“Why?”
“Insisted Cobb would turn up.”
“Denial?”
“Who knows. Hold on.”
I twisted the phone cord as I waited.
“I think they were real active in some church group down there, so I suppose it’s possible they’re still at this address. I only heard Charlotte mention her folks once. Got the impression they didn’t have much to do with each other.”
As I jotted the number, a question occurred to me.
“How tall was Cobb?”
“She wasn’t one of those petite, little things. But she wasn’t what you’d call an Amazon, either. Guess you heard about Brian Aiker?”
“Tim Larabee did the autopsy here today,” I said.
“Poor bastard.”
“Was Aiker working on something at Crowder’s Mountain?”
“Not that I knew of.”
“Any idea why he might have gone there?”
“Not a clue.”
I looked at my watch. Six-forty. I’d eaten nothing since breakfast at the Coffee Cup with Woolsey.
And Boyd hadn’t been out in thirteen hours.
Oh, boy.
* * *
Boyd charged the lawn like the Allies hitting Normandy. After devouring the cheeseburger I’d bought him at Burger King, he spent ten minutes trying to stare me out of my Whopper, and another five licking both wrappers.
Showing somewhat more restraint and considerably more dignity, Birdie nibbled the corner of a French fry, then sat, extended one hind leg, and diligently cleaned between his toes.
Cat and dog were sleeping when Ted Springer called from Columbia at eight.
“Microbiologists put in a long day,” I said.
“I was running some samples. Listen, I found the file on your Lancaster skeleton and there may be something.”
“That was quick,” I said.
“I got lucky. How much do you know about the amelogenin locus?”
“Girls show one band, boys show two, one the same size as the ladies, one slightly larger.”
“B-plus answer.”
“Thanks.”
“Amelogenin appears as two bands on a gel, but there’s one nifty little variation not everyone recognizes. With normal males, the two bands are of similar intensity. You with me?”
“I think ‘normal’ is going to be the operative word,” I said.
“With Klinefelter’s males, the band representing the X chromosome is twice as intense as that representing the Y chromosome.”
“Klinefelter’s males?” My brain was grinding, refusing to shift into gear.
“The XXY karyotype, where there are three sex chromosomes instead of two. My colleague didn’t pick up on the intensity difference.”
“The unknown had Klinefelter’s syndrome?”
“The system’s not one hundred percent.”
“But KS is a good possibility in this case?”
“Yes. That help any?”
“It just might.”
I sat motionless, like a hunting trophy that’s been stuffed and mounted.
Klinefelter’s syndrome.
XXY.
A bad roll of Slidell’s embryonic dice.
Booting up the computer, I began surfing. I was working through the Klinefelter’s Syndrome Association Web site when Boyd nudged my knee.
“Not now, boy.”
Another nudge.
I looked down.
Boyd put a paw on my knee, raised his snout, and snapped at the air. Gotta go.
“Is this on the level?”
Boyd dashed across the room, spun, snapped, and twirled the eye hairs.
I checked the time. Ten-fifteen. Enough.
Killing the computer and lights, I headed for Boyd’s leash.
The chow danced me out of the den, thrilled at the prospect of one last sortie before bedding back down.
The darkness in the annex was almost total, relieved only by heat lightning flickering through the trees. Inside, the mantel clock ticked. Outside, moths and June bugs fought the windows, their bodies making dull, thudding sounds against the screens.
When we entered the kitchen Boyd’s demeanor changed. His body tensed, and his ears and tail shot up. A short growl, then he lunged forward and began barking at the door.
My hand flew to my chest.
“Boyd,” I hissed. “Come here.”
Boyd ignored me.
I shushed him. The dog kept barking.
Heart pounding, I crept to the door and pressed my back to the wall, listening.
A car horn. June bugs. Crickets. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Boyd’s barking was becoming more urgent. His hackles were up now. His body was rigid.
Again I shushed him. Again he ignored me.
Over Boyd’s barking, I heard a thunk, then a soft scraping just outside the door.
My insides turned to ice.
Someone was there!
Call 911! my brain cells screamed. Run to the neighbors! Escape through the front door!
Escape from what? Tell 911 what? A bogeyman is on my porch? The Grim Reaper is at my back door?
I reached for Boyd. The dog twisted from me and continued his protest.
Was the door locked? Usually I was good about security, but sometimes I slipped. Had I forgotten in my hurry to let Boyd out?
Fingers trembling, I felt for the lock.
The little oblong knob was horizontal. Locked? Unlocked? I couldn’t remember!
Should I test the handle?
Don’t make a sound! Don’t let him know you’re here!
Had I engaged the security system? I usually did that just before going upstairs to bed. My eyes slid to the panel.
No flashing red light!
Damn!
Hands shaking badly now, I lifted a corner of the window curtain.
Pitch-black.
My eyes struggled to adjust.
Nothing.
I leaned close to the glass, shot my eyes left, then right, peering through the tiny opening I’d created.
No go.
Turn on the porch light, one rational brain cell suggested.
My hand groped for the switch.
No! Don’t tell him you’re home!
My hand froze.
At that moment the sky flickered. Two silhouettes emerged from the darkness.
Adrenaline rocketed through my body.
The two silhouettes were standing on my back porch, less than two feet from my terrified face.
THE FIGURES STOOD FROZEN, TWO BLACK CUTOUTS AGAINST A pitch-black night.
I dropped the curtain and shrank back, heart pounding in my throat.
The Grim Reaper? With an accomplice?
Barely breathing, I stole another peek.
The space between the figures appeared to have shrunk.
The space between the figures and my door appeared to have shrunk.
What to do?
My terrified brain came up with variations on the same suggestions.
Phone 911! Throw on the porch light! Yell through the door!
Boyd’s barking continued, steady but unfrenzied.
The sky flickered, went black.
Was my mind playing tricks, or did the larger silhouette look familiar?
I waited.
More lightning, longer. One, two, three seconds.
Sweet Jesus.
She looked even bulkier than my recollection.
My hand brushed the wall, found the switch. The overhead bulb bathed the porch in amber.
“Hush, Boyd.”
I laid a hand on his head.
“Is that you, Geneva?”
“Don’t be setting no dog on us.”
Reaching down, I grasped Boyd’s collar. Then I unlocked and opened the door.
Geneva had one arm around a young woman I immediately recognized as Tamela, the other thrown up across her face. Both sisters resembled frightened deer, their eyes blinded by the unexpected light.
>
“Come in.” Still holding the chow’s collar, I pushed open the screen.
Clearance having been granted the callers, Boyd’s barking gave way to tail wagging.
The sisters didn’t budge.
I stepped backward into the kitchen, dragging Boyd with me.
Geneva opened the screen door, nudged Tamela inside, followed.
“He won’t hurt you,” I said.
The sisters looked wary.
“Really.”
I released Boyd and turned on the kitchen lights. The chow hopped forward and began sniffing Tamela’s legs, his tail doing double time.
Geneva stiffened.
Tamela reached down and tentatively patted Boyd’s head. The dog twisted and licked her fingers. They looked so delicate, the hand could have been that of a ten-year-old child. Except for the bloodred nails.
Boyd shifted to Geneva. She glared at him. Boyd shifted back to Tamela. She squatted, rested one knee on the floor, and ruffled his fur.
“A lot of folks have been searching for you,” I said, looking from one sister to the other. I tried to mask my surprise. After all this time, Tamela was actually standing in my kitchen.
“We’re OK.” Geneva.
“Your father?”
“Daddy’s fine.”
“How did you find me?”
“You left your card.”
My surprise must have broken through at that.
“Daddy knew how to find you.”
I let it go, assuming Gideon Banks had obtained my home address through some university source.
“I’m very relieved to see you’re safe. Can I get you a cup of tea?”
“Coke?” Tamela asked, rising.
“I have Diet.”
“OK.” Disappointed.
I gestured to the table. They sat. Boyd followed and put his chin on Tamela’s knee.
I didn’t want Coke, but popped three cans to be sociable. Returning to the table, I placed a soda in front of each sister and took a chair.
Geneva was dressed in a V-necked UNCC Forty-niners jersey and the same shorts she’d worn the day Slidell and I visited her father. Her limbs and belly looked bloated, the skin on her elbows and knees cracked and wrinkled.
Tamela wore a backless red halter that tied behind her neck and ribs, orange and red polyester skirt, and pink flip-flops with rhinestones on the plastic band. Her arms and legs were long and bony.
The contrast was striking. Geneva was hippo, Tamela pure gazelle.
I waited.
Geneva looked around the kitchen.
Tamela chewed gum, nervously scratched Boyd’s muzzle. She seemed skittish, unable to remain still for more than a second.
I waited.
The refrigerator hummed.
I waited long enough for Geneva to collect her thoughts. Long enough for Tamela to settle her nerves.
Long enough for the entire five movements of Schubert’s Trout Quintet.
Finally, Geneva broke the silence, eyes now on her Coke.
“Darryl off the street?”
“Yes.”
“Why’s he in jail?” Heat lightning pulsed in the window behind her.
“There’s evidence Darryl’s been dealing drugs.”
“He gonna do jail time?”
“I’m not a lawyer, Geneva. But I would guess that he is.”
“You guess.” For some reason Tamela directed the comment to Geneva.
“Yes,” I said.
“How do you know?” Tamela canted her head sideways, like Boyd studying a curiosity.
“I don’t know for sure.”
There was another long silence. Then, “Darryl didn’t kill my baby.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“It weren’t Darryl’s baby. I was with him, but it weren’t Darryl’s baby.”
“Who is the father?”
“White boy named Buck Harold. But it don’t matter. What I’m sayin’ is Darryl didn’t do that baby no harm.”
I nodded.
“Baby didn’t belong to Darryl and I don’t, like, belong to him, know what I’m sayin’?”
“Tell me what happened to your baby.”
“I was staying at Darryl’s place—well, it weren’t his place but he was living there, like, in one of the rooms. So, one day, like, I start having pains and I figure my time come. But the pain just keeps getting worse and worse, and nothing happens. I knew something was wrong.”
“No one got you medical care?”
She laughed, looked at me like I’d suggested she apply to Yale.
“After that night and the next day, finally the baby came out, but it was messed up.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was blue and it wouldn’t take no breath.”
Her eyes glistened. Looking away, she swiped the heel of a palm across each cheek.
A steel shaft entered my chest. I believed her story. I felt pain for this young woman and for her unbearable loss. Pain for all the Tamelas of this world and their babies.
I reached out and laid my hand on hers. She pulled back, dropped both hands to her lap.
“You put the baby’s body in the woodstove?” I asked gently.
She nodded.
“Darryl told you to do that?”
“No. Don’t know why I did it, I jus’ did it. Darryl still believin’ it’s his baby, getting off on the fatherhood trip.”
“I see.”
“Nobody did nothin’ to that baby.” Tears glistened on her face, and her bony chest heaved below the red halter top. “It was just born wantin’ to be dead.”
Tamela wiped her cheeks again, anger and sorrow betrayed by the roughness of the gesture. Then she curled her fingers and rested her forehead on her fists.
“You couldn’t revive it?”
Tamela could only shake her head.
“Why did you go into hiding?”
Tamela looked over her knuckles at Geneva.
“Go on,” Geneva said. “We’re here. Now you tell her.”
Tamela drew several unsteady breaths.
“One day Darryl gets to fighting with Buck. Buck tells him I been playin’ him the fool and the baby was his. Darryl goes batshit, decides I killed my own baby to dis him. He say he gonna find me and mess me up bad.”
“Where did you go?”
“Cousin’s basement.”
“Your father is there now?”
Two head shakes.
“Daddy’s went over to his sister in Sumter. She drove up and got him, but she won’t have nothin’ to do with us. Say we the devil’s own offspring, and we gonna burn in hell.”
“Why have you come to see me?”
Neither sister would raise her eyes to mine.
“Geneva?”
Geneva kept her gaze on the fingers curled around her Coke.
“We gonna tell her,” she said, her voice flat.
Tamela gave a suit-yourself shrug.
“This mornin’ my cousin is poundin’ on the door, yellin’ her man looking at my sister too much, yellin’ at us to get out. Daddy’s mad at us, our own kin’s mad at us, and Darryl’s wantin’ to kill us.”
Geneva’s head was down so I couldn’t see her face, but the trembling in her ponytail revealed her desperation.
“We gotta leave where we was, we can’t go home, case Darryl get out and come looking for us.” Her voice trailed off. “We run out of places.”
“I ain’t—” Tamela started, but couldn’t finish.
I reached over and placed one hand on each of theirs. This time she didn’t pull away.
“You will stay with me until it’s safe to go home.”
“We won’t take nothin’.” Tamela’s words were hushed. The voice of a frightened child.
* * *
I took Boyd for a five-minute walk. Then we spent half an hour digging out towels and bedding for the sleeper sofa. By the time the Banks sisters were settled, Boyd having been granted a place in the den over Geneva’s obj
ection, it was well past eleven.
Too agitated to sleep, I took my laptop to my bedroom, logged on, and resumed my Klinefelter’s research. I’d been at it ten minutes when my cell phone rang.
“What’s wrong?” Ryan sounded alarmed at the tenor of my voice.
I told him about Geneva and Tamela.
“You sure it’s legit?”
“I think so.”
“Well, be careful. They could be fronting for this mope Tyree.”
“I’m always careful.” No need to mention that moment of uncertainty concerning the lock. Or the unset alarm.
“You must be relieved that the Bankses are safe.”
“Yes. And I think I’ve discovered something else.”
“Does it have to do with fractals?”
“Ever heard of Klinefelter’s syndrome?”
“No.”
“How are you fixed for chromosomes?”
“Twenty-three pairs. Should hold me.”
“That would suggest that something about you is normal.”
“I have a feeling I’m about to learn about chromosomes.”
I let him listen to the sound of me saying nothing.
“OK.” I heard a match strike, then a deep inhalation. “Please?”
“As you so astutely point out, genetically normal individuals have twenty-three pairs of chromosomes, one per set coming from each parent. Twenty-two pairs are called autosomes, the other pair is made up of the sex chromosomes.”
“XX gets you the pink booties, XY gets you the blue.”
“You’re a whiz, Ryan. Occasionally, something goes awry in the formation of an egg or sperm, and an individual is born with one chromosome too many or one chromosome too few.”
“Down’s syndrome.”
“Exactly. People with mongolism, or Down’s syndrome, have an extra chromosome in the twenty-first pair of autosomes. The condition is also called trisomy 21.”
“I think we’re getting to Mr. Klinefelter.”
“Sometimes the abnormality involves a missing or an extra sex chromosome. XO women have a condition called Turner’s syndrome. XXY men have Klinefelter’s syndrome.”
“What about YO men?”
“Not possible. No X, no survival.”
“Tell me about Klinefelter’s.”
“Since there’s a Y chromosome in the genome, XXY, Klinefelter’s syndrome individuals are male. But they have small testes, and suffer from testosterone deficiency and infertility.”
“Are they physically distinct?”