Speaking in Bones (8 page)

I looked at Ramsey. He looked at me.

“This tree’s as good a starting point for our grid as any,” he said.

“I suggest we keep the dog leashed first pass, then give him his head if nothing excites him.”

“Let’s do it.”

But Gunner had his own thoughts on the matter. A sound rose from his throat, more “yo” than “hot damn.” All eyes snapped his way.

The dog’s head was forward and low. His eyes were fixed on a spot somewhere over Strike’s shoulder.

Ramsey reached down to unhook the leash. “Go.”

Gunner trotted forward, nose probing needles to his left and right. Approximately ten feet southeast of our position, he took one last sniff, exhaled loudly, and dropped to his belly at the base of a pine easily double the size of its neighbors.

“That’s his alert.” Ramsey was already moving.

I was right on his heels. Behind me, I heard Strike grunting as she clawed her way upright.

Drawing close, I scanned outward, following the trajectory of Gunner’s snout. Saw nothing.

While Ramsey praised the dog, I ran my eyes slowly over the ground. Ran them back. Still saw zip.

False alarm?

An icy breeze lifted a few strands of my hair. Branches shifted ever so slightly. A sliver of light cut the canopy and fell on the brown shag covering the earth. From deep in the thickly meshed needles, I saw a wink of red, there then gone.

Swapping latex for woolen gloves, I inched forward and dropped to my knees by the tree. Moving gingerly, I scooped handfuls of needles and set them aside.

As with Strike’s key chain pine, a plexus of roots radiated outward, dark and woody, like a primordial hand clawing the forest floor. Wedged in a hollow below one knuckle was a red and yellow mass about the size of a peach pit.

Rotten fruit? A dead rodent or bird?

I poked at the mass with a gloved finger. It felt hard.

I pulled out my Nikon, jotted info onto an evidence marker, and shot pics from several angles. Documentation complete, I returned the camera to my pack. Throughout, Ramsey and Strike watched in puzzled silence.

Gripping with a thumb and fingertip, I tried to rotate the mass right. Felt movement. Maybe. Rotated left, then right, over and over. Slowly, reluctantly, the knuckle yielded its grip and the thing slipped free.

I placed the little mass on my palm. It was semitranslucent, red and yellow on one end, brown on the other. When I flipped it, two soil-crusted knobs were visible on the underside.

I pulled a magnifier from my pack and brought the knobs into focus.

Felt my heart throw in a few extra beats.

“What is it?” Strike asked.

I was too shocked to answer.

“F
inger bones?” Strike sounded confused. Understandable. I was confused.

“More than bones.” Still studying the glossy mass on my palm. “I may see two partial fingertips.”

“Inside that goo.”

“Yes.”

“It’s pine tar.”

Ramsey’s comment caused me to look up.

“Pine trees ooze sap, especially along their bases. Over time, the stuff turns rock hard.”

“Like amber.”

“Given a few thousand years, yeah.”

Of course. Pine sap would be bacteriostatic, exclude oxygen, and provide a barrier against scavenging, conditions favorable to the preservation of soft tissue. I’d once had a case in which a large node of pine sap was inadvertently collected along with human remains. Embedded in the node was a perfectly preserved mouse head. Hanging outside it was the rest of the skeleton.

Like the phalanges poking from the mass in my palm.

“So she falls here following an attack, or her body ends up here after being thrown from the overlook. One hand lands at the base of the pine.” Strike gestured toward the tree. “Over time the sap oozes up, or drips down, whatever the hell it does, and encases a couple of fingers.”

Strike’s scenario sounded sadly realistic. But I was only half listening. As I sealed our grisly find into a Ziploc, my eyes were already scanning for more.

—

The sun was low when we finally quit. Didn’t matter deep in our loblolly sanctuary. There was no more reangling of rays slipping through overhead branches. No lattice of shadow and light changing shape underfoot. Now only perpetual gloom.

Though we grid-walked Gunner then gave him his head, the dog alerted only two more times. Both were legit.

In the end, we found six phalanges, two metacarpals, a scaphoid, and a hamate, all weathered and chewed. Yowsa! A whopping ten out of fifty-four hand bones. We also scored a rusty screwdriver, eight aluminum cans, and a hunk of what looked like an old tent stake.

All the bones were adult and indeterminate in size. I doubted any would yield much information.

But the flesh in the pine sap was a different story. One that had me totally jazzed. Someone had died or been dumped on the mountain. One readable print could provide an ID.

If that person was in the system. Or a valid comparison sample could be obtained.

Ramsey insisted I take the remains with me. Adamantly. Made sense. I had ME229-13 at my lab. Chances were good the hand had been part of the same person.

Upon reaching terrain favored by AT&T, I phoned Larabee. As expected, he was not happy that I’d gone to Burke County. After riding out a fairly lengthy rant, I explained our discovery.

Wanting to avoid jurisdictional complications, and the ire of his boss, Larabee ordered me to wait until he’d contacted the OCME in Raleigh. His return call came ten minutes later. Though surprised that Burke County remains had originally gone to Charlotte-Mecklenburg, the state’s chief ME was assigning the case directly to me.

Strike stayed till the end, then tore off with a pedal-jamming, gravel-spitting roar. Sonofabitch. Again, I’d failed to obtain the audio recorder.

All day Strike’s attitude had swung between sulky and petulant. I wondered about the source of her hostility. Didn’t give the question a whole lot of thought.

As I’d been dialing Larabee, a text from Mama had pinged in. I’d read it while awaiting his callback. Nothing urgent. Just querying my health and state of mind.

I wanted to go home, take a very long, very hot shower. Eat dinner. Curl in bed and share the day’s news with Birdie. Maybe Ryan.

But no one does passive-aggressive like Mama. Her subtext: I am old, have cancer, and very few visitors.

Your mother is twenty miles away, my conscience piped up.

I checked the time. Half past five. I could share a quick dinner with her and be home at the annex by nine.

The euphoria fizzled, leaving no contender but guilt.

Thus, instead of home, I was driving east, hair sweaty under a Charlotte Knights cap, clothes filthy, nails crusted with mud. Not looking forward to Daisy’s appraisal.

—

Near Marion, I turned east off Highway 221. Heatherhill Farm came up quickly, if not flamboyantly. The sign is so tastefully understated, those needing it for guidance blow right by.

I turned onto an unmarked strip of asphalt cutting through mountain laurel higher than my head. Soon, the dense tangle gave way to more finely groomed acreage.

In the dark, Heatherhill looked like a small college campus. Besides the main hospital there were garden-fronted structures of varying sizes. Ivy-covered chimneys, long porches, white siding, black shutters. From my many visits I knew the outbuildings included a chronic-pain center, gym, library, and computer lab. Still wasn’t sure which was which.

I turned onto a tributary lane and, fifty yards down, pulled into a gravel rectangle enclosed on three sides by a white picket fence. I parked and took a flagstone path to a small brown bungalow with flower boxes below each window. A sign above the door said
RIVER HOUSE
.

I stood a moment, feeling a tense edge of anger. Or remorse. Or some long-denied emotion I couldn’t identify. It was always like that. The moment of hesitation before the plunge.

The afternoon’s breeze had turned surly and cold. Gusts whirling down the mountain snapped my collar and elbowed the bill of my cap. I looked up. The sky showed a million stars but no moon. All around me, except for wind, utter silence.

On the inside, River House looked exactly as promised on the outside. The gleaming oak floors were covered with Oushaks and Sarouks. The upholstered pieces were done in soft beiges and tans, the wooden ones stained and distressed to look old. The designer, striving for calm and serene, had achieved that and a sense of limitless cash.

After presenting ID to a smiling attendant at a Louis-the-somethingth desk, I wound through the living room, past gas-fed flames dancing in a stacked stone fireplace. Mama’s suite was down a side corridor, the last on the right.

Before turning, I glanced left, into the dining room. Half a dozen diners of various ages sat at linen-draped tables centered with flower arrangements showing not the slightest hint of droop. I knew Mama wasn’t among them. Daisy prefers eating solo, at the small desk by her sitting room window.

The door was open a crack. A fact that set a tiny alarm dinging deep in my brain. Normally Mama is a bugger on security and privacy. Did the breach mean apathy, thus a dark phase? Carefree jubilation? A random mishap lacking significance?

Mama was, indeed, at her desk, fork forgotten in one hand, staring through the glass at the woods beyond. Perhaps at a flickering memory from another time. Perhaps at nothing.

I studied her a moment. She’d lost weight, but otherwise looked good. Which told me zilch. Despite her myriad mental issues, or perhaps because of them, my mother is an Oscar-Tony-Emmy-class actress.

On hearing me, she turned, all bright green eyes and soft, crinkling crow’s-feet. The smile faded as she took in my appearance. “Oh, my.”

“Yeah.” I chuckled. “Good look, eh?”

“My sweet girl. Have you run away from the circus?”

“Good one.” Refusing to rise to the bait. I intended to keep the visit light and sweet. No arguments about my dress, coiffure, or marital state. No pressure on Mama to begin the chemo she was resisting with every fiber of her ninety-pound being.

“Or did you have a fight with your lovely detective?” Nonchalantly pointing the fork at me “What’s the gentleman’s name?”

“Andrew Ryan.”

“Wait. I know.” Mama’s face lit up. “You’ve come from a crime scene.” Her voice went low and breathy. My work fascinated her. “You’ve dug up a body.”

Nope. No talk of murder or death. Or marriage proposals. Mama would make a Broadway production out of that.

“I was doing a consult in Burke County. It was no big deal.” Crossing to inventory her plate. “I was close so I decided to drop by for dinner. What’s on the menu?”

Mama is not easily dissuaded. Ever. “You can’t share with your doddery old mother?” Spreading her arms. Which looked like twigs inside her thick Irish-knit sweater. “Sweet lord in heaven, where do I ever go? With whom would I discuss the intricacies of your professional life?”

Wind rattled the window at Daisy’s back, shimmying the reflection of her upturned face. A sad image bubbled up in my mind. Mama, alone in her self-imposed exile, talking to no one but Goose and the Heatherhill staff, doing little that didn’t involve her journal or laptop.

Mama’s logic was sound. She was isolated. She was also better at keeping secrets than the CIA. How could she compromise a case in which I knew neither the victim’s identity nor the cause of death?

“Okay, Sherlock.” Sighing theatrically. “Let me wash up.”

Mama arced the fork as a conductor might flourish a baton. “The game is afoot.”

I went to the bathroom and scrubbed my hands and face. Cleaned my nails. Considered my hair. Decided that situation was hopeless and retucked it under the cap. When I returned, a second plate and a chair had appeared at the desk.

Between mouthfuls of baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and minted peas, I explained ME229-13 and the day’s exploits with Gunner and Ramsey. I described finding the hand bones and the glob of pine tar. I left Strike out. And the possibility that the victim could be Cora Teague.

Mama listened, rapt. Despite her faults, my mother is a very good listener. When I’d finished, there was a lengthy pause, a prompt to continue. Instead, wanting to stay on safe ground, I shared some of my newfound knowledge about Brown Mountain. Mama flapped a hand, either derisive or disinterested. When I said that was it, she began asking questions. In fact, for the next hour, my mother questioned the bejaysus out of me.

Things went well, and I stayed longer than I’d planned. Outside, the wind had decided to go all out. I scurried to my car, head down and gripping my cap, the hedges lining the flagstones tossing like ocean waves in a storm.

By the time I got home it was eleven-twenty. I removed the Ziplocs from my pack and stashed them in the fridge. After feeding an extremely unhappy cat, I stripped off my clothes and hit the shower.

Smelling of ginger-citrus body wash and lavender shampoo, I finally crawled into bed at ten past twelve. As on the previous night, I considered but decided against phoning Ryan. Too late.

Again my conscience had to have its say. The guy is a night owl. Why the reluctance?