Devil Bones (8 page)

“Lily’s going through a rough patch. She needs her father.”

Katy chose not to reply.

The waiter arrived with our food. When he’d gone, I changed direction.

“Tel me about work.”

“Shoot-me-in-the-head dul.”

“So you’ve said.”

“I’m a glorified secretary. Scratch that. There’s nothing glorified in what I do.”

“Which is?”

“Maintain folders. Feed info into a computer. Assemble criminal histories. My most exciting task to date was a credit check. Heart-pounding.”

“Did you think you’d be arguing before the Supreme Court?”

“No.” Defensive. “But I didn’t expect mind-numbing drudgery.”

I let her vent on.

“I make next to nothing. And the people I work with are slammed by their caseloads and just want to negotiate pleas and move on to the next file. They don’t have time for a lot of interaction with staff. Talk about boring. There’s only one guy with spunk, and he’s got to be fifty.” Katy’s tone changed ever so slightly. “Actualy, he’s bodaciously hot.

If he weren’t so old I wouldn’t mind slipping off
his
tighty whities.”

“Too much information.”

Katy roled on.

“You’d like this guy. And he’s single. It’s realy sad. His wife was kiled on nine-eleven. I think she was an investment banker or something.”

“I’l find my own men, thanks.”

“Al right, al right. Anyway, half the staff are fossils, the other half are too harried to notice there’s a world outside the PD’s office.”

I was beginning to grasp the problem. Bily was no longer making grade, and no twenty-something cute-boy lawyer was waiting in the wings.

We ate in silence for a few moments. When Katy spoke again I could tel her thoughts had circled.

“So what are we going to do about Summer?”

“For my part, nothing.”

“Jesus, Mom. The woman hasn’t finished forming a ful set of molars.”

“Your father’s life is his own.”

Katy said something that sounded like “cha,” then fork-jabbed her fish. I took another mouthful of veal.

Seconds later I heard a whispered “Ohmygod.”

I looked up.

Katy was gazing at something over my shoulder.

“Ohmygod.”

8

“WHAT?”

“I don’t believe it.”

“What?”

Bunching her napkin, Katy pushed away from the table and strode across the restaurant.

I turned, confused and anxious.

Katy was talking to a very tal man in a very long trench coat. She was animated, smiling.

I relaxed.

Katy pointed at me and waved. The man waved. He looked familiar.

I waggled my fingers.

The two started toward me.

The NBA build. The loose gait. The black hair parted by Hugh Grant himself.

Ping.

Charles Anthony Hunt. Father, a guard first for the Celtics, later for the Buls. Mother, an Italian downhil skier.

Charlie Hunt had been a classmate at Myers Park High. Lettered in three sports, served as president of the Young Democrats. The yearbook predicted him the grad most likely to be famous by thirty. I was voted most likely to do stand-up.

Folowing graduation, I’d left Charlotte for the University of Ilinois, gone on to grad school at Northwestern, then married Pete. Charlie had attended Duke on a hoops scholarship, then UNC–Chapel Hil law. Over the years I’d heard that he’d married and was practicing up North.

Charlie and I both played varsity tennis. He was al-state. I won most of my matches. I found him attractive. Everyone did. Change was sweeping the South in the seventies, but old mores die slowly. We didn’t date.

The Labor Day weekend before our colegiate departures, Charlie and I swung a bit more than our rackets. The match involved tequila and the backseat of a Skylark.

Cringing inwardly, I refocused on my veal.

“Mom.”

I looked up.

Charlie and Katy were at my side, both flashing copious dentition.

“Mom, this is Charles Hunt.”

“Charlie.” Smiling, I extended a hand.

Charlie took it in fingers long enough to wrap the Toronto Sky-Dome. “Nice to see you, Tempe.”

“You two know each other?”

“Your mama and I went to high school together.” Charlie’s accent was flatter and more clipped than I remembered, perhaps the result of years spent up North, perhaps the product of intentional modification.

“You never let on.” Katy punched Charlie’s bicep. “Objection, counselor. Withholding evidence.”

“Katy’s brought me up to date on al your achievements.” Charlie was stil enveloping my fingers, giving me his “no one in the universe exists but you” stare.

“Has she.” Reclaiming my hand, I glanced narrow-eyed at my daughter.

“She is one proud young lady.”

The proud young lady gave an unbelievably staged laugh. “Mom and I were just talking about you, Charlie, and in you waltz. What a coincidence.”

Like garlic and bad breath are coincidental, I thought.

“Should my ears be burning?” Boyish grin. He did it wel.

“It was al good,” Katy said.

Charlie looked appropriately surprised and modest.

“I should be moving on,” he said. “I was passing, saw Katy through the window, thought I’d pop in to tel you what a terrific job she’s doing for us.”

“She’s certainly enjoying the chalenge,” I said. “Especialy the data entry. Katy loves logging info into computers. Always has.”

This time it was Katy squinting at me.

“Wel, we are certainly enjoying having her in the office.”

I had to admit, with the emerald eyes and lashes to die for, Charlie Hunt was stil leading-man handsome. His hair was black, his skin a pleasant compromise between Africa and Italy. Though the coat masked his midsection, he appeared to carry little more poundage than he had in the Skylark.

Charlie made a move to leave. Katy scrunched a “say something” face at me and upcurled her fingers.

Tipping my head, I grinned at her. Mutely.

“Mom’s working on that basement cauldron thing,” Katy said, way too brightly. “That’s why her hair is” — she flapped a hand in my direction — “wet.”

“She’s just fine.” Charlie beamed at me.

“She looks better with mascara and blusher.”

My blushless cheeks burned.

“Painting that face would be a sin. Like colorizing a Renoir. Y’al take care now.”

Charlie turned, hesitated, turned back, Columbo-style.

Here it comes, I thought.

“I suppose we play on opposite teams.”

My look must have revealed confusion.

“You jail ’em, I bail ’em.”

I floated a brow.

“Might make for some interesting coffee conversation.”

“You know I can’t discuss—”

“’Course you can’t. No law against reminiscing.”

The man actualy winked.

By the time I got home it was almost ten. Katy had already left a message on my voice mail, a reiteration of the conversation we’d had post-Charlie. Don’t be mad. Give him a chance. He’s cool.

Charlie Hunt might be a prince, but I wasn’t going to date him. A fix-up by my offspring was humiliation I didn’t need.

There were two other messages. Pete. Phone me. A landscaping company. Buy our yard service.

Disappointment. Then the usual mental sparring.

You really thought Ryan would call?

No.

Right.

Whatever.

He’s living with another woman.

They’re not married.

He could have rung from his cell.

Cel.

Grabbing my purse, I puled out my mobile and checked for messages.

Let him go.

I miss talking with him.

Talk to the cat.

We’re still friends.

Move on.

Settling in bed, I clicked on the news.

A fifty-seven-year-old teacher was suing the school district, aleging age discrimination as the reason for her firing. An unemployed trucker had won fifteen milion dolars in the Powerbal lottery.

Bird hopped up and curled at my knee.

“Good for the trucker,” I said, stroking his head.

The cat looked at me.

“The man has five kids and no job.”

“The man has five kids and no job.”

Stil no feline opinion.

A couple had been arrested for stealing copper wiring from a Tuck-aseegee Road business. In addition to larceny, the resourceful pair were being charged with contributing to the delinquency of minors. Mom and Dad had brought the kids along on the break-ins.

Authorities were investigating the shooting death of a sixty-four-year-old man in his Pinevile home. Though police had found no evidence of foul play, the death had been ruled suspicious. The medical examiner would be performing an autopsy.

I drifted off.

“—worship of Satan right here in the celars and back rooms of our city. Pagan idolatry. Sacrifice. Bloodletting.”

The voice was baritone, the vowels thicker than sap.

My eyes flew open.

The clip was just ending. Overweight and red-faced, Boyce Lingo was delivering one of his media-grab rants.

“Those who folow Lucifer must be dealt with swiftly and harshly. Their evil must be stopped before it seeps into our playgrounds and schools. Before it threatens the very fabric of our society.”

Preacher turned county commissioner, Lingo was a case study of extremist ideology, pseudo-Christianity, pseudo-patriotism, and thinly veiled white-male supremacy. His was a constituency that wanted the economy unregulated, the welfare state smal, the military strong, and the citizenry white, native born, and strictly New Testament.

“You moron!” Had I been holding the remote, it would have gone sailing.

Birdie shot from the bed.

“You boneheaded twit!” My palms smacked the mattress.

I heard soft padding, assumed Birdie was increasing his distance. I didn’t care. Tonight’s grandstanding was typical Lingo. The man had a pattern of attaching himself to anything of media interest for a minute of air time or a half inch of print.

Kiling the TV and lamp, I lay in the dark, tense and angry. I tossed, kicked the covers, punched the pilow, thoughts and images kaleidoscoping in my brain. The cauldrons.

The putrefied chicken. The human cranium and femora.

The school portrait.

Who was she? Had Skinny’s decision been wise? Or should we be broadcasting the girl’s image?

Had the photo already flashed on TV screens somewhere far away, in a market disconnected from the coverage that entered Charlotte homes? Had some anchor reported a missing teen, vanished while on her way home from a bal game, from having pizza with friends? When? Had it been before the advent of centers for missing children and Amber alerts?

Had her parents made pleas to the camera, Mom crying, Dad steely-voiced? Had neighbors and townsfolk offered solace, inwardly thankful that their own children were safe?

That, this time, tragedy had not selected them?

How had the picture ended up in that cauldron? The skul?
Was
it her skul?

And what about the leg bones? Did both come from a single individual?

Did the skul, the femora, and the photo represent one person? Two? Three? More?

My clock radio said 11:40. Twelve twenty. One ten. Out in the garden, a milion tree frogs croaked. Erratic gusts scratched leaves across my bedroom window screen.

Why so warm this deep into the fal? It would be cold in Quebec by now. Montreal might even be sporting a dusting of snow.

I thought about Andrew Ryan. I did miss him. But the pragmatist brain cels were definitely right. I had to move on.

I smiled recaling Katy’s postprandial “coincidence.” Her matchmaking had started several years back, intensified with the arrival of Summer. Judd the pharmacist. Donald the veterinarian. Barry the entrepreneur. Sam the what? I never was sure. I refused al offers.

My daughter, the yenta of Dixie.

Now it was Charlie, the public defender.

Katy did have a point. Charlie Hunt was smart, good-looking, available, and interested. Why not give it a try?

Charlie was a 9/11 widower. That meant he carried baggage. Was he ready for a relationship? Was I? I also toted a satchel or two.

Puh-leeze. The man offered coffee.

Lyrics popped into my head. England Dan and John Ford Coley.

I’m not talking ’bout moving in,

And I don’t want to change your life…

There you go.

Moving in. Moving on.

Good old Pete was moving on.

Pete and Summer.

What was Summer’s last name? Glotsky? Grumsky? I made a note to ask.

Again and again, my thoughts veered back to the celar.

I remembered the dol with the miniature sword piercing her chest. The knife.

The chicken had been decapitated. Had the goat been slaughtered in a similar fashion?

Had there realy been a human sacrifice? Like Mark Kilroy, the colege student kiled in Matamoros. Lingo insinuated as much, but he was just yapping. He had no information.

But then, neither did I.

I resolved to find some.

9

THOUGH I’D SLEPT LITTLE, I AGAIN ROSE AT DAWN. COFFEE AND a muffin, and I was on my way to the MCME.

By eight thirty both femora lay on the counter. So did three other sections of long bone. The latter were sawn, and came from a smal mammal. Or mammals. Since no anatomical landmarks remained, the osteology text was of no use. I’d need histology to determine species and numbers.

By ten I’d emptied the large cauldron. The remaining soil produced three more red beads, a segment of antler, probably deer, and a smal plastic skeleton.

After photographing the colection, I turned to the human femora.

The two leg bones were similar in size and robusticity. Both were slender and lacked prominent muscle attachment sites. One was a left, the other a right. Both were straight, with little shaft concavity, an African-American more than European trait.

As with the skul, I took measurements. Maximum length. Bicondylar breadth. Midshaft circumference. When I’d completed two sets of nine, I ran the numbers through Fordisc 3.0.