Speaking in Bones (28 page)

I didn’t respond, knowing my voice would betray my suspicion about his forthrightness. I started down the steps.

“Tempe.”

I turned.

“Be careful.”

I left him, bathed in lamplight, framed by the needlework woman in her halo and robes.

—

Back home, I hit the fridge, made myself a ham and salami sandwich, and popped a Diet Coke. My mind was snapping with a horrifying new solution to the puzzle. But there were still gaps.

Nerves humming, I booted my Mac, eager to dig up everything I could on Granger Hoke. To snug into place the last missing pieces.

And found zip.

But I learned volumes about exorcism.

Hours later, I slumped back in my chair. The room had darkened around me. The cold cuts and bread felt solid as a rock in my gut.

I knew the victims. The probable cause of death. The meaning of the trace.

Inexplicably, I felt an overpowering desire to talk to Ryan. More than a desire. A need.

I lit a lamp and relocated to the couch. Dialed.

Ryan answered sounding, well, nothing. When motivated, the man is a master at disguise.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” he said.

“Did you get my email?”

“Yeah.” Too flat.

“You do understand why I had to cancel?”

“It’s a mean business we’re in.” There was a nuance I couldn’t read low in his voice.

“Are you working something?” To avoid treading dangerous ground.

“Homicide. Farmer found facedown in his barn outside Saint-Amable. Jean-Guy Lessard.”

“Is it going well?”

“Not for the asshole I’ve got in the box.”

“What’s the story?” Barely interested. Wanting to get on with my own.

“Lessard feels sorry for the neighbor kid, hires him for odd jobs as an excuse to toss money his way.” I heard the flare of a match, a soft fizz, an expulsion of air. “Tuesday, Lessard goes into town, so the kid decides to check out the safe. Lessard returns early, surprises him. The kid panics, puts three slugs in his chest.”

“No good deed goes unpunished?”

“You’ve got it.”

“It’s a solve, Ryan. You did your job.”

“Pop the bubbly.” No masking now. Ryan sounded raw-edged and spent. “The poor schmuck leaves behind a wife, three kids, and a crappy ten acres.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t help. You at home?”

“I am. You?”

“Yeah.” Ryan took another deep pull on his cigarette.

“I had it all wrong,” I said.

A moment. Then, “The Teague thing?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t think the kid’s dead?”

“I do think she’s dead. And Mason Gulley.”

“I’m listening.”

I told him about my conversations with Susan Grace Gulley and Katalin Brice. About Mason Gulley’s head in the concrete. About Denver’s trace evidence report.

“What the hell’s boswellic acid?”

“A substance extracted from the resin of trees in the family Burseraceae. Most of it comes from the Arabian Peninsula, Somalia, India.”

“For what?”

“It’s an ingredient in a wide range of health and aromatherapy products. And a component in frankincense.”

“Wise men bearing gifts.”

“I think it was the three kings, but yes.” Birdie hopped onto the couch. I paused to allow him to curl beside me. Perhaps for melodrama. “Frankincense and olive oil are commonly used in the performance of exorcisms.”

“Exorcisms?”

“Yes.”

“Like vomit and levitation and rotating heads?”

“That’s movie bullshit.”

“What’s your point?”

“Millions of people still believe in evil spirits.”

A fractional pause. “You talking about Hoke and his holiness nut brigade?”

I provided a condensed version of what I’d learned from Morris. The unauthorized exorcisms. The shift toward a hellfire theology. The defrocking.

“Wait. Back up. What are you saying?”

“Mason’s grandmother referred to him as unnatural. Cora’s father called her a whore. Both are missing. The trace suggests Mason was exorcised.”

“Let me get this straight. You’re suggesting the priest killed Cora Teague, dismembered her, and tossed her body parts from overlooks surrounding Brown Mountain?”

“Ex-priest. And I’m not saying it was Hoke.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“And this unknown perp killed Mason Gulley following or during an exorcism, cut off his head, stashed it in concrete, then tossed his body parts from the same overlooks?” Ryan’s skepticism was thick as pea soup.

“Could you be a little more condescending?”

“Convince me.”

“Think about it. His own grandmother said he was evil made flesh.”

“What was her beef?”

“She thought he didn’t look or act like a boy should. Maybe it wasn’t just the NJF syndrome. Maybe Mason was gay.”

“Then why run off with Cora Teague?” That tone again.

“I’m just thinking out loud here, Ryan.”

“And Teague?”

“Ramsey and I talked to Cora’s physician, a buffoon who hasn’t updated his skills since the Bronze Age. He was treating Cora for epilepsy.”

“You’re suggesting Gulley was killed because of bad nails and bad teeth, and Teague was killed because she had seizures?”

“If she even had them. I think Cora’s issues were psychiatric.”

“Go on.”

I told him about River Brice, Eli Teague, and the puppy.

“Whoa. You’re saying the kid was homicidal?”

“I’m saying a lot of crap went down around her.”

I waited out another cigarette moment. Smoking meant Ryan was stressed. I was sorely regretting my impulse to share.

“Here’s my take. You have no positive ID on any of the Brown Mountain remains. No DNA. I’m guessing Larabee’s not signing off on Gulley based on a hunk of cement and oddball fingertips.”

“No.”

“You have no known victim, no primary scene, no weapon, no motive, no witnesses, no legit suspect. You don’t know for sure if Cora Teague is dead. Or even missing. Her mental state is mere speculation.”

My face felt like hot tin. Ryan was right. It was all conjecture.

I said nothing.

Ryan took another deep drag, then asked, “How does Hazel Strike fit in?”

“I’m not sure. Strike phoned me three times on Saturday. Maybe she’d uncovered something and told the wrong person.”

Because I’d ignored her. Again the guilt.

“Hoke?” Ryan said.

“I never said the killer was Hoke!” So sharp Birdie scrambled to his feet.

“
Tabernac
. Don’t bite my head off.”

“Sorry.”

“Have you rolled this past Slidell? He hasn’t mentioned it.”

“When did you talk to Slidell?”

“Couple times.”

“Why?”

“I wanted his take on something. Does that bother you?”

It bothered the hell out of me.

“Let’s talk about something else,” I said.

I heard the sound of Ryan’s phone switching ears. “How’s the weather down there?”

“The trees are in flower. It’s spring.”

“It’s snowing here.” On a very long breath. “The river is still frozen.”

“Try to stay warm.”

“I lit a fire.”

The melancholy in Ryan’s voice sent a million images flaring in my head. His face, which I knew by heart, down to the scar on his brow from a biker’s bottle. The tiny flecks of teal in the too-blue eyes.

I saw in detail the place he was sitting. Where I’d sat so many times. The stone hearth. The snowy river spreading out beyond the wide wall of glass. The leather couch, scratched by Birdie’s claws in an embarrassing rollover.

The guilt and anger morphed into a sudden aching. A hollowness, like a void calling out to be filled.

“Fly down for a visit,” I said softly.

“I’d like that.”

“Soon?”

A beat. Then Ryan sighed. “I didn’t mean to give pushback.”

“Just playing devil’s advocate?”

“Clever pun.”

“It’s what I do.”

I smiled. Wondered if Ryan was smiling a thousand miles to the north.

The moment, if it was one, ended quickly.

“Lay out your scenario for Slidell. See what he thinks.”

“Does Skinny think?”

“He’s a good cop.”

I fell asleep wondering at Ryan’s newborn appreciation of Skinny Slidell.

I
woke feeling edgy and out of sorts, as though my skin was no longer large enough for my body. Small wonder, given the stalled progress on the investigation. And the sterling state of my personal life.

It was raining like hell, which ruled out a jog. And I was too bummed to suit up and drive to the gym.

After a bagel and coffee, dressed in baggy sweats and bunny slippers, I settled at the dining room table, determined to stay put until I’d eyeballed every goddamn receipt in the box. At least I’d get Allan Fink off my back.

By four I’d pretty much decided that rolling the dice on a tax audit was preferable to the paperwork hell in which I was stuck. I was deciphering an illegible bill from a restaurant I’d never heard of when a sharp knock rattled the back door. Delighted to escape, I headed to the kitchen.

And froze before clearing the swinging door.

Through the window I could see a figure standing on the back stoop. Tall. Male. Wearing jeans and a weathered brown leather jacket.

A knot twisted my stomach. I was still feeling off, actually worse than earlier due to the added joy of eyestrain. The last thing I needed was rancor or confrontation.

But something else was peeking around the foreboding that had ballooned in my chest. Something that fluttered softly, like a butterfly on a leaf.

I crossed to open the door. “Surprise, surprise!” A bit too cheery.

Ryan drew a bouquet from behind his back and held it out. “Supermarket special. Best my driver could do.”

“Thank you.” I took the flowers. “They’re lovely.”

“You’re lovely.”

“Right.”

For as long as I’ve known Ryan, he has possessed an uncanny knack for showing up when I look my worst. Self-conscious about the sweats, ratty hair, and absence of makeup, I stepped back.

Ryan entered the kitchen. We kissed. I gestured at the table. He removed his jacket and sat. I noted that he carried only a very small duffel.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” I said.

“Yeah. Took the dawn flight. Better than having to connect.”

He looked tired. I wondered where he’d been since landing at mid-morning.

“Would you like a beer? Something else?”

Ryan shook his head.

“Quite the covert op,” I said. “You never let on when we talked last night.”

“I didn’t know last night. Hope you’re okay with impulse.”

“Of course.” Actually, I was far from okay. Though happy he’d made the effort, I felt, what? Ambushed? Pressured? Definitely pressured.

Moving with fabricated composure, I got a vase from the pantry. Turned on the tap. Filled the vase with water.

“I thought it might help if we talked face-to-face.” Ryan spoke to my back.

I started to toss out a flippant remark. My usual reaction to anxiety. Instead, I unwrapped the flowers.

Ryan went straight for the kill.

“I wrote you a letter, Tempe. An old-fashioned, pen-and-ink communiqué meant to wing its way to you via stamps, aviation, and human sweat.”

I continued disentangling and arranging blossoms.

“I tore it up. They were just words on paper. And hardly expressive.”

“Don’t undersell yourself, Ryan. You’re an excellent writer.”

I heard him catch his breath as though to speak. A beat, then he let it out and the chair creaked softly.

I turned to face him.

Ryan looked at me, the astonishing blue eyes full on mine. “I’m sorry, Tempe. I’m sorry for everything. For trying to make you into what I want you to be. For being less than what you want me to be. For loving things and places that keep us apart. For leaving you that first time. For running away when Lily died.”

“Ryan—” My heart was going hard and a little fast.

“I love you, Tempe. I came here to tell you that. Just that. And to promise that I will never hurt you again.”

I opened my lips to respond. Could find no words. Seconds ticked by on Gran’s mantel clock.

“Nothing to say?” Ryan’s tone held not the slightest note of impatience.

“I’m waiting for the part that begins with ‘but.’ ”

“There is no but. I love you.”

“Does this mean you’ll stay for supper?” Regretted as soon as the quip was out.

Ryan’s head dropped, then hung a moment. When it came up he regarded me with a look of obstinate imperturbability. And more. Compassion. Kindness. Remorse?

“I know Pete hurt you. I’m not Pete. I know I hurt you. I can’t change that. But
I
am changed.”

I started to respond. He raised a hand to stop me.

“I know you have obligations. Katy. Your mother. Your job. Responsibilities that tie you here as firmly as I’m tied to Quebec. But we can make it work.”

I swallowed, not trusting myself to speak.

“I will never betray you, Tempe.”

I felt as though liquid nitrogen had been injected into my bloodstream. I’d heard that promise before. That exact statement.

Ryan must have read the look on my face. He rose and gathered his duffel.