Bare Bones (33 page)

“Was your son ever examined or treated?”

“My husband refused to admit there was anything wrong with Charlie Junior. When puberty came, and nothing seemed to happen except for Charlie Junior getting heavier and heavier, I suspected something wasn’t right. I suggested we have him looked at.”

“What did the doctors say?”

“We never went.” She shook her head. “There were two things Mr. Cobb hated with al his might. Doctors and fags. That’s what he cal ed, wel , you know.” She dug for another Kleenex, blew her nose again.

“It was like arguing with a cinder block. To his dying day Charlie Senior believed Charlie Junior just needed to toughen up. That’s what he was always tel ing him. Tough up, kid. Be a man. No one likes a girly boy. No one likes a pansy.” I looked at the boy in the photo, and thought of cool guys shoving geeks in the hal s at school. Of kids taking lunch money from smal er kids. Of loudmouthed bul ies picking at flaws and frailties, making others bleed like unhealed scabs. Of kids taunting, tormenting, persecuting until their victims final y give up on themselves.

I felt anger, frustration, and sadness.

“After Charlie Junior left home he decided to live as a female,” I guessed.

She nodded.

“I’m not sure exactly when he switched, but that’s just what he did. He”—she struggled for the proper pronoun—“shevisited once, but Charlie Senior pitched a fit, told him not to come back until he’d straightened himself out. I hadn’t seen Charlie in over ten years when he”—more pronoun confusion—“when he went missing.”

Conspiratorial smile.

“I talked to him, though. Charlie Senior didn’t know that.”

“Often?”

“He’d cal about once a month. He was a park ranger, you know.”

“A Fish and Wildlife Service agent. That’s a very demanding profession.”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time you spoke with Charlie Junior?”

“It was early December, five years ago. I got a cal from a cop not long after, asking if I knew whereCharlottewas. That’s what Charlie Junior took to cal ing himself. Herself.”

“Was your son working on anything in particular at the time of his disappearance?”

“Something to do with people kil ing bears. He was pretty fired up about it. Said people were slaughtering bears by the bushel just to make a few bucks.

But, as I recal , he talked about it like it was something on the side, not an official assignment. Like it was something he just stumbled on. I think he was real y supposed to be looking out for turtles.”

“Did he mention any names?”

“I think he said something about a Chinese. But wait.” She tapped a bony finger to her lips, raised it in the air. “He said there was a guy in Lancaster and a guy in Columbia. Don’t know if that had to do with bears or turtles, but I remember wondering about it later, because Charlie Junior was working up in North Carolina, not down here.”

The clock cuckooed once, marking the half hour.

“More coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

She rose to refil her cup. I spoke to her back.

“Skeletal remains have been found, Mrs. Cobb. I believe they could be those of your son.” Her shoulders slumped visibly.

“Someone wil be phoning?”

“I’l cal you myself when we’re sure.”

She bal ed her fists, slipped them into the pockets of her sweater.

“Mrs. Cobb, may I ask one last question?”

She nodded.

“Why didn’t you share this information with those investigating your son’s disappearance?” She turned and regarded me with melancholy eyes.

“Charlie Senior said Charlie Junior’d probably gone off to San Francisco or somewhere so’s he could pursue his lifestyle. I believed him.”

“Did your son ever say anything to suggest he was considering a move?”

“No.”

She raised her mug to her lips, set it back down on the counter.

“Guess I believed what I wanted to believe.”

I rose. “I should be going.”

At the door, she asked one last question.

“You read much Scripture?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t.”

Her fingers bunched and rebunched the Kleenex.

“I can’t figure the world out.” Barely audible.

“Mrs. Cobb,” I said, “on my best days, I can’t figure myself out.”

Weaving through the whirligigs, I felt eyes on my back. Eyes fil ed with loss and sadness and confusion.

As I walked toward my car, something on the windshield caught my attention.

What the hel ?

Two paces more and the object grew focused.

I stopped in my tracks.

One hand flew to my mouth. My stomach rol ed over.

Swal owing hard, I took two steps closer. Three. Four.

Dear God.

Revolted, I closed my eyes.

An image crawled through my mind. Crosshairs on my chest.

My heartbeat shot into the stratosphere. My eyes flew open.

Did the Grim Reaper have me in his sights? Had I been fol owed?

I had to force myself to look at the macabre little form scarecrowed against my windshield.

Propped between the wiper blade and the glass was a squirrel. Eyes glazed, bel y slit, innards sprouting like mushrooms on a rotting log.

IWHIPPED AROUND.

The inner and aluminum doors were closed.

I scanned the block.

One jogger with a mongrel dog.

Had I been fol owed? I felt a chil spread through my gut.

Holding my breath, I lifted the wiper blade, took the squirrel by its tail, and tossed it into the trees. Though my hands were shaking, my mind was automatical y taking notes.

Stiff. Not freshly dead.

Digging Bojangles’ napkins from the glove compartment, I cleaned the glass and slid behind the wheel.

Use the adrenaline. Go with it.

Gunning the engine, I shot up the road.

The jogger and dog were rounding the corner. I turned with them.

The woman was thirtyish, and looked like she should jog more often. She wore a spandex bra and bicycle shorts, and headphones with a smal antenna framed a blonde ponytail. The dog was attached to one of those blue plastic leash feeders.

I rol ed down the window.

“Excuse me.”

The dog turned, the jogger did not.

“Excuse me,” I shouted, inching forward.

The dog cut to the car, nearly tripping its owner. She stopped, dropped the headphones around her neck, and regarded me warily.

The dog placed front paws on my door and sniffed. I reached out and patted its head.

The jogger appeared to relax a bit.

“Do you know Mrs. Cobb?” I asked, the calm in my voice belying my agitation.

“Uh-huh,” she panted.

“While we were visiting, something was left on my windshield. I wondered if you’d noticed any other cars near her trailer.”

“Actual y, I did. That road is a dead end, so it doesn’t get much traffic.” She pointed a finger at the dog, then at the ground. “Gary, get down.” Gary?

“It was a Ford Explorer, black. Man at the wheel. Not very tal . Good hair. Sunglasses.”

“Black hair?”

“Lots of it.” She giggled. “My husband is bald.Balding,he’d say. I notice hair on men. Anyway, the Explorer was just parked there opposite Mrs. Cobb’s driveway. I didn’t recognize the car, but it had a South Carolina tag.”

The woman cal ed to Gary. Gary dropped to the pavement, hopped back up against my side panel.

“Is Mrs. Cobb doing al right? I try, but I don’t get over to her place very often.”

“I’m sure she’d appreciate company,” I said, my thoughts on a black-haired stranger.

“Yeah.”

Tugging Gary from my door, the woman repositioned her headphones and resumed her jog.

I sat a moment, debating my next move. Talking myself down.

Lancaster and Columbia.

Short with black hair.Goodblack hair.

That described Wal y Cagle’s coffee partner.

That described Palmer Cousins.

That described a mil ion men in America.

Did it describe the Grim Reaper?

What the hel was going on?

Calm down.

I took a deep breath and tried Katy’s cel phone.

No answer. I left a message on her voice mail.

Lancaster and Columbia.

I phoned Lawrence Looper to check on Wal y Cagle.

Answering machine. Message.

I phoned Dolores at the USC anthropology department.

Wonderful news. Wal y Cagle was coming around. No, he was not yet coherent. No, he’d had no other visitors at the university.

I thanked her and hung up.

What would another trip to Columbia accomplish? Spook Looper? Spook Palmer Cousins? Locate Katy? Thoroughly piss off Katy for trying to locate her? Thoroughly piss off Skinny Slidel ?

A trip to Lancaster?

Clover was halfway there.

Wouldn’t piss off Katy.

Skinny would get over it.

Cagle wasn’t coherent yet, anyway.

I headed south on 321, then east on 9, eyes constantly clicking to the rearview mirror. Twice I spotted what I thought were black Explorers. Twice I slowed.

Twice the vehicles passed me. Though outwardly composed, the chil stayed with me.

Five miles out of Lancaster, I phoned Terry Woolsey at the sheriff ’s department.

“Detective Woolsey isn’t in today,” a man’s voice said.

“Can I cal her at home?”

“Yes, ma’am, you can.”

“But you’re not al owed to give me the number.”

“No, ma’am, I’m not.”

Damn! Why hadn’t I gotten Woolsey’s home number?

I left Woolsey a message.

“How about a number for the county coroner?”

“That I can give you.” He did. “Mr. Park might be in.” He didn’t sound like he believed it. “If not, you could try him at his funeral home.” I thanked him. Disconnecting, I spotted another black SUV. When I looked up from dialing the coroner’s office, the vehicle was gone. The chil intensified.

The operator was right. Park wasn’t in. I left my fourth message in ten minutes, then stopped at a gas station to ask directions to the funeral home.

The attendant conferred with his teenaged assistant, a lengthy discussion ensued, agreement was final y reached: Fol ow Highway 9 until it becomes West Meeting Street. Hang a right onto Memorial Park Drive, cross the tracks, hang another right about a quarter mile down, watch for the sign. If you pass the cemetery, you’ve gone too far.

Neither could remember the name of the road on which the funeral home was located.

Who needed Yahoo!? I had my own pair.

But their directions were accurate. Fifteen minutes and two turns later I spotted a wooden sign supported by two white pil ars. Embossed white letters announced the Park Funeral Home and listed the services provided.

I turned in and fol owed a winding drive bordered by azaleas and boxwoods. Rounding my ninth or tenth curve, I spotted a gravel lot and a group of structures. I parked and surveyed the setup.

The Park Funeral Home was not a large operation. Its nerve center was a one-story brick affair with two wings and a central portion that stuck out in front, two sets of triple windows to either side of the main entrance, and a chimney on an asphalt tile roof above.

Behind the main building I could see a smal brick chapel with a tiny steeple and double doors. Behind the chapel were two wooden structures, the larger probably a garage, the smal er probably a storage shed.

Ivy and periwinkle covered the ground around and between the buildings, and tangles of morning glories crawled up their foundations. Elms and live oaks kept the entire compound in perpetual shadow.

As I got out, the goose bumps did a curtain cal . My mind made an addition to the services listed on the entrance sign. Funerals. Cremation. Grief support. Planning. Perpetual shadow.

Stop the melodrama, Brennan.

Good advice.

Nevertheless, the place creeped me out.

I walked to the large brick building and tried the door. Unlocked.

I let myself into a smal foyer. White plastic letters on a gray board indicated the locations of reception, the arrangement room, the pal -bearers’ room, and parlors one and two.

Someone named Eldridge Maples was booked into parlor two.

I hesitated. Was “arrangement room” a euphemism for office? Was “reception” for the living? White plastic arrows indicated that both venues lay straight ahead.

I stepped through the foyer door into an ornately decorated hal with deep lavender carpet and pale rose wal s. The doors and wood-work were glossy white, and white faux Corinthian columns, complete with rosettes and volutes at ceiling height, hugged the wal s at intervals.

Or were they Doric? Didn’t Corinthian columns have capitals at the top? No, Corinthian columns had rosettes.

Stop!

Queen Anne sofas and love seats fil ed every inter-columnar space. Beside each, mahogany tables held silk flowers and Kleenex boxes.

Potted palms flanked closed double doors to my right and left. A grandfather clock stood sentry at the far end of the corridor, its slow, steady ticking the only sound in the crushing stil ness.

“Hel o?” I cal ed out softly.

No one answered. No one appeared.

I tried again, slightly louder.

Gramps tocked on.

“Anyone here?”

It was my morning for ticking clocks.

I was considering “arrangements” versus “reception” when my cel phone shril ed. I jumped and then looked around, hoping my skittishness hadn’t been noticed. Seeing no one, I scurried out to the foyer, and clicked on.

“Yes,” I hissed.

“Yo.”

My eyes did a ful orbital rol . Had the man never learned to say “hel o”?

“Yes?” I hissed again.

“You in church or something?” Slidel sounded like he was working on one of his ubiquitous Snickers.

“Something.”

“Where the hel are you?”

“At a funeral. Why are you cal ing?”

There was a pause while Slidel mul ed that over.

“Doc Larabee asked me to give you a shout. Said he had feedback from the Questioned Documents section, figured you’d want to know.” For a moment my mind didn’t link over.