Speaking in Bones (35 page)

I
never again saw any of those from Avery County. Grandma and Susan Grace Gulley. Granger Hoke. Cora and her hideous family.

Except for Strike, we all came through it. Even Hoke, though he’ll never audition for the Vatican choir. He lost a lot of blood and took a nick to the vocals, but Cora’s thrust with the crucifix missed all major vessels. When released, Father G would be swapping his hospital gown for a jailhouse jumpsuit.

Susan Grace was never in danger. That night she’d again lied to her grandmother in order to snatch a fragment of normalcy. A deputy found her drinking wine coolers in the woods with high school friends. Hoke said the notation on his calendar was a reminder to put sealant on his gutters.

I still marvel at the dramatic entrance choreographed by Slidell and Ramsey. At Slidell’s timing in nailing the truth.

Skinny had spent hours viewing security tapes covering the weekend Hazel Strike died. Footage from establishments near Strike’s home and the RibbonWalk Nature Preserve, where her body was found.

At 4:00
P.M.
, while I was legging it away from Hoke’s Browning, Slidell’s diligence paid off. Strike’s red Corolla appeared on camera at a gas station a quarter mile from the preserve. Riding in her passenger seat was Cora Teague.

From my texts Slidell knew I’d gone to Jesus Lord Holiness, then on to Teague’s store. Smelling danger, he’d contacted Ramsey, then burned rubber up to Avery.

I suffered a concussion and a hairline fracture of my right zygoma. No big deal, but I was compelled to stay two days at Cannon Memorial so night-shift nurses could shine lights in my eyes. When finally reconnected with my clothes, I filled my prescriptions and headed back to Charlotte.

Zeb Ramsey called while I was still on meds and too loopy to talk. I phoned him back a few days later. Thanked him for saving my ass. In more polite language.

Oddly, the call seemed to continue well past its shelf life. Just before disconnecting, I learned why. Ramsey surprised me by asking me out. Dinner sometime, you know the drill. Awkward. Or was it? I wasn’t sure what to think.

Turns out Ramsey’s full name is Zebulon. Apparently, I asked while under the influence of pain. Or painkillers.

Slidell made himself scarce once he learned that all I had was a head thump, unsightly skin loss, and a broken cheek. Partly busy with paperwork and interrogations. Partly furious with me for going all cowboy. His phrase. Couldn’t blame him. Rushing off on my own was a bonehead move.

It took two weeks, but, working both ends, Slidell and Ramsey managed to patch together the story. Most of it came from Owen Lee and Fatima Teague, some from Cora’s out-of-state sisters, Veronica and Marie. Some from medical personnel treating Cora.

According to Fatima, Cora had her first “fit” at age fourteen, a few months before Eli died. She recalled that after her son’s death her daughter became increasingly temperamental and started “taking on airs.” As the older sisters moved away from the home, Cora’s moodiness intensified. For a while John allowed her to see a doctor, but, in Daddy’s enlightened view, medication made her worse.

Veronica stated that Cora was frequently anxious and afraid of ridiculously harmless things. Frogs. Coat hangers. A tree behind their house. Marie said Cora was often depressed, had trouble sleeping and a lousy memory.

The professional assessment, based on intense and ongoing psychiatric evaluation, beat the hell out of devils and demons. I had no doubt the diagnosis would stand.

—

I was lugging my sixth box to the curb when a familiar Taurus pulled into my drive. I straightened and waited for Slidell to lower his window.

“Riveting look.” Taking in my head scarf and dingy denim. “But Rosie already got the part.”

“I’m cleaning out the attic.”

“Converting to a nursery?”

“An office.”

“Face looks good.”

It didn’t. “Thanks.”

Slidell chin-cocked my haphazardly stacked trash. “You know those douchebags on the trucks won’t take big stuff.”

“I bribe them.”

“I’m a cop. Don’t tell me that.” Gruff, but with a level of civility that let me know he was no longer angry. “When are you leaving?”

“The eight-twenty flight tonight. Renovations start on the attic on Monday.”

“You got a minute?”

“Sure. Come on in.”

We settled at the kitchen table. Slidell declined a beer in favor of unsweetened iced tea. While delivering his drink, I did a discreet appraisal. Though a long way from buff, Skinny had definitely lost more weight. Workouts? Stress? The lovely Verlene?

“I gotta admit. I can’t get my head around the arse end of this shrinky gobbledygook.”

“Shrinky gobbledygook?” As usual, I anticipated the need of an interpreter for the conversation.

“The kid killed three, maybe four people, yet she’s at some candy-ass hospital whining about her problems.”

“Cora has been deemed mentally incompetent.”

That drew a head wag and a whistly snort.

“She’s unable to understand the charges against her or to aid in her own defense.”

“She’s nuts, I get that, but—”

“She has dissociative identity disorder. DID.”

“That’s what I mean.” In his “pointing finger” voice. “You sound just like the shrinks. So, what? They saying she’s schizophrenic?”

“No. Schizophrenia is a mental illness involving chronic or recurrent psychosis. People hear or see things that aren’t there, think or believe things that have no basis in reality.”

“Yeah, yeah. The kid don’t have hallucinations or delusions. That’s what they been spinning. How about you explain what it is she
does
have?”

“Multiple personalities.”

“I thought that was just cheesy Hollywood movie crap.”

“It’s real. Dissociative identity disorder used to be called multiple personality disorder. It’s a condition in which a person’s identity fragments into two or more different ones. Each identity exists independently of the others, and each identity is distinct in specific ways. Tone of voice, vocabulary, mannerisms, posture, handedness—all the things we think of as making up a personality.”

“How many identities we talking?”

“A person with DID can have as few as two or three, or as many as a hundred or more. Statistically, the average is fifteen.” I’d spent hours researching the subject. “The usual age of onset is early childhood, so new identities can accumulate throughout life.”

“Who runs the show?”

“Psychiatrists call the main personality the host. That identity acts as a sort of gatekeeper. The others are called alters, and the transitions are called switches. Switching can take seconds to minutes to days. Alters can be imaginary people, animals, historic or fictional figures, and can vary by age, race, or gender.”

“So a guy can have a chick alter and a chick can have a guy?”

“Yes.”

“That why the kid sounded like a goddamn drill sergeant down in that basement?”

“Exactly. And on the audio recording. The voice we thought was a second man was actually Cora speaking as Elizabeth.”

“Jesus bouncing Christ. This is too fucked up.”

“Dissociation is a coping mechanism—the person simply disconnects from situations that are too violent, traumatic, or painful to assimilate with the conscious self. The condition is thought to result from prolonged childhood trauma.”

“So, what? The bastards beat her? Or raped her?”

“The abuse doesn’t have to be physical. Or sexual. It can be psychological. In Cora’s case, the severe isolation imposed because of her epilepsy combined with extreme religious fanaticism.”

Slidell watched a droplet break free and roll down his glass, swiped the track, then licked his thumb. “This shrink I been talking to thinks maybe Cora didn’t kill Eli, or maybe didn’t kill him on purpose. Either way, he thinks Eli’s death jump-started her flipping out or fragmenting or whatever the hell you call it.”

“Then the older sisters started leaving home.” I picked up the narrative. “Eventually Cora went to work for the Brices. She’d never been on her own before, had hardly met anyone outside the family or church, had never even seen TV. She couldn’t handle the freedom, the responsibility. She was completely overwhelmed. She or an alter killed River Brice.”

“I’ve been talking to Owen Lee. Hoke some. Their stories track with that.”

“John?”

“The arrogant prick keeps hand-jobbing the idea that the kid is controlled by Satan.”

“What do Hoke and Owen Lee say?”

“Cora offed the baby because she was possessed by a demon.”

“So their treatment was to lock her in their spanking-new kennel and shake crucifixes at her.” I’d meant to keep my voice neutral, but a note of bitterness now crept in. The thought of Cora in that place still sickened me. “Mason loved her. He guessed they had her, but didn’t know where they’d taken her.”

“Scared shitless of being next on the hymn list, he split for Johnson City. When Susan Grace mentioned seeing Cora, he figured it out, bought the recorder, came back to Avery and slipped the thing to her.”

“Mason probably planned to expose Hoke by giving the audio to the cops or the media. Maybe to a legit priest.” I’d thought this through. Over and over.

“You think Cora made the tape on purpose?” Slidell asked.

“We may never know. The device was voice-activated.” I took a sip of tea. “Have you learned how Mason got to her?”

“According to Owen Lee, he had a key.” At my surprised look. “During the church renovation they’d send him on supply runs to the store and the kennel.”

Birdie strolled in, paused to consider, decided to join us. We watched him work maneuvers around Slidell’s ankle, both picturing the scene when Mason returned to Cora’s little cell. Slidell spelled it out.

“So the kid goes back to collect the recorder. Cora snaps, kills and dismembers him. When Owen Lee shows up she’s covered with blood and Mason’s head’s in a bucket. He calls Daddy. Daddy says deal with it. And pray.”

“So Owen Lee chucks the body parts from the overlooks. Did he choose the locations because of Brown Mountain?”

Slidell shook his head. “No voodoo there. He knew them from hiking.”

“The DNA results came back yesterday,” I said. “It was Mason’s hair caught in the concrete. The olive oil and incense must have transferred to him from Cora.”

“The fingertips in the pine tar?”

“Also Mason.”

A beat as we both thought about that.

“And it was the same scenario for Hazel Strike.” Lucky. I swallowed. “Strike drives Cora to Charlotte. Cora dissociates and kills her. Owen Lee shows up, dumps Strike’s body in the pond, then hauls little sister back up to Avery.”

“That’s Owen Lee’s version, though he denies Cora killed anyone.”

“Who did?”

“The Evil One.”

“Right.” I didn’t bother hiding my revulsion.

“Lucifer or no, Owen Lee admits that, as a precaution, he smashed Strike’s phone and threw it over a guardrail, later pitched her computer into the dumpster in Banner Elk.”

“What about the recorder?”

“He claims he never saw it. I’m guessing Strike stashed the thing somewhere to keep you from getting it.”

“It wasn’t in her house?”

Slidell shook his head. “Good chance we’ll never find it.”

“Where do you think the murder went down?”

“My money’s on the park. That’s where Owen Lee says he found Cora. And CSU pulled a metal hiking stick out of the pond. When we tossed Strike’s house we found a couple like it in the garage. I’m guessing she kept one in her car. I’ve got a team back out there now.”

“Do you know how Cora hooked up with Strike?”

“Fatima came through on that one. She says Strike showed up at their house that Saturday. John threw her out, later found Cora missing. Seems they had a set of padded and locked rooms where they kept the kid when Hoke wasn’t waging his holy war against her demons.”

“Somehow Cora got out and persuaded Strike to take her away,” I said.

“When John discovered her gone he called Owen Lee. Owen Lee hotfooted it down to Charlotte.”

“How did he know where to go?”

“Strike left contact info in case anyone experienced a change of heart about talking to her.”

“Including a home address?”

“What the dame lacked in caution she made up for in zeal.”

“It was Owen Lee who sent the rock over the edge at the Devil’s Tail trail.”

“Yeah. He overheard you and Ramsey at Wiseman’s View, panicked, and followed you. Says he just wanted to scare you off. Owen Lee ain’t the brightest stripe on the flag.”

“No,” I agreed. “He’s not.”

“Here’s what I don’t get. How does a timid little mouse like Cora wig out and turn into a stone-cold murderer?”

“Some people with dissociative disorders have a tendency toward self-sabotage. Others turn the violence outward. But remember, in a way Owen Lee is right. It wasn’t Cora doing the killing. It was her alter. And I think you’ve put your finger on it. I’m not a psychiatrist, but I suspect Elizabeth Báthory emerged because of Cora’s sense of powerlessness.”

“And this chick makes her kill?”

“Not exactly. When under sufficient stress, Cora becomes Elizabeth. It is Elizabeth who is doing the killing.”

“Who the hell is she?”

“The bloody countess.”

“That clears it up.”

“Elizabeth Báthory has been branded the most prolific female serial killer in history. She was tried for torturing and murdering hundreds of girls.”

“When was this?”

“The sixteenth century. In Hungary.”

“Helluva way to get her rocks off.”

“Legend has it she liked to bathe in the blood of virgins to retain her youth.”

“Great role model.”

“Cora’s subconscious saw Báthory as powerful.”

“This kid wasn’t allowed TV or the Internet. Her books were screened, and, except for school and church, she wasn’t allowed outa the house. How’d she learn about this countess?”

“Katalin Brice is Hungarian. Cora probably found history books in their home.”

“So no speaking in tongues.”

I shook my head. “Nope. She was speaking Hungarian.”

“Well, she sure as hell was speaking in blood.”