Speaking in Bones

Before leaving the MCME, I checked the schedule at my gym. Perfect. An evening yoga session at six. Stretching and breathing to help counter the stress.

Who was I kidding? The class meant one more hour away from the square mile of paper covering my dining room table.

I got to the annex around seven-thirty, relatively relaxed. A state of mind that lasted maybe ten minutes.

The phone rang as Birdie and I were sharing a Fresh Market chicken pot pie. It was Zeb Ramsey. I clicked on.

“I put the drive time to use.” Ramsey was eating something—maybe French fries. I could hear chewing punctuated by rustling. “Called in some favors on Mason Gulley, the kid the parents thought Cora ran off with.”

I waited out some wet mastication.

“He wasn’t easy to track, but my ‘associates’ ”—I could hear quote marks around the word—“managed to kick a few things loose. Gulley was born in ’94, which makes him a year younger than Teague.”

We each took a bite of our respective foodstuff.

“Gulley’s father, Francis Gulley, left home after high school to become the next gospel wonder in Nashville. His mother, Eileen Wall, came from a speck-in-the-eye town way over on the Tennessee border. Eileen dropped out her junior year to hit the footlights on Broadway. When they met, she was bagging burgers at a Wendy’s in Asheville, and he was scrounging pickup gigs as a drummer. A year after they moved in together, little Mason came along.”

“Did they marry?”

“No. And neither was enamored with the concept of parenthood. They split for California, leaving the baby with Gulley’s mother, Martha Regan Gulley.”

“Why not Eileen’s parents?”

“The father was a boozer and the mother had MS.”

“Grim.”

“Grimmer. Both were killed in a head-on the day after Christmas, 2000.”

While listening, I watched Birdie tongue a gravy-free pea onto a small collection of peas and carrots on the floor. Couldn’t help but admire his skill at triage.

“So Mason was raised by Grandma and Grandpa Gulley. Mostly Grandma. Oscar Gulley died of congestive heart failure in 2004. He was eighty-one.”

“Is Martha still alive?”

“Grandma was more than a decade younger than her husband. Still lives in Avery County.” Ramsey paused, but I heard no paper or dental action. “She’s raising the second of Eileen’s children, a girl named Susan Grace.”

“Seriously?”

“In 1999, Eileen dropped Susan Grace off at age one month. Two overnights, then back to L.A. Within the year, Eileen had OD’d on heroin.”

“Was she still with Francis at the time of her death?”

“They’d split.”

“What happened to him?”

“By then he was calling himself Frank Danger. He got popped a couple times in L.A. Petty stuff. Loitering. Disorderly. Resisting. The last arrest was in ’06 for possession of marijuana. He was ordered to rehab and given probation. After that the trail goes cold.”

“Never became a rock star.”

“No.”

Was Mason Gulley’s paternity really relevant? His parents’ loser past?

“Cora Teague went to Avery County High,” I said. “Was Mason Gulley a student there?”

“No.”

“Where?”

“I’m on it.” A beat. Then, “Apparently very few people knew this kid. My associates got some odd comments from those who had come into contact with him. A checker at the Food Lion, a pharmacist, a—”

“What does that mean, odd?”

“Folks said he was strange.”

“Strange?”

“Weird.”

“Weird?”

“Just repeating what was reported to me.”

I thought about that while working on a hunk of chicken.

“Time to get back to sheriffing.” I heard movement, probably Ramsey swiveling to cradle the handset.

“Hang on.” I swallowed. “There’s more.”

The line went still.

“Hazel Strike was killed last night.”

“The websleuth who came with us to the overlook?” Shocked.

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

I told him about the autopsy. About the injuries that suggested Strike’s killer was driven by rage. About her feud with Wendell Clyde. About Slidell’s refusal to include me in the investigation.

When I’d finished, a thick silence hummed from the mountains to the Piedmont. I knew Ramsey was pondering the same notion I was. The improbability of coincidence.

“Have you worked with this guy before?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“He solid?”

“Slidell’s got the personality of an anal polyp, but he’s a good detective.”

“Want me to give him a call?”

“Doubt that will move Skinny. Better to do it his way.” I circled back. “Both the Gulleys and the Teagues belong to Jesus Lord Holiness church. Cora and Mason could have met there.”

“The priest’s estimate was correct. Those questioned thought Gulley dropped from sight in 2011. That puts his disappearance around the same time as Teague’s.”

We both chewed on that. And on the brutal reality of Hazel Strike’s death.

“Now what?” I asked.

“You game for another trip up here?”

“I am.”

We made plans, then disconnected.

Birdie and I gave the tax issue our full attention. For about thirty minutes. Then I showered and we both settled in bed.

Surprisingly, I was eager to talk to Ryan. Probably Slidell—a need to vent. Perhaps a need for more. Whatever. I was tired of trying to sort my untidy emotions.

Ryan answered after two rings. “Just the person I hoped it would be.”

“Glad I could make your day.”

“Your calls always fill me with joy.”

“Try to control your giddiness.” I smiled. This felt good.

“Will do.” I could hear Ryan turning down some frenzied sportscaster in the background. He was at home. “What’s up?”

“I rebooked my trip.”

“C’est fantastique! When do you arrive?”

“Next Friday. Sadly, it’s just for a long weekend. I’ll email the flight information.”

“I’m really glad.” He let that lie for a beat. “So. Any news on your case?”

I took a moment to organize my thoughts. So much had happened. I decided to start with the recent and work backward.

“Do you remember our discussion about websleuthing?”

“I do. And Lucky Strike.” I heard a hum, then the sound of ice cubes dropping into a glass. “She was looking for a kid named Cora Teague.”

“Strike was killed last night. Bludgeoned to death then dumped in a pond.”

“Jesus Christ. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” How to put it without overplaying my involvement? “After Strike left my office last Monday, I began looking into what she’d said.”

“Does her theory have legs?” A liquid, probably Scotch, splashed onto the cubes.

I told him about the printless fingertips from Burke County. The fragmentary bones from the Lost Cove Cliffs. The concrete mold from the Devil’s Tail. Brown Mountain. Zeb Ramsey. The Teagues. The Gulleys. Granger Hoke and the Church of Jesus Lord Holiness. Wendell Clyde.

The account took half an hour. Throughout, all I heard was the clink of ice and the occasional swallow.

As he listened, Ryan went through the same mental lassoing I had. His questions came back clear and succinct.

“Why no prints?”

“I’m not sure. Could be the result of chemotherapy. Ramsey asked at local hospitals, but found no AWOL cancer patients.”

“What did the WCU anthropologist say?”

“I’ve yet to hear back from her.” Note to self. Follow-up call.

“And the Teagues refuse to give DNA?”

“They insist Cora is elsewhere and fine.”

“There’s no evidence of a crime so you can’t force them to talk.”

“Voilà.”

“You’ve got a vic with no cause of death and no way to ID her.”

“Or him. With what’s been recovered, I can’t determine gender or race. I’ve sent samples to the lab for DNA testing, to try to establish that it’s just one person, maybe later to establish ID. But I’m not optimistic they’ll find enough to sequence. Everything’s badly chewed and weathered.”

“And the younger Teague kid died under suspicious circumstances.”

“So says the treating ER doc.”

Ryan shifted gears.

“You’re liking Wendell Clyde for the Strike murder?”

“You should see these online exchanges, Ryan. They’re toxic. And the guy lives just outside Charlotte.” Or did.

“Skinny’s not buying it?”

“Who knows what goes on in the far country of Slidell’s mind. By the way, he’s undergone some sort of transmutation.”

“Meaning?”

“He’s lost weight and looks”—I groped for a word—“groomed.”

“He’s got a girlfriend.”

“Seriously?”

“He’s back with Verlene.”

Slidell and Verlene Wryznyk had been an item sometime in the Paleozoic. She’d dumped him, but, over the years, they’d remained friends. The previous winter Slidell had covered for his lost love when she accidentally shot her squeeze of the moment, a State Bureau of Investigation agent with a very tall ego and very loose hands.

“No way!” I was so stunned that at first I missed the implication of Ryan’s comment. “Wait. How do you know that?”

“He called me a couple weeks back. Had a question about shoes.”

“Shoes.”

“He admires my taste.”

“Skinny?”

“Can’t blame him. I’m the man when it comes to footwear.”

“Ryan,” I said, a note of reproach in my voice.

“I’ll tell you all about it when you’re here.”

Before I could press, Ryan looped back.

“You think Strike’s death is related to the Cora Teague situation?”

“I don’t know what I think.”

“Did you ever get the audio recorder from her?”

“No. Hopefully Skinny will find it when he tosses her house.” Another note to self. Call Slidell.

A moment of thoughtful silence, then, “Granger Hoke is a Catholic priest?”

“Jesus Lord Holiness is a breakaway group that has issues with Rome. The congregation is small but fervent. And fiercely private. John Teague is a real piece of work.”

“Could the remains you recovered tie in to some form of crazy involving Brown Mountain and Satan?”

Ramsey had mentioned that same possibility. The implication for Hoke and his flock didn’t need stating.

Until my father died and Gran whisked Mama, Harry, and me south to the land of Baptists and Presbyterians, my upbringing was Catholic. I was schooled by nuns peddling water-and-wine miracles, virgin birth, and resurrection. The hopelessness of unbaptized pagan babies. The evils of venial and mortal sin. The power of forehead ash, penance, and prayer.

To my young mind, life everlasting was a pretty sweet deal. But the cost of a ticket was mighty high, the odds of achievement extremely low. It seemed I was doomed before I’d begun. My birthright was wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony. My female body was the devil’s wicked lure, meant to be veiled and used only for reproduction.

Unquestioning obedience was my only salvation. And endless ritual. Friday fish. Saturday confession. Sunday Mass.

All were called but few were chosen. The God-fearing and God-compliant. The alternative was Satan and a fiery hell.

“…to Brennan?” Ryan’s voice had gone lower, the edges softer.

“I’m here.” Please don’t.

“I love you.”

I made a noise that could have meant anything.

“That’s good to know,” Ryan said.

“It’s late.”

A blip of a pause.

“You’re dodging me, Tempe. And avoiding the issue. I’m not talking about putting off a trip to the dentist. Or coming up here. I’m talking about our lives.”

“I know.” Barely audible.

“Avoidance is corrosive.”

“I hate long-distance discussions.” Knowing as I spoke that the phone wasn’t the issue. “We’ll talk when I’m there.”

“I do love you. And I’ll wait. But not forever.”

An icicle of pure crystalline pain slashed through my chest.