Bare Bones (31 page)

“Do you have a file number?”

“No.”

“Makes it tougher, but God bless computers, I can track it down. What do you need?”

“I wonder if you could take a look at the amelogenin profile in the case, see if anything looks odd.”

“How soon do you need this?”

I hesitated.

“I know,” Springer said. “Yesterday.”

“I’l owe you,” I said.

“I’l col ect,” he said.

“Margie and the kids might not approve.”

“Point taken. Give me a few hours.”

I gave him my cel phone number.

Next I cal ed Hershey Zamzow at his FWS office in Raleigh.

“I’m curious. Do you know the whereabouts of any of Charlotte Grant Cobb’s family?”

“Cobb grew up in Clover, South Carolina. Parents were stil living there when Charlotte went missing. As I recal , they weren’t too cooperative.”

“Why?”

“Insisted Cobb would turn up.”

“Denial?”

“Who knows. Hold on.”

I twisted the phone cord as I waited.

“I think they were real active in some church group down there, so I suppose it’s possible they’re stil at this address. I only heard Charlotte mention her folks once. Got the impression they didn’t have much to do with each other.”

As I jotted the number, a question occurred to me.

“How tal was Cobb?”

“She wasn’t one of those petite, little things. But she wasn’t what you’d cal an Amazon, either. Guess you heard about Brian Aiker?”

“Tim Larabee did the autopsy here today,” I said.

“Poor bastard.”

“Was Aiker working on something at Crowder’s Mountain?”

“Not that I knew of.”

“Any idea why he might have gone there?”

“Not a clue.”

I looked at my watch. Six-forty. I’d eaten nothing since breakfast at the Coffee Cup with Woolsey.

And Boyd hadn’t been out in thirteen hours.

Oh, boy.

Boyd charged the lawn like the Al ies hitting Normandy. After devouring the cheeseburger I’d bought him at Burger King, he spent ten minutes trying to stare me out of my Whopper, and another five licking both wrappers.

Showing somewhat more restraint and considerably more dignity, Birdie nibbled the corner of a French fry, then sat, extended one hind leg, and diligently cleaned between his toes.

Cat and dog were sleeping when Ted Springer cal ed from Columbia at eight.

“Microbiologists put in a long day,” I said.

“I was running some samples. Listen, I found the file on your Lancaster skeleton and there may be something.”

“That was quick,” I said.

“I got lucky. How much do you know about the amelogenin locus?”

“Girls show one band, boys show two, one the same size as the ladies, one slightly larger.”

“B-plus answer.”

“Thanks.”

“Amelogenin appears as two bands on a gel, but there’s one nifty little variation not everyone recognizes. With normal males, the two bands are of similar intensity. You with me?”

“I think ‘normal’ is going to be the operative word,” I said.

“With Klinefelter’s males, the band representing the X chromosome is twice as intense as that representing the Y chromosome.”

“Klinefelter’s males?” My brain was grinding, refusing to shift into gear.

“The XXY karyotype, where there are three sex chromosomes instead of two. My col eague didn’t pick up on the intensity difference.”

“The unknown had Klinefelter’s syndrome?”

“The system’s not one hundred percent.”

“But KS is a good possibility in this case?”

“Yes. That help any?”

“It just might.”

I sat motionless, like a hunting trophy that’s been stuffed and mounted.

Klinefelter’s syndrome.

XXY.

A bad rol of Slidel ’s embryonic dice.

Booting up the computer, I began surfing. I was working through the Klinefelter’s Syndrome Association Web site when Boyd nudged my knee.

“Not now, boy.”

Another nudge.

I looked down.

Boyd put a paw on my knee, raised his snout, and snapped at the air. Gotta go.

“Is this on the level?”

Boyd dashed across the room, spun, snapped, and twirled the eye hairs.

I checked the time. Ten-fifteen. Enough.

Kil ing the computer and lights, I headed for Boyd’s leash.

The chow danced me out of the den, thril ed at the prospect of one last sortie before bedding back down.

The darkness in the annex was almost total, relieved only by heat lightning flickering through the trees. Inside, the mantel clock ticked. Outside, moths and June bugs fought the windows, their bodies making dul , thudding sounds against the screens.

When we entered the kitchen Boyd’s demeanor changed. His body tensed, and his ears and tail shot up. A short growl, then he lunged forward and began barking at the door.

My hand flew to my chest.

“Boyd,” I hissed. “Come here.”

Boyd ignored me.

I shushed him. The dog kept barking.

Heart pounding, I crept to the door and pressed my back to the wal , listening.

A car horn. June bugs. Crickets. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Boyd’s barking was becoming more urgent. His hackles were up now. His body was rigid.

Again I shushed him. Again he ignored me.

Over Boyd’s barking, I heard a thunk, then a soft scraping just outside the door.

My insides turned to ice.

Someone was there!

Cal 911! my brain cel s screamed. Run to the neighbors! Escape through the front door!

Escape from what? Tel 911 what? A bogeyman is on my porch? The Grim Reaper is at my back door?

I reached for Boyd. The dog twisted from me and continued his protest.

Was the door locked? Usual y I was good about security, but sometimes I slipped. Had I forgotten in my hurry to let Boyd out?

Fingers trembling, I felt for the lock.

The little oblong knob was horizontal. Locked? Unlocked? I couldn’t remember!

Should I test the handle?

Don’t make a sound! Don’t let him know you’re here!

Had I engaged the security system? I usual y did that just before going upstairs to bed. My eyes slid to the panel.

No flashing red light!

Damn!

Hands shaking badly now, I lifted a corner of the window curtain.

Pitch-black.

My eyes struggled to adjust.

Nothing.

I leaned close to the glass, shot my eyes left, then right, peering through the tiny opening I’d created.

No go.

Turn on the porch light, one rational brain cel suggested.

My hand groped for the switch.

No! Don’t tel him you’re home!

My hand froze.

At that moment the sky flickered. Two silhouettes emerged from the darkness.

Adrenaline rocketed through my body.

The two silhouettes were standing on my back porch, less than two feet from my terrified face.

THE FIGURES STOOD FROZEN, TWO BLACK CUTOUTS AGAINST Apitch-black night.

I dropped the curtain and shrank back, heart pounding in my throat.

The Grim Reaper? With an accomplice?

Barely breathing, I stole another peek.

The space between the figures appeared to have shrunk.

The space between the figures and my door appeared to have shrunk.

What to do?

My terrified brain came up with variations on the same suggestions.

Phone 911! Throw on the porch light! Yel through the door!

Boyd’s barking continued, steady but unfrenzied.

The sky flickered, went black.

Was my mind playing tricks, or did the larger silhouette look familiar?

I waited.

More lightning, longer. One, two, three seconds.

Sweet Jesus.

She looked even bulkier than my recol ection.

My hand brushed the wal , found the switch. The overhead bulb bathed the porch in amber.

“Hush, Boyd.”

I laid a hand on his head.

“Is that you, Geneva?”

“Don’t be setting no dog on us.”

Reaching down, I grasped Boyd’s col ar. Then I unlocked and opened the door.

Geneva had one arm around a young woman I immediately recognized as Tamela, the other thrown up across her face. Both sisters resembled frightened deer, their eyes blinded by the unexpected light.

“Come in.” Stil holding the chow’s col ar, I pushed open the screen.

Clearance having been granted the cal ers, Boyd’s barking gave way to tail wagging.

The sisters didn’t budge.

I stepped backward into the kitchen, dragging Boyd with me.

Geneva opened the screen door, nudged Tamela inside, fol owed.

“He won’t hurt you,” I said.

The sisters looked wary.

“Real y.”

I released Boyd and turned on the kitchen lights. The chow hopped forward and began sniffing Tamela’s legs, his tail doing double time.

Geneva stiffened.

Tamela reached down and tentatively patted Boyd’s head. The dog twisted and licked her fingers. They looked so delicate, the hand could have been that of a ten-year-old child. Except for the bloodred nails.

Boyd shifted to Geneva. She glared at him. Boyd shifted back to Tamela. She squatted, rested one knee on the floor, and ruffled his fur.

“A lot of folks have been searching for you,” I said, looking from one sister to the other. I tried to mask my surprise. After al this time, Tamela was actual y standing in my kitchen.

“We’re OK.” Geneva.

“Your father?”

“Daddy’s fine.”

“How did you find me?”

“You left your card.”

My surprise must have broken through at that.

“Daddy knew how to find you.”

I let it go, assuming Gideon Banks had obtained my home address through some university source.

“I’m very relieved to see you’re safe. Can I get you a cup of tea?”

“Coke?” Tamela asked, rising.

“I have Diet.”

“OK.” Disappointed.

I gestured to the table. They sat. Boyd fol owed and put his chin on Tamela’s knee.

I didn’t want Coke, but popped three cans to be sociable. Returning to the table, I placed a soda in front of each sister and took a chair.

Geneva was dressed in a V-necked UNCC Forty-niners jersey and the same shorts she’d worn the day Slidel and I visited her father. Her limbs and bel y looked bloated, the skin on her elbows and knees cracked and wrinkled.

Tamela wore a backless red halter that tied behind her neck and ribs, orange and red polyester skirt, and pink flip-flops with rhinestones on the plastic band. Her arms and legs were long and bony.

The contrast was striking. Geneva was hippo, Tamela pure gazel e.

I waited.

Geneva looked around the kitchen.

Tamela chewed gum, nervously scratched Boyd’s muzzle. She seemed skittish, unable to remain stil for more than a second.

I waited.

The refrigerator hummed.

I waited long enough for Geneva to col ect her thoughts. Long enough for Tamela to settle her nerves.

Long enough for the entire five movements of Schubert’sTrout Quartet.

Final y, Geneva broke the silence, eyes now on her Coke.

“Darryl off the street?”

“Yes.”

“Why’s he in jail?” Heat lightning pulsed in the window behind her.

“There’s evidence Darryl’s been dealing drugs.”

“He gonna do jail time?”

“I’m not a lawyer, Geneva. But I would guess that he is.”

“You guess.” For some reason Tamela directed the comment to Geneva.

“Yes,” I said.

“How do you know?” Tamela canted her head sideways, like Boyd studying a curiosity.

“I don’t know for sure.”

There was another long silence. Then, “Darryl didn’t kil my baby.”

“Tel me what happened.”

“It weren’t Darryl’s baby. I was with him, but it weren’t Darryl’s baby.”

“Who is the father?”

“White boy named Buck Harold. But it don’t matter. What I’m sayin’ is Darryl didn’t do that baby no harm.” I nodded.

“Baby didn’t belong to Darryl and I don’t, like, belong to him, know what I’m sayin’?”

“Tel me what happened to your baby.”

“I was staying at Darryl’s place—wel , it weren’t his place but he was living there, like, in one of the rooms. So, one day, like, I start having pains and I figure my time come. But the pain just keeps getting worse and worse, and nothing happens. I knew something was wrong.”

“No one got you medical care?”

She laughed, looked at me like I’d suggested she apply to Yale.

“After that night and the next day, final y the baby came out, but it was messed up.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was blue and it wouldn’t take no breath.”

Her eyes glistened. Looking away, she swiped the heel of a palm across each cheek.

A steel shaft entered my chest. I believed her story. I felt pain for this young woman and for her unbearable loss. Pain for al the Tamelas of this world and their babies.

I reached out and laid my hand on hers. She pul ed back, dropped both hands to her lap.

“You put the baby’s body in the woodstove?” I asked gently.

She nodded.

“Darryl told you to do that?”

“No. Don’t know why I did it, I jus’ did it. Darryl stil believin’ it’s his baby, getting off on the fatherhood trip.”

“I see.”

“Nobody did nothin’ to that baby.” Tears glistened on her face, and her bony chest heaved below the red halter top. “It was just born wantin’ to be dead.” Tamela wiped her cheeks again, anger and sorrow betrayed by the roughness of the gesture. Then she curled her fingers and rested her forehead on her fists.

“You couldn’t revive it?”

Tamela could only shake her head.

“Why did you go into hiding?”

Tamela looked over her knuckles at Geneva.

“Go on,” Geneva said. “We’re here. Now you tel her.”

Tamela drew several unsteady breaths.

“One day Darryl gets to fighting with Buck. Buck tel s him I been playin’ him the fool and the baby was his. Darryl goes batshit, decides I kil ed my own baby to dis him. He say he gonna find me and mess me up bad.”

“Where did you go?”

“Cousin’s basement.”