evils of venial and mortal sin. The power of forehead ash, penance, and prayer.

  To my young mind, life everlasting was a pretty sweet deal. But the cost of a ticket was mighty high, the odds of achievement extremely low. It seemed I was doomed before I’d begun. My birthright was wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony. My female body was the devil’s wicked lure, meant to be veiled and used only for reproduction.

  Unquestioning obedience was my only salvation. And endless ritual. Friday fish. Saturday confession. Sunday Mass.

  All were called but few were chosen. The God-fearing and God-compliant. The alternative was Satan and a fiery hell.

  “…to Brennan?” Ryan’s voice had gone lower, the edges softer.

  “I’m here.” Please don’t.

  “I love you.”

  I made a noise that could have meant anything.

  “That’s good to know,” Ryan said.

  “It’s late.”

  A blip of a pause.

  “You’re dodging me, Tempe. And avoiding the issue. I’m not talking about putting off a trip to the dentist. Or coming up here. I’m talking about our lives.”

  “I know.” Barely audible.

  “Avoidance is corrosive.”

/>   “I hate long-distance discussions.” Knowing as I spoke that the phone wasn’t the issue. “We’ll talk when I’m there.”

  “I do love you. And I’ll wait. But not forever.”

  An icicle of pure crystalline pain slashed through my chest.

  Ramsey’s directions guided me to the end of a blacktop lined with cuter-than-Heidi’s-bloomers log cabins, the type rented short-term by summer tourists and fall foliage devotees. All were shuttered and dark. Final approach was via a long gravel drive shooting from a cul-de-sac much too large for any purpose I could imagine for such a remote locale.

  Addams Family on crack. That’s what flashed through my mind as I parked.

  Martha Gulley’s home was a rambling two-story frame behemoth that hadn’t seen paint since the Babe signed with the Red Sox. Complete with dormers, weather vane–topped tower, wraparound porch, and greenhouse, the place looked like the bastard offspring of a Gothic-Victorian tryst.

  I was taking in detail when Ramsey pulled up. I got out and waited for him to join me.

  “Did you know about this beauty?”

  “I’ve been by here, but never had cause to enter.” Ramsey was surveying the property, one hand shading his eyes. “Rumor has it that old Oscar was hoping to create an East Coast version of the Sarah Winchester house. Died ten years into the project.”

  “Is that the mansion in San Jose?”

  “It is. Back in the day, Sarah lost her child then her husband, spent the rest of her life adding on to an old farmhouse. By the time she passed the place had one hundred and sixty rooms and sprawled over six acres. Story is she did it to escape the ghosts of people killed by Winchester rifles.”

  Ramsey certainly did like history.

  “You think Fester’s still got his lab in the basement?” I asked.

  “Who?” Swiveling to face me.

  “Never mind.” History, not sitcom TV, was Ramsey’s thing. “Does Grandma know we’re coming?”

  “She does. And she’s not thrilled.”

  I tipped my head toward a black Chevy Tahoe parked beside the greenhouse. Which looked like it hadn’t nurtured flora in many decades. “She still drive?”

  Ramsey shrugged. Who knows?

  We crossed a brown, rutted patch of weeds, once a lawn, and climbed to the porch. Ramsey thumbed the bell. The action triggered no muffled bonging or chiming.

  Ramsey knocked on the door. Which looked jarringly new. And cheap, maybe a Home Depot stock item.

  A full minute. Then a bolt snicked, a chain rattled, and the door swung in. A whole eight inches.

  Through the gap I could see a figure silhouetted against very inadequate lighting. A tall figure. Grandma Gulley’s height was such that I had to lift my chin to meet her eyes. Which were green and wary behind heavy black-framed glasses designed for a man. They landed on me a nanosecond, then hopped back to Ramsey.

  “Don’t know what you’re wanting from me, Sheriff.”

  “I’m just a deputy, ma’am.” Self-effacing grin.

  “Who’s she?” Tip of the head in my direction.

  “Dr. Brennan.”

  “Don’t believe in doctors.”

  “Thank you for agreeing to see us, Mrs. Gulley.” Friendly as apple pie at the fair. “You said late afternoon would be convenient?”

  “Weren’t like you give me much choice. Is this about Mason?”

  “May we come in?”

  A dramatic straightening of the shoulders. Then Grandma stepped back and angled the door a few inches wider. Ramsey and I slipped through and she slammed and locked it behind us.

  The entrance gave directly onto a parlor that, like the house, looked frozen in time. The drapes were drawn and only one lamp was lit. In the dimness I made out an old upright piano, a corner hutch, three groupings of wooden and upholstered furniture.

  A stone fireplace occupied most of the wall to our left. In front of it, a pair of ancient sofas faced off across a table made of tree trunk sections covered by a slab of glass.

  At one end of the far sofa sat Granger Hoke, Roman collar a little white square in the gloom. Palm-smoothing the greasy black hair, he rose to greet us.

  I trailed Grandma across the room, impressed by the size of the woman’s frame. Though her neck was now scrawny and her jawline flaccid, it was clear she’d once carried substantial bulk.

  “Deputy.” Hoke volleyed off a wide smile and a hand. “It’s so nice to see you again.” The high-beam welcome swung to me. “To see both of you.”

  “Sir.” Ramsey shook with the priest. “This is a surprise.”

  “Yes, yes. I hope my presence isn’t an intrusion. Martha is quite nervous. She’s never been interrogated by the police.”

  “This is hardly an interrogation.”

  “Of course not.” Conspiratorial chuckle. Old people. “But Martha is one of my parishioners. When she called, I couldn’t say no. We’ve prayed to Jesus to give her strength.” Hoke arced an arm, the same gesture he’d employed on the church stoop. No green bird now. In lieu of vestments, he wore a simple black suit. “Shall we?”

  The priest resumed his seat. Grandma settled down-sofa from him. Ramsey and I sat facing them, at separate ends of a scratchy, overstuffed horror.

  “Your home is lovely,” I said to put Grandma at ease.

  “The Lord Jesus don’t condone waste. Most of it’s closed off. No sense heating unneeded space.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Is that important?”

  “No, ma’am. I understand your husband worked many years constructing the house.”

  “A fool’s venture.”

  Having dazzled at warm-up, I yielded the floor to Ramsey as planned. While my ears took in the conversation, my eyes roved the room.

  Bronze sconces jutted from walls papered with green and beige stripes and trimmed with dark-stained baseboards and crown molding. A chandelier hung from the ceiling above us, encircled by an ornate bronze medallion.

  Beyond the parlor, through double wooden doors, I could see a wallpapered hallway shooting left. Roses, not stripes. Across the hall was what appeared to be a very large kitchen. Nothing else was visible from where I sat.

  Over Hoke’s shoulder, the corner hutch was a shrine to all things Catholic. A large crucifix stood at center stage, thorns, stakes, and corpus carved and painted in vivid, though inaccurate, detail.

  A cast of supporting players was also present, some in sculpture, others framed and under glass. Our Lady of Something, palms spread, heart pumping red. Francis of Assisi, feet hidden by bunnies and lambs. Thérèse of Lisieux, head veiled, arms laden with roses. The rest, though vaguely familiar, I couldn’t ID.

  Jesus stared down from a patch of stripes between the hutch and the fireplace, eyes saying he had no qualms about reading my mind. And that he smelled trouble.

  The various tables and shelves held not a single personal photo. No baby in a silly hat. No kid in cap and gown. No dog asleep in a patch of sun.

  I refocused on the interview. Ramsey was ignoring Hoke, directing his comments solely to Grandma. The priest was maintaining a poker face. But I could tell his mind was working and he was listening carefully.

  The old woman’s hair, a dull yellow-white, was pulled back and secured in a complex arrangement of braids. The hem of her dress skimmed the tops of black oxfords planted firmly and close together.

  “It’s a pity we haven’t met prior to this, ma’am.” Ramsey was still laying thick the country boy charm.

  “I don’t go out much.”

  “That’s Avery County’s loss.”

  Hoke raised a brow and feigned amusement. “Martha is eighty-two, Deputy. Still, she never misses a Wednesday or Sunday.”

  “Does your granddaughter drive you? Susan Grace I believe is her name?” Affable, but letting both know he’d done his homework.

  “She does.”

  “She still lives with you, then?”

  “Is this about my grandson? If so you’re
wasting your time. I can tell you right up. Mason’s gone and there’s no two ways about it. Stole my money and run off with a woman.”

  “Cora Teague.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Though her answers were firm, it was clear the old woman was terrified. All clenched fingers and jittery eyes.

  “Where did Mason attend school?” Ramsey used an old interview trick. Switch topics to keep your subject off-balance.

  “I homeschooled the boy.”

  “Why?”

  “Mason’s different.”

  “Different how?”

  “Different enough so’s I couldn’t send him to public school.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Unnatural.”

  “Do you know where Mason and Cora have gone?” Another sharp-angle turn.

  “I do not. Nor do I wish to.”

  “He’s your grandson.”

  “He’s evil made flesh.” Spit with such bile it startled me.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Mason’s soul belongs to the devil.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  The man-glasses whipped to Hoke. The priest dipped his chin without turning his head. The dim lighting shadowed his face, making it impossible to read his eyes.

  “Mason’s never looked right, never acted like a boy’s supposed to act.”

  “What does that mean?” I couldn’t help blurting.

  “He carries the mark of Satan.” A blue-veined hand made the sign of the cross, forehead, sternum, then shoulder to shoulder.

  Because he’s gay, you ignorant old bat? I felt a rush of anger, twisted and jumbled with feelings from now and from long ago. Ramsey intervened before I could fire off another question.

  “Do you have a picture of your grandson?”

  “I do not.”

  “Not one little old snapshot?” With a sweet-talking grin.

  “Burned every one.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Father G said I should.”

  Hoke leaned sideways and asked the old lady in a whispery voice, “Have I permission to share a confidence, my dear?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Thoughts of Mason are very disturbing for Martha. She was having nightmares, not sleeping. I thought the exercise might prove beneficial. A sort of purging.”

  Ramsey’s eyes stayed on Grandma, but he said nothing. Another interview trick. Allow silence, hoping the interviewee will feel compelled to fill it.