Speaking in Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  Two of the jacketed guys weighed maybe a hundred pounds bundled. One was in his late twenties, the perpetual frat-boy type. The other was older, with buzz-cut hair and one pierced ear. The third was fair and blond and, I suspected, an accomplished blusher. The female jacket wearer had spent a lot of time at the gym. Big eyes, greasy bangs, not yet on a first-name basis with thirty.

  Both crime scene techs were short and wiry and, when eventually zipped into their hooded Tyvek suits, difficult to distinguish.

  There wasn’t a smile in the lot. Not hard to guess the source of their displeasure. They’d been dragged from their big screens and the basketball matchup of the century.

  As the squad strapped on complicated gear involving belts and ropes, I apologized for taking everyone away from the game. They were not quite surly but close.

  I showed them the concrete mold and the bucket, and described the shed. Explained the body parts found at the other two overlooks, and the theory that the victim, whose name I withheld, might be a resident of Avery County.

  I suggested a possible postmortem interval of three to four years, and warned that any remains would be fragmentary. No one made the mistake of asking why, after such a lengthy PMI, the hunt was so urgent it had to be today.

  By two-thirty, the searchers were over the side, Ramsey and Gunner included. Turned out the deputy was AMGA certified. American Mountain Guides Association.

  At Ramsey’s suggestion, I stayed at the trailhead with the CSU techs and a handheld radio. Made sense. I have zero climbing skills, but am kick-ass at crime scene recovery.

  We took photos of the hollow vacated by the boulder, then mixed a batch of dental stone and poured a cast of the gouges left in the mud. Maybe useful if a suspect tool was recovered, maybe not. My best guess was crowbar, but that was reaching.

  While the stone dried, the techs moved down to the shed. They’d dust for prints, collect the bucket fragments, shoot video and pics. No one was optimistic.

  Once I’d bagged the cast stone, I sat with my knees up and my back against a tree. In less than an hour the techs returned, dropped at a pine five yards off, and alternated between smoking and chatting in low tones while the rescue squad continued their work below.

  —

  All afternoon I listened to voices floating up from the gorge. Shouted questions and instructions, responses, most too muffled to make out the words.

  I’m not very good at staying on the sidelines. I get edgy and find it hard to sit still. Especially when the action is right at my feet.

  I kept rising to pace. Pointlessly testing the radio. Thinking. About taxes and the IRS. About Mama and cancer. About the actual origin of Opie Taylor’s name.

  Mostly, about Ryan and his impossible proposition.

  I’d played the bride. Done the rings and flowers and white lace. Pete and I had spent decades together before his grand betrayal. But time heals. Eventually I’d allowed myself to love again. And then Andrew Ryan had shattered my heart anew.

  Ryan had never married. Why now? Why me? Had he changed? Does anyone ever change?

  I’d vowed no more vows. Was it wise to alter that pledge?

  Round and round. Over and over. Like a loop in my brain.

  At one point, as distraction, I clicked through photos on my iPhone, knowing it was foolish, but doing so anyway. Screw it. There was no signal. If my battery died, I could use the radio.

  I looked at faces I hadn’t seen in far too long. At smiles I’d once shared. At happiness I’d once enjoyed.

  Mama, all done up in Gucci. My sister, Harry, with her big Texas hair and even bigger heart. My daughter, Katy, in head-to-toe army combat gear.

  Ryan, arm draped around my shoulder in Montreal. A selfie. I knew his pilly green sweater so well I could smell the wool.

  That photo hit me straight in the gut. Why the sudden stab of pain? The sense of loss? Or was it elation? Jesus, what was it I was feeling?

  Resolved. When back in civilization I’d book a flight to Montreal. Surely I could eke out a few days. And even a short visit would make Ryan happy. Hell, it would make me happy. Unless the pressure was too great. Or the friction too stressful.

  Unless. Unless. The more I thought about marriage the more I felt my head would explode.

  Around four, clouds drifted in, harmless white cotton-candy wisps streaking the blue. Over the next two hours, the wisps bloated, darkened, and gathered into ominous thunderheads.

  By seven the sky was spitting and night was closing in fast. The team called it quits.

  The searchers had done the best they could. Found more of the bucket and a handful of cranial fragments. Gunner had made the big score—the missing half of the concrete mold.

  As the rescue squad disengaged from their copious gear, the techs took photos of the paltry assemblage I’d spread out on a tarp. They clicked, I bagged and tagged. A promise of notes and additional photos; then, still aggrieved by the injustice of missing their hoops, everyone split.

  Rain was falling in earnest by the time Ramsey, Gunner, and I climbed into the SUV. Not pounding, but cold and steady.

  I braced myself as we lurched and rocked back up the access road toward Wiseman’s View. Several minutes passed before Ramsey spoke.

  “Long day.”

  “It was,” I agreed.

  “Could be a tough drive back to Charlotte.”

  “I’m not looking forward to it.”

  No response.

  Exhausted, I closed my eyes. No. Better to stay awake. I opened them. Watched drops sparkle in the headlights then disappear into blackness.

  After some time, Ramsey broke the silence. “Here’s my thought. Tomorrow’s Sunday. No one’s going to look at anything before Monday.”

  He cut the wheel to avoid a pothole, maybe a small night creature. I turned toward him. His gaze was pointed straight at the windshield. I waited.

  “There’s a nice B and B not far from headquarters. How about you stay up here tonight? Tomorrow we have a good mountain breakfast, then we surprise Mama and Daddy Teague after Sunday service?”

  While I was considering, my iPhone snatched a sliver of signal and beeped. I checked my voice mail. Hazel Strike really needed to talk to me. Though her voice sounded urgent, I ignored the message.

  I’d left extra cat food. Could tag a neighbor for breakfast duty.

  I made a call to Joe Hawkins on his private number. Apologized for phoning on Saturday evening. Explained what I wanted from him.

  Taxes? Screw it.

  I stayed.

  I woke suddenly, clueless where I was. Then recall.

  Turned out the “nice” B&B belonged to Ramsey’s aunt, a lady in her seventies with nurturing instincts to give Clara Barton a run for her cap. And, despite snowy hair, a lime-green bathrobe, and crocodile slippers, a demeanor that suggested she was not to be crossed.

  We’d arrived at eight, damp and muddy and shivering. While I showered and Ramsey washed up and changed shirts, Aunt Ruby had prepared her version of a light snack. Leftover meat loaf, ham hocks and beans, pickled beets, mac and cheese, peach cobbler and ice cream. I was unconscious before my head hit the pillow.

  Now I lay a moment, listening to birdsong and watching dawn bring details of the room into focus. Rosebud wallpaper. Acres of gingham. Pine pieces so thickly lacquered they looked like plastic.

  Outside, a rooster resolutely announced daybreak. Somewhere in the house a door closed. A soft squeak, then water trickled through old piping.

  I turned on my pillow to check the bedside clock, a round affair topped by double bells with a tiny hammer between. Both scrolly hands were pointed straight down.

  I threw back the quilt, swung my feet to the floor, and, wearing the panties and tee I’d slept in, tiptoe-hurried to an upholstered rocker I’d scooched in front of a heat vent. My jeans had dried where I’d scrubbed the knees and rear. I pulled them on, added the same bra, sweater, socks, and boots in which I’d left home twenty-four hours earlier.


  The bath, two doors down a flowery hall, was mercifully empty. Pedestal sink. Black and white tile floor. Freestanding tub with a plastic curtain featuring dolphins and crabs.

  On the sink were a cellophane-sealed toothbrush and a tube of Crest. I brushed, yanked my hair into a pony, and headed downstairs.

  The dining room was through a parlor that stayed true to the theme upstairs. Centered in it was a long wooden table flanked by benches. Along the walls were two-tops. Ramsey was at one, already working on waffles, bacon, and scrambled eggs.

  When I drew near, the deputy did that half-standing thing men do when joined by members of the opposite sex. My bum had barely hit the seat when Aunt Ruby appeared carrying a stainless-steel pot. The robe and slippers had been replaced by a floral dress, pink cardigan, and sensible shoes.

  “Good morning, missy.” Raising the pot.

  “Thanks.” I held out my mug.

  “Did you have a good sleep?”

  “I did.”

  “Pancakes or waffles?”

  “I’m not really a breakfast—”

  “Can’t start the day without food in your belly.”

  “Pancakes.”

  “Sausage, bacon, or both?”

  “Sausage.”

  “Coming right up.”

  “There’s no point arguing,” Ramsey said when she’d gone.

  “Oh, I definitely get that.”

  Ramsey raised interested brows. No way was I explaining Mama at seven in the morning.

  “What’s the plan?” I asked.

  “The early service kicks off at eight. We’ll be waiting outside when it ends.”

  “You’re sure the Teagues will attend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t we just go to their home?”

  “I’m fond of surprises.”

  “You want to catch them off guard.”

  “Something like that.”

  Ramsey ate and I sipped for a while. I was about to ask if he’d learned more about the church when Aunt Ruby returned bearing sufficient food to feed a small nation.

  Despite myself, I downed all three pancakes, the unrequested eggs, and two of the five sausages. One pumpkin scone.

  I was working on my second coffee when a couple appeared in the doorway. The man had a long gray braid snaking down his back. The woman, at least a decade his junior, was tall and slim with very short hair. Both wore boots and cargo pants, and had bandannas tied around their necks. I guessed they were hikers.

  The two were talking quietly. On seeing Ramsey’s uniform, their conversation slammed down in mid-word. A quick scan, then they settled at a corner table, the farthest from ours.

  I glanced at Ramsey to see if he’d noticed. A subtle nod said he had.

  Aunt Ruby again intercepted the question I was about to pose. She beamed at us through spotted lenses and waggled the pot.

  “No more coffee, thanks,” I said.

  “Just a check,” Ramsey said.

  The wrinkled lips made a sound like air exploding from a piston. Then, to me. “Zeb tells me you’re a doc up from Charlotte.”

  “I am.”

  “Says it’s strictly professional.”

  “It is.”

  Ramsey pulled two tens from his wallet and placed them on the table. Aunt Ruby ignored him.

  “He’s a fine boy,” she said.

  He’s pushing fifty, I thought.

  “He tell you I’m the reason he left Georgia?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Broke my hip.” With her free hand, she patted the joint in question. “Zeb came to tend me. Never left.”

  “I’m sure you enjoy having him close.”

  “He’s all I’ve got. Just wish he’d find him a new wife. Last one wasn’t so hot.”

  My eyes flicked to Ramsey. A blush was rising from his collar and mottling his cheeks.

  Not noticing her nephew’s discomfort, perhaps not caring, Aunt Ruby yammered on.

  “Now don’t be thinking I’m a delusional old fool. I know that whole marriage mess is the reason Zeb stayed. That and the snarl left by our moron sheriff. The dead one, I mean. The new one seems a bit brighter. Well, what the hooey.” Her hand flapped the air as though shooing a fly. “The turnover made for a job. So here he is.”

  Ramsey rose, clearly embarrassed. I followed and went to gather my belongings. At checkout, Aunt Ruby was obstinate in refusing payment for my room.

  I thanked her for her generosity. Then, while Ramsey went to bring the SUV around and, I suspected, run the plate on the vehicle belonging to the hikers, Ruby and I engaged in small talk.

  “Seems a bit warmer today.” I figured weather was always safe.

  “Spring’s a-coming. Always does.” Pause. “So where you off to?”

  “Church.” Also safe.

  The rheumy eyes narrowed behind the speckled glass. “Don’t reckon I’d count Zeb among the believers.”

  “It’s business.”

  “His or yours?”

  “Both.”

  “Which church?”

  “Jesus Lord Holiness.”

  Again, the derisive pooching of air through her lips. I waited.

  “You’ve come all the way up here to go to Mass with crazies?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Those folks are barmy. Nuts. Batty as loons.” The old gal didn’t mince words.

  “Can you elaborate?”

  “I knew one of them once. Nice person until that church bunch got hold of her. Made her crazy.”

  “Define ‘crazy.’ ”

  “Where do I start? They reject the pope and the president. Honest to God, probably penicillin and pizza.” An elevated tone suggested strong thoughts on the subject. “Parishioners are supposed to stay all hush-hush. But my friend, former friend, let on how they think.”

  Three of her words linked up in my head.

  “Wait. Are you saying the group is Catholic?”

  “Not sure the Vatican would lay claim to that lot. But yes, they’re some sort of splinter faction. Charismatic or Pentecostal or whatever you call it. All into faith healing and prayer meetings and speaking in tongues.”

  I was about to probe further when Ramsey pulled up in front. Aunt Ruby walked me to the door and held it wide with one scrawny arm. I again said thanks, then hurried outside.

  “You two be careful out there,” she squawked at my back.

  “What’s that all about?” Ramsey asked as I was buckling my seat belt.

  I recapped the conversation I’d just had with his aunt.

  Slowly shaking his head. “She does have some pit bull tendencies.”

  The previous night, in the dark, Ruby’s place had been nothing but a long gravel drive ending at a yellow porch light. Curious, now that I could see it, I looked around.

  The B&B was a two-story, green frame with lavender trim, an old farmhouse undoubtedly treated with less whimsy in its previous life. Wrapping its front and left side was a porch overlooking a lawn now brown and soggy with postwinter melt off.

  A small sign identified the home’s current status as the Cedar Creek Inn. Overnight the clouds had passed, and the rising sun was now bronzing the Cedar Creek’s roof and windows.

  The drive took fifteen minutes. I was glad I wasn’t making it solo. Our target lay deep in a hollow, many lefts and rights off the blacktop. The entire trip, I saw not a single sign. We encountered no other vehicles.

  Ramsey knew the way. And timed our arrival well.

  The Church of Jesus Lord Holiness sat with its back to a mountain. A tire swing hung from the branch of an enormous oak off to its left. Picnic tables sat in four rows of three by the tree’s trunk.

  Roughly thirty cars and trucks waited in a paved parking area in front. Ramsey joined them and killed the engine. We both eyed the setup, assessing.

  The main building was small, perhaps constructed specifically for worship, perhaps converted from some previous use. Its exterior was whitewashed, its windo
ws plain—no fancy grillwork or stained glass.

  Two steps led up to a stoop that looked as though it were scrubbed daily. A pair of double doors bore matching wrought-iron crosses. Above the doors, a simple wooden cross rose from the peak of the roof. No bells, no steeple.

  An outbuilding sat twenty yards off the right rear corner of the church. Same double doors. Same whitewashed exterior. No cross. A gravel track forked from the entrance road toward its rear.

  I lowered my window. From inside I could hear the muted sound of a piano being played with gusto. Warbly singing, the kind typical of small congregations.

  I strained to listen. Caught a phrase or two. Latin. That tracked with Ruby’s account.

  Ramsey started drumming a thumb on the wheel.

  “It won’t be long.”

  My comment drew a questioning glance.

  “They’re singing the Agnus Dei.” Lamb of God. “The Mass will end soon.”

  “You Catholic?”

  I offered a noncommittal lift of one shoulder.

  Six days a week. In my little green jumper, patrolled by Gestapo nuns. In my Sunday best, flanked by Mama and Daddy. Memories still slice through my dreams. The smoky sweet incense. The gloomy organ drone. The poorly padded wood under my bony kid knees.

  Ten minutes of watching, then a priest and an altar boy emerged, both in full ecclesiastical garb. Together, robes billowing like clotheslined laundry, they pulled wide and secured the doors to shiny metal rings embedded in the stoop.

  The boy disappeared back inside, then, one by one, two by two, and in family groupings of varying sizes, the worshippers trooped out. Every male over ten wore a suit and tie, every female a hat or veil.

  The priest shook hands with the men, blessed the women and children with a pat on the shoulder or head. An hour of torturous restraint, yet all the kids stayed with their parents. Not one bolted for the tire swing, a game of tag, a cartwheel, a run with arms outstretched like a plane.

  The exit parade was tapering off when Ramsey’s thumb went still.

  The priest was speaking to a couple I guessed to be in their fifties. He was built along the lines of a bulldog. She was taller, more so with the headgear. Both were sporting black.