Spider Bones: A Novel

by Kathy Reichs

  Back to the surfing log. In moments I’d spotted additional telling activity.

  Laurier/Lowery had visited dozens of sites designed for and by American draft dodgers of the Vietnam era. CBC archive pieces. Coverage of a 2006 draft dodger reunion in Vancouver. A site devoted to an exile community in Toronto. A University of British Columbia page titled Vietnam War Resisters in Canada.

  “That nails it.” Ryan straightened. “Lowery left Lumberton for Canada to avoid service in Vietnam. He’s been living the straight life as Jean Laurier ever since.”

  “Straight except for one quirk.” I indicated several Web addresses. Love Yourself and Tell. Hard Soloing. Ramrod’s Self-Bondage Page.

  “Pick one,” I said.

  Ryan pointed.

  Ramrod’s blog featured two stories.

  A Baptist minister was found dead, alone in his Arkansas home, wearing a wet suit, face mask, diving gloves, and slippers. Underneath the outerwear were a second rubberized suit with suspenders, rubberized male underwear, and bondage gear constructed of nylon and leather. The reverend’s anus featured a condom-covered dildo.

  A Kansas plumber hanged himself from a showerhead with his wife’s leather belt. The gentleman survived to tell the tale. In vivid detail.

  Ramrod’s home page had a colorful sidebar encouraging visitors into his chat room. Ryan and I declined the invitation.

  Shutting down the computer, I began casually rummaging in the desk. What more did we need? Jean Laurier of Hemmingford, Quebec, was clearly John Charles Lowery, a Vietnam draft dodger from Lumberton, North Carolina.

  The top drawer was a jumble of rubber bands, paper clips, tape, pens, and pencils. The upper side drawer held lined tablets, envelopes, and two pairs of drugstore reading glasses.

  I could hear Ryan behind me, lifting couch pillows and opening cabinets.

  The lower side drawer contained computer paraphernalia, including headphones, keyboard brushes, cables, and AC adapter plugs. In closing it, I jostled a white corner into view from below a mouse pad.

  Lifting the pad, I discovered a four-by-six white rectangle. On it were written a name and date. Spider, April 7, 1967.

  I teased the thing free and flipped it.

  The snapshot was black-and-white. Cracked and creased, it looked every bit of forty years old.

  The subject was a teenage boy leaning against a fifties Chevy, ankles crossed, arms folded. He had dark hair and eyes, and heavy brows that curved the upper rims of his orbits. He wore jeans and a tee with rolled sleeves. His smile could have lighted the state of Montana.

  “Check this out.”

  Ryan joined me. I handed him the picture.

  “Looks like Lowery,” Ryan said.

  “The name Spider is written on the back.”

  Ryan studied the photo, then returned it to me.

  I stared at Lowery’s face. So young and unspoiled.

  Other images flashed in my brain. Water-bloated features. Algae-slimed plastic. A soggy nurse’s cap.

  “We’re done here,” Ryan said.

  “Take these?” My gesture took in the photo and the Mac.

  Ryan’s gaze went to Bandau, then to the gouged front door.

  He nodded. “The warrant covers it.”

  I couldn’t have known. But that photo would dog me for many days across many, many miles.

  And nearly get me killed.

  I AWOKE TO RAIN TICKING ON GLASS. THE WINDOW SHADE WAS A dim gray rectangle in a very dim room.

  I checked the clock. Nine forty.

  From atop the dresser, two unblinking yellow eyes stared my way.

  “Give me a break, Bird. It’s Sunday.”

  The cat flicked his tail.

  “And raining.”

  Flick.

  “You can’t be hungry.”

  Arriving back from Hemmingford, Ryan and I had grabbed a quick bite at Hurley’s Irish Pub, then walked to my place. Thanks to Mr. Soft Touch, the cat ended up the beneficiary of my doggie-bagged cheesecake.

  I know what you’re thinking. Empty condo. Barren winter. Spring awakening!

  Didn’t happen. Despite Ryan’s bid to frolic, the visit remained strictly tea and conversation, mostly about our kids and shared cockatiel, Charlie. Ryan took the couch. I sat in a wing chair across the room.

  I explained my concern about Katy’s dissatisfaction with the concept of full-time employment. And about her recent fascination with a thirty-two-year-old drummer named Smooth.

  Ryan talked of Lily’s latest setback with heroin. His nineteen-year-old daughter was out of rehab, home with Lutetia, and attending counseling. Ryan was cautiously optimistic.

  He left at seven to take Lily bowling.

  I wondered.

  Was Lily’s fragile progress the reason for Ryan’s recent good humor? Or was it springing from renewed contact with Mommy?

  Whatever.

  Ryan promised to deliver Charlie the following day, as per our long-standing arrangement. When I was in Montreal, the bird was mine.

  When told of the cockatiel’s upcoming arrival, Birdie was either thrilled or annoyed. Hard to read him sometimes.

  After Ryan’s departure I took a very long bath. Then Bird and I watched season-one episodes of Arrested Development on DVD. He found Buster hilarious.

  In Montreal, the week’s major paper comes out on Saturday. Not my preference, but there you have it.

  I made coffee and an omeletlike cheesy scrambled egg thing, and began working through the previous day’s Gazette.

  A massive pothole had opened up on an elevated span of Highway 15 through the Turcot Interchange. Two lanes were closed until further notice.

  A forty-year-old man had snatched a kid in broad daylight and thrown him into the trunk of his car. The sleazeball now faced multiple charges, including abduction, abduction of a child under fourteen, and sexual assault.

  Twelve stories reported on how the economy sucked.

  I was reading a human interest piece about a hamster that saved a family of seven from a house fire when my mobile sounded.

  Katy.

  “Hey, sweetie.”

  “Hey, Mom.”

  We’re Southerners. It’s how we greet.

  “You’re up early.”

  “It’s a gorgeous day. I’m going to Carmel to play tennis.” Katy’s lighthearted mood surprised me. Last time we’d talked she was in a funk.

  “With Smooth?” I had trouble picturing the dreadlocks and do-rag on the country club courts.

  “With Lija. Smooth’s got a gig in Atlanta.” Derisive snort. “His ass can stay there for all I care. Or Savannah, or Raleigh, or Kathmandu.”

  There is a God who answers our prayers.

  “How’s Lija?” I asked.

  “Terrific.”

  Katy and Lija Feldman have been best friends since high school. A year back, following Katy’s much-delayed college graduation, they’d decided to try rooming together. So far, so good.

  “How’s work?” I asked.

  “Mind-numbing. I sort crap, Xerox crap, research crap. Now and then I file crap at the courthouse. Those jaunts through the halls of justice really get the old adrenaline pumping.” She laughed. “But at least I have a job. People are being dumped like nuclear waste.”

  Okeydokey.

  “Where are you?”

  “At the town house. Gawd. I hope we can stay here.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Coop’s returning from Afghanistan.”

  Coop was Katy’s landlord and, from what I could tell, an on-again, off-again romantic interest. Hard to know. The man seemed perpetually out of the country.

  “I thought Coop was in Haiti.”

  “Ancient news. His Peace Corps commitment ended two years ago. He was in the States ten months, now he’s working for a group called the International Rescue Committee. They’re headquartered in New York.”

  “How long has Coop been in Afghanistan?”

  “Almost a year. Someplace called
Helmand Province.”

  Was Coop’s reappearance the reason for Katy’s sunny mood? For Smooth’s heave-ho?

  “You sound happy about his homecoming.” Discreet.

  “Oh, yeah.” The Oh lasted a good five beats. “Coop’s awesome. And he’s coming straight to me after he checks in at home.”

  “Really.” My tone made it a question.

  “Play your cards right, Mommy dearest, I might bring him by.”

  A blatant dodge, but since Katy was so excited, I decided to press on for details.

  “What’s this awesome gentleman’s actual name?”

  “Webster Aaron Cooperton. He’s from Charleston.”

  “You met him at UVA?”

  “Yep.”

  “How is it that young Mr. Cooperton holds deed to a town house in Charlotte?”

  “He finished school here.”

  “Didn’t like Charlottesville?”

  “Wasn’t invited back.”

  “I see.”

  “He’s really nice. Loads of fun.”

  I had no doubt of that.

  “And the town house?”

  “His parents bought it for him when he transferred to UNCC. As an investment. They’re beaucoup bucks up.”

  Thus Coop’s freedom to hold morally admirable but woefully underpaid aid jobs.

  Whatever. Shaggy musician out. Humanitarian in. Worked for me.

  “You and Coop dated following his return from Haiti?”

  “When we could. He was in New York a lot.”

  I paused, allowing Katy to get to the reason for her call. Turned out there was none.

  “Well, Mommy-o. Have a good day.”

  Mommy-o?

  Who was this strange woman posing as my daughter?

  Ryan delivered Charlie around noon. Eager to be off to Lily, he stayed only briefly. The door had barely closed when the bird fired off two of his bawdier quips.

  “Fill your glass, park your ass!”

  “Charlie.”

  “Cool your tool!”

  Clearly, the cockatiel training CD had seen no play time in my absence.

  Point of information: confiscated during a brothel raid several years back, Charlie became Ryan’s Christmas gift to me. My little avian friend’s repertoire is, shall we say, colorful.

  Jean-Claude Hubert, the chief coroner, phoned at one o’clock. Hubert had located John Lowery’s father, Plato Lowery, and informed him of the fingerprint ID on the body in Hemmingford. At first Plato was confused. Then shocked. Then skeptical.

  The United States Army had also been brought into the loop.

  “Now what?” I asked Hubert.

  “Now we wait to see what Uncle Sam has to say.”

  At one thirty I headed to Marché Atwater, near the Lachine Canal in the Saint-Henri neighborhood. A ten-minute drive from my condo, the market there dates to 1933.

  Inside the two-story art deco pavilion, shops and stalls offer cheese, wine, bread, meat, and fish. Outside, vendors hawk maple syrup, herbs, and produce. At Christmas, freshly cut trees fill the air with the scent of pine. In spring and summer, flowers turn the pavement into a riot of color.

  When I first started shopping at Atwater, the neighborhood was blue-collar and definitely down-at-the-heels. Not so today. Since the reopening of the canal in 2002, upscale condos have replaced low- and modest-cost housing and the area has become a real estate hot spot.

  Not sure I’m a fan of such gentrification. But parking is easier now.

  Inside, I purchased meat and cheese. Outside, I bought produce, then flats of marigolds and petunias. Made of sterner stuff, I figured their sort might survive my regime of horticultural neglect.

  Back home, I planted the flowers around my postage stamp patio and in my little backyard. Rain was still falling. Hot damn. No need to water.

  I was cleaning dirt from my nails when my cell phone sounded. 808 area code. Hawaii.

  Toweling off, I clicked on.

  “Dr. Tandler. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Though a Sunday call was unexpected, I had no doubt the topic.

  “What? I have to have a reason?”

  “Yes.”

  Danny let out a long breath. “This Lowery thing is causing some concern on our end.”

  Sensing an edge of anxiety in Danny’s voice, I waited.

  “Yesterday Merkel got a call from Notter while driving home from the airport. You can imagine how getting tagged that soon after landing brightened his day.”

  JPAC employs more than four hundred people, both military and civilian. In addition to the CIL, situated at Hickam Air Force Base, there are three permanent overseas detachments: in Bangkok, Thailand; Hanoi, Vietnam; and Vientiane, Laos; and another U.S. detachment at Camp Smith, in Hawaii. Each is commanded by a lieutenant colonel. The whole JPAC enchilada is under the command of an army major general. For now.

  Danny referred to Brent Notter, deputy to the commander for public relations and legislative affairs, and Roger Merkel, scientific director and deputy to the commander for CIL operations. Merkel was Danny’s direct superior.

  “After hearing from the Quebec coroner yesterday, Plato Lowery contacted his congressman,” Danny went on.

  “Oh, boy,” I said. “What’s Lowery’s juice?”

  “Juice?”

  “Danny, we both know phone inquiries aren’t handled that fast. It’s been only twenty-four hours since Plato Lowery was informed of the situation. He must have connections.”

  “According to Congressman O’Hare, John Lowery came from a family with a tradition of sending its boys into the military.”

  “So do a lot of kids.”

  “I checked. O’Hare has to run for reelection this year.”

  “So do a lot of kids.”

  “O’Hare and Notter were frat bros at Wake Forest.”

  “That’ll do it.”

  “Go Kappa Sig.” Danny was trying hard for casual. It wasn’t working.

  “Is Notter worried?” I asked.

  “Lowery was pretty upset. Wants to know why some guy in Canada is questioning his son’s proud record.”

  “Understandable.”

  “Why some Frenchie’s calling his kid a deserter.”

  “I doubt the coroner used that term.” Or provided details of the circumstances surrounding John Lowery’s death. I kept that to myself.

  “Congressman O’Hare has vowed to protect his constituent from a smear campaign by our neighbors to the north.”

  “He said that?”

  “In a statement to the press.”

  “Why would O’Hare notify the media?”

  “The guy’s a showboater, jumps at every chance he sees to ingratiate himself to the voting public.”

  “But it’s ridiculous. Why would the government of Canada pick John Lowery of Lumberton, North Carolina, as someone to smear?”

  “Of course it’s ridiculous. Merkel thinks O’Hare’s probably in trouble over NAFTA. Lashing out at Canada might make him look good with the home folk.”

  That theory wasn’t totally without merit. North Carolina was hit hard by the North American Free Trade Agreement, lost thousands of jobs in the textile and furniture industries. But the agreement had been signed in 1994.

  “Lowery senior also demands to know, if John died in Quebec, who the hell’s buried in his son’s grave.”

  Understandable also.

  “Notter wants to make sure the thing doesn’t turn into a media nightmare.”

  “What’s his plan?”

  “You live in North Carolina.”

  “I do.” Wary.

  “Y’all speak the native lingo.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Notter wants you to go to Lumberton and dig up whoever is in that grave.”

  PLATO LOWERY WAS YOUNGER THAN I EXPECTED, EARLY EIGHTIES at most. His hair was the kind that turns L.A. waiters into stars. Though white with age, it winged thick and glossy from a center part to swoop down over his ears.

 
But Lowery’s eyes were what grabbed you, black as wormholes in space. His gaze seemed to laser straight into your soul.

  Lowery watched as I called a halt to the digging. Others in the assembly: the backhoe operator; two cemetery workers; two coroner’s assistants; a reporter from the Robesonian; another from WBTW; a Lumberton cop; an army lieutenant who looked all of sixteen.

  It was Tuesday, May 11. Two days since my call from Danny.

  Though the time was barely 10 a.m., the temperature already nudged ninety. Sun pounded the cemetery’s psychedelically green lawn. The scent of moist earth and cut grass floated heavily on the air.

  I squatted for a closer look at one side of the freshly opened grave.

  Stratigraphy told the story.

  The uppermost layer was a deep black-brown, the one below an anemic yellow-tan. Four feet down, the bucket’s teeth had bitten into a third stratum. Like the topsoil, the dirt was rich with organic content.

  I gestured the tractor back and the cemetery workers to action. Collecting their spades, the men hopped in and began shoveling dirt from the grave.

  In minutes a coffin lid took shape. I noted no protective vault, only the remnants of a crushed burial liner. Bad news.

  A vault, whether concrete, plastic, or metal, completely encloses a coffin. A burial liner covers only the top and sides and is less sturdy. Dirt is heavy. The absence of a vault boded ill for the integrity of a box forty years underground.

  In an hour a casket stood free within the excavated grave. Though flattened at one end, it appeared largely intact.

  While I shot pictures, one of the coroner’s assistants drove the van graveside.

  Under my direction, a plank was positioned beneath the bottom and chains were wrapped around the casket’s head and foot ends. With the cemetery workers directing movement with their hands, the backhoe operator slowly raised the box up, swung left, and deposited it on the ground.

  The coffin looked jarringly out of place on the emerald grass in the warm spring daylight. As I made notes and shot pictures, I thought of John Lowery’s other sun-drenched resurrection far to the north.

  And of the buoyant young man in the photo from Jean Laurier’s desk drawer.

  I’d read the entire IDPF that morning, the Individual Deceased Personnel File, including paperwork sent by the military back in 1968. DD Form 893, the Record of Identification Processing Anatomical Chart; DA Form 10–249, the Certificate of Death; DD Form 1384, the Transportation Control and Movement Document; DD Form 2775, the Record of Preparation and Disposition of Remains.