Devil Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  Gleason misinterpreted my question. “Appears to be some sort of voodoo thing. But that’s your call, doc.”

  Right answer. Skeletons often appear sinister to the uninitiated. Even gleaming white anatomical specimens. The thought lifted my spirits. Maybe that’s what this would turn out to be. A fake skull long forgotten in a cellar.

  I flashed again on the pizza parlor case. The initial concern there had been PMI. Postmortem interval. How long since death? Ten years? Fifty? A hundred and fifty?

  Another hopeful scenario. Perhaps the skull would turn out to be an ancient head pilfered from an archaeological site.

  Lab models and relics don’t smell of rot.

  “Fair enough,” I said to Gleason. “But I was wondering about rats, snakes?”

  “So far, no company. I’ll watch for party crashers.”

  “Much appreciated.”

  I followed Gleason through the doorway into a windowless room measuring about ten by twelve. Two brick walls appeared to be exterior, part of the original foundation. Two were interior. Workbenches pressed against those walls.

  I did a quick scan of the jumbled contents atop the tables. Rusty tools. Boxes of nails, screws, washers. Coiled wire. Chain linking. A vise.

  Large rolls of textured gray plastic lay below the workbenches. Dirt coated the underside of each.

  “What’s with the plastic?”

  “G-floor.”

  I cocked a questioning brow.

  “Rollout vinyl floor covering. I installed it in my garage last year. Normally, the stuff’s secured with adhesive and seaming strips. Here it was just spread over the dirt and a hatchway.”

  “Welton rolled it and set it aside.”

  “That’s his story.”

  Save for the workbenches and the vinyl flooring, the room was empty.

  “Opening is over here.” Gleason led me to the corner at which the exterior walls met.

  A one-by-two-foot breach was evident at roughly shoulder level in the easternmost wall. Jagged edges and a marked color difference attested to the brevity of the opening’s existence. Shattered brick and plaster littered the floor below. Welton had broken through to the plumbing at that location.

  Through the gap I could see labyrinthine piping. On the ground, just out from the rubble, gaped a black rectangle, partially covered by a battered hatch of wood planks.

  Setting my kit to one side, I peered down into the blackness. It yielded no clue of what lay below.

  “How far to the bottom?”

  “Twelve, fifteen feet. Probably an old root cellar. Some of these houses still have them.”

  I felt the familiar crawly sensation. The tightness in my chest.

  Easy, Brennan.

  “Why so deep?” I asked, forcing my voice calm.

  Gleason shrugged. “Warm climate, no refrigeration.”

  Opening my kit, I unfolded and stepped into coveralls. Then I settled on my stomach, face over the hole.

  Gleason handed me his flash. The shaft danced down makeshift wooden steps whose angle of descent was precariously steep, more a ladder than a stairway.

  “Stuff’s over by the east wall.”

  I shot the beam in that direction. It picked out rusted metal, flecks of red, yellow. Something ghostly pale, like cadaver flesh. Then I saw it.

  The skull rested on some sort of short, round pedestal, lower jaw missing, forehead strangely mottled in the small oval of light. An object was centered on top of the cranial vault.

  I stared. The empty orbits stared back. The teeth grinned, as though daring me to approach.

  Pushing to all fours, I sat back and brushed dirt from my chest and arms. “I’ll take a few shots, then we’ll remove the plank and I’ll go down.”

  “Those treads appear to have some years on them. How about I test to see if they’re safe?”

  “I’d prefer you stay topside, lower equipment as I need it.”

  “You got it.”

  The click of my shutter. The skitter of dirt cascading from the undersurface of the hatch cover. Each sound seemed magnified in the absolute stillness of the cellar. Irrationally, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the hush was ominous.

  After gloving, I shoved my Maglite into my waistband. Then I tested the first riser. Solid enough. Turning my face toward the steps, I gripped the banister with one hand and clutched the risers with the other as I descended.

  The air grew dank. The odor of death strengthened. And my nose began picking up ribbons of other things, olfactory hints more than solid smells. Impressions of urine, sour milk, decaying fabric.

  Six rungs down, almost no light penetrated from above. I paused, allowing my pupils to adjust. Allowing my nerves to come to grips with their environment. The tunnel I was descending through was two feet square, damp, and smelly.

  My heart was banging now. My throat felt constricted.

  There you have it. Brennan, the legendary tunnel rat, was claustrophobic.

  Breathe.

  Death-gripping the side rails, I descended four more steps. My head cleared the tunnel into a larger space. As I moved to the fifth, a sliver pierced the latex sheathing my left palm. My hand jerked reflexively.

  More self-coaching.

  Calm.

  Breathe.

  Two more rungs.

  Breathe.

  My toe touched solid ground with an odd little click. Gingerly, I explored behind me with my foot. Found nothing.

  I stepped from the stairs. Closed my eyes, a reflex to stem the pounding adrenaline. Pointless. It was pitch black.

  Releasing the banister, I flicked on my flash, turned, and swept the beam above and around me.

  I was standing in an eight-foot cube whose walls and ceiling were reinforced by rough wooden beams. The dirt floor was covered with the same rollout vinyl that had been used overhead.

  The action was off to my right. Cautiously, I edged in that direction, beam probing the shadows.

  Cauldrons, one large, one small. Rusty saucepan. Plywood. Tools. Statues. Candles. Beads and antlers suspended overhead.

  Gleason had called it correctly. The chamber housed some sort of ritualistic display.

  The large cauldron appeared to be the focal point, with the rest of the paraphernalia fanning out from it. Stepping over a semicircle of candles, I pointed my light toward center stage.

  The cauldron was iron and filled with dirt. A macabre pyramid rose from its center.

  An animal cranium formed the base. Judging by shape, and by what I could see of the teeth, I guessed it came from a small ruminant, maybe a goat or sheep. Remnants of desiccated tissue lined the orbits and orifices.

  Centered on the ruminant was the human skull that had so frightened the plumber. The bone was smooth and fleshless. The vault and forehead were oddly luminescent, and darkened by an irregular stain. A stain the exact red-brown of dried blood.

  A small avian skull topped the human cabeza. It, too, retained scraps of dried skin and muscle.

  I angled my beam to the floor.

  Positioned at the cauldron’s base was what looked like a section of railroad track. On the track lay a decapitated and partially decomposed chicken.

  The source of the odor.

  I inched my light left to the saucepan. Three hemispheric objects took shape. I bent for a closer look.

  One turtle carapace. Two halves of a coconut shell.

  Straightening, I sidestepped right past the large cauldron to the smaller. It, too, was soil packed. On the soil surface lay three railroad spikes, an antler, and two strands of yellow beads. A knife had been thrust into the fill to the depth of its handle.

  A chain wrapped the cauldron’s exterior, just below the rim. A machete leaned against its left side. A sheet of plywood was propped against its right.

  I moved to the plywood and squatted. Symbols covered the surface, executed, I suspected, with black Magic Marker.

  Next in the row was a cheap plaster statue. The woman wore a long white gown, r
ed cape, and crown. One hand held a chalice, the other a sword. Beside her was a miniature castle or tower.

  I tried to recall the Catholic icons of my youth. Some manifestation of the Virgin Mary? A saint? Though the visage was vaguely familiar, I couldn’t ID the lady.

  Shoulder to shoulder with the statue stood a carved wooden effigy with two faces pointing in opposite directions. Roughly twelve inches tall, the humanoid figure had long, slender limbs, a potbelly, and a penis upright and locked.

  Definitely not the Virgin, I thought.

  Last in line were two dolls in layer-cake ruffled gingham dresses, one yellow, one blue. Both dolls were female and black. Both wore bracelets, hoop earrings, and medallions on neck chains. Blue sported a crown. Yellow had a kerchief covering her hair.

  And a miniature sword piercing her chest.

  I’d seen enough.

  The skull was not plastic. Human remains were present. The chicken hadn’t been dead long.

  Perhaps the rituals performed at the altar were harmless. Perhaps not. To be certain, proper recovery protocol had to be followed. Lights. Cameras. Chain-of-custody documentation to ensure possession could be proved every step of the way.

  I headed to the stairs. Two treads up I heard a noise and raised my eyes. A face was peering down through the opening.

  It was not a face I wanted to see.

  4

  ERSKINE “SKINNY” SLIDELL IS A DETECTIVE WITH THE CHARLOTTE-Mecklenburg PD Felony Investigative Bureau/Homicide Unit. The murder table.

  I’ve worked with Slidell over the years. My opinion? The guy’s got the personality of a blocked nostril. But good instincts.

  Slidell’s Brylcreemed head was turtling over the tunnel’s opening.

  “Doc.” Slidell greeted me in his usual indolent way.

  “Detective.”

  “Tell me I can go home, knock back a Pabst, and root for my boys on SmackDown.”

  “Not tonight.”

  Slidell sighed in annoyance, then withdrew from sight.

  Climbing upward, I recalled the last time our paths had crossed.

  August. The detective was entering the Mecklenburg County Courthouse. I’d just testified and was heading out.

  Slidell isn’t what you’d call a fast thinker on his feet. Or on the stand. Actually, that’s an understatement. Sharp defense attorneys make hamburger of Skinny. His nervousness had been apparent that morning, his eyes circled with dark rings suggesting a lot of tossing and turning.

  Emerging from the ladder well, I noted that Slidell looked marginally better today. The same could not be said of his jacket. Green polyester with orange top stitching, the thing was garish, even in the subterranean gloom.

  “Officer here says we got us a witch doctor.” Slidell lifted his chin in Gleason’s direction.

  I described what I’d seen in the subcellar.

  Slidell checked his watch. “How ’bout we toss this thing in the morning?”

  “Got a date tonight, Skinny?”

  Behind me, Gleason made a muffled sound in his throat.

  “Like I said. Six-pack and Superstars.”

  “Should have set your TiVo.”

  Slidell looked at me as though I’d suggested he program the next shuttle mission.

  “It’s like a VCR,” I explained, yanking off a glove.

  “I’m surprised this hasn’t drawn attention.” Slidell was looking at the opening by my feet. He was referring to the media.

  “Let’s keep it that way,” I said. “Use your cell phone to call CSS.”

  I pulled off the torn glove. The heel of my thumb was red, swollen, and itchy as hell.

  “Tell them we’ll need a generator and portable lights.” Both gloves went into my kit. “And something that can lift a cauldron of dirt.”

  Head wagging, Slidell began punching his mobile.

  Four hours later, I was pouring myself into my Mazda. Greenleaf was bathed in moonlight. I was bathed in sweat.

  Emerging from the house, Slidell had spotted a woman shooting with a small digital camera through a kitchen window. After dispatching her, he’d chain-smoked two Camels, mumbled something about deeds and tax records, and gunned off in his Taurus.

  The CSS techs had left in their truck. They’d deliver the dolls, statues, beads, tools, and other artifacts to the crime lab.

  The morgue van had also come and gone. Joe Hawkins, the MCME death investigator on call that night, was transporting the skulls and chicken to the ME facility. Ditto the cauldrons. Though Larabee would be less than enthused about the mess, I preferred sifting the fill under controlled conditions.

  As anticipated, the large cauldron had posed the greatest difficulty. Weighing approximately the same as the Statue of Liberty, its removal had required winching, a lot of muscle, and a lexicon of colorful words.

  I pulled out and drove up Greenleaf. Ahead, Frazier Park was a black cutout in the urban landscape. A jungle gym rose from the shadows, a silvery cubist sculpture poised over the dark, serpentine smile of the Irwin Creek gulley.

  Doubling back down Westbrook to Cedar, I skirted the edge of uptown and drove southeast toward my home turf, Myers Park. Built in the 1930s as Charlotte’s first streetcar burb, today the sector is overpriced, oversmug, and over-Republican. Though not particularly old, the hood is elegant and well-landscaped, Charlotte’s answer to Cleveland’s Shaker Heights and Miami’s Coral Gables. What the hell, we’re not Charleston.

  Ten minutes after leaving Third Ward I was parked beside my patio. Locking the car, I headed into my townhouse.

  Which requires some explanation.

  I live on the grounds of Sharon Hall, a nineteenth-century manor-turned-condo-complex lying just off the Queens University campus. My little outbuilding is called the “Annex.” Annex to what? No one knows. The tiny two-story structure appears on none of the estate’s original plans. The hall is there. The coach house. The herb and formal gardens. No annex. Clearly an afterthought.

  Speculation by friends, family, and guests ranges from smokehouse to hothouse to kiln. I am not fixated on identifying the original builder’s purpose. Barely twelve hundred square feet, the structure suits my needs. Bedroom and bath up. Kitchen, dining room, parlor, and study down. I took occupancy when my marriage to Pete imploded. A decade later, it still serves.

  “Yo, Bird,” I called out to the empty kitchen.

  No cat.

  “Birdie, I’m home.”

  The hum of the refrigerator. A series of soft bongs from Gran’s mantel clock.

  I counted. Eleven.

  My eyes snuck to the message indicator on my phone. Not a flicker.

  Depositing my purse, I went straight to the shower.

  As I exorcised cellar grime and odor with green tea body gel, rosemary mint shampoo, and water as hot as my skin could stand, my thoughts drifted to the perversely dark voice mail light, to the voice I was hoping to hear.

  Bonjour, Tempe. I miss you. We should talk.

  Pop-up image. Lanky build, sandy hair, Carolina blue eyes. Andrew Ryan, lieutenant-détective, Section des crimes contre la personne, Sûreté du Québec.

  So there’s the Quebec thing. I work two jobs, one in Charlotte, North Carolina, USA, one in Montreal, Quebec, Canada, where I am forensic anthropologist for the Bureau du coroner. Ryan is a homicide detective with the provincial police. In other words, for murders in La Belle Province, I work the vics and Ryan detects.

  Years back, when I began at the Montreal lab, Ryan had a reputation as the station-house stud. And I had a rule against office romance. Turned out the lieutenant-détective was lousy with rules. When hopes of salvaging my marriage finally hit the scrap heap, we began seeing each other socially. For a while, things went well. Very well.

  My mind ran an X-rated slide show of memorable plays. Beaufort, South Carolina, the first deflected pass, me in cutoffs sans panties, aboard a forty-two-foot Chris-Craft at the Lady’s Island Marina. Charlotte, North Carolina, the first touchdown, me in a man-eat
er black dress and one of Victoria’s most secret thongs.

  Recalling other sports moments, I felt a wee tummy flip. Yep, the guy was that good. And that good-looking.

  Then Ryan blew a hole in my heart. The daughter he’d newly discovered but had never known, Lily, was rebellious, angry, addicted to heroin. Racked with guilt, Daddy had decided to reconnect with Mommy and launch a joint effort to save daughter.

  And I was out like last year’s shade of lipstick. That was four months ago.

  “Screw it.”

  Face upturned to the spigot, I belted out a jumbled version of Gloria Gaynor.

  “I will survive. I’ve got all my life to live—”

  Suddenly, the water went cold. And I was starving. Totally engaged in processing the cellar, and nerve-fried by the underground context in which I was forced to work, I’d been oblivious to hunger. Until now.

  Bird strolled in as I was toweling off.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Night op. No choice.”

  The cat looked skeptical. Or quizzical. Or bored.

  “How about a hit of zoom-around-the-room?”

  Bird sat and licked one forepaw, indicating forgiveness would not be hurried with a catnip bribe.

  Pulling on a nightshirt and fuzzy pink socks, I returned to the kitchen.

  Another character weakness. I hate errands. Dry cleaning. Car maintenance. Supermarket. I may construct lists, but follow-through is usually delayed until I’m back-against-the-wall. Consequently, my larder offered the following delicacies:

  One frozen meat loaf entrée. One frozen chow mein entrée. Cans of tuna, peaches, tomato paste, and green beans. Mushroom, vegetable, and chicken noodle soup. Packages of dried macaroni and cheese and mushroom risotto.

  Bird reappeared as the chow mein was leaving the microwave. Setting the tray on the counter, I got catnip from the pantry and placed it in his mouse.

  The cat flopped to his side, clawed the toy with all fours, and sniffed. His character weakness? He likes to get high.

  I ate standing at the sink while Bird jazzed his pheromonic receptors on the floor at my feet. Then Ozzy Osbourne and I hit the sack.

  Though I was anxious to begin my analysis of the skull and cauldrons, Tuesdays I belonged to UNCC.