Exhale.
Calm.
I repeated the mantra again and again. Of course sleep didn’t come. My mind was obsessed with deconstructing the dream. Which typically does not require Freud. Remarkably uncreative, my subconscious simply reworks its recent intake.
The tux and formal table setting represented Ryan’s desire for a wedding, the tuque his Canadian roots and love of Quebec. His disappearance into the black hole needed no explanation.
The woman beside Ryan was Cora Teague. Ditto for her pleading look and sudden exit into oblivion.
Strike was present, playing herself. She wanted me to look for Teague. Larabee, at the opposite end of the table, would probably be opposed, given what little we knew about Strike or the remains labeled ME229-13.
And Daisy? Easy one. Mama was constantly in my thoughts of late.
The Chanel suit and bloody scrubs? Anyone’s guess.
At my last time check, the orange digits glowed 5:54. The alarm buzzed at 7:00.
—
I was at the MCME by eight, spent two hours pounding coffee and composing a final report on the mummified corpse, an elderly gentleman by the name of Burgess Chamblin. When finished, I pulled the file on ME229-13, walked down the hall, and knocked on Larabee’s door.
“Yo.”
I entered and stood in the middle of the room, unsure whether to proceed or to drop the whole thing. My mind shot dual flashbacks. The face in the dream. The audio.
Larabee was writing at his desk, still wearing civvies. “How’s it going?”
“All roses and sunshine.”
“Good.” Still scribbling. Half listening.
“You saw my prelim on the man in the recliner?”
“I did.” Larabee dotted an i. Maybe a j. Slid a handful of photos into a folder and closed it. “Thanks for hopping right on it.”
“I’ve finished the final.”
He glanced up. “That’s great. Thanks.” When I didn’t leave, “Something on your mind?”
“If you have a minute.”
“Grab a seat.”
I dragged a chair forward and sat.
Larabee leaned back and laced long, bony fingers on his chest. Which looked scrawny and concave under his white polo, the result of an overzealous thirty-year commitment to long-distance running.
“Such a crock. No one checks on Grandpa for almost two years, suddenly the kids are on fire to bury the old man.”
“Money involved?”
“Not really.” Larabee’s forehead, permanently lined from hours spent pounding the pavement, furrowed more deeply. “What’s up?”
“I want you to hear me out on this,” I began.
“Don’t I always?”
I made a face, then continued. “A woman came to see me yesterday. Hazel Strike. Strike believes one of our UIDs is a girl named Cora Teague.” I tapped the folder in my lap.
“That’s terrific. Follow up.”
“It’s not so simple.”
“Go on.”
“The remains consist of a handful of bones found in Burke County in 2013.”
“Why did the case come here?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Can you score DNA?”
“That may be problematical on two levels. First, the bone is badly degraded. Acid soil, animal scavenging—”
“Second?”
“The family may be unwilling to provide comparison samples.”
“Why?”
“They don’t believe the kid’s dead.”
Larabee’s brows rose, crimping the furrows.
“They think she took off on her own.”
“So what makes this Strike think our UID is Teague?”
I explained my entry of ME229-13’s identifiers into the NamUs database, then briefed him on websleuthing. On Strike’s visit to Burke County and the disturbing audio. As I spoke, Larabee’s expression morphed from interest to scorn.
“You’re kidding?”
I wagged my head no.
“Fine. Play me this Blair Witch moment.”
“Strike refused to leave the recorder with me.”
“Jesus, Tempe.”
“What was I supposed to do, rip it from her hand?”
Larabee’s phone rang. He ignored it.
“What do you propose?” he asked.
“Perhaps I should go up there. Maybe take Joe, run a cadaver dog through the woods below the overlook.” Joe Hawkins is a death investigator who’s been with the MCME since the Eisenhower years. If any bone remained on that mountain, Joe Hawkins would find it. Or the canine would.
Larabee gave the idea some thought. Then, “You say the remains were already badly damaged when they arrived in 2013. What are the odds more could have survived?”
“It’s possible.”
“Likely?”
I shrugged.
“Who worked the recovery?”
“A Burke County deputy sheriff.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“Her. Opal Ferris. She was unavailable. I left a message.”
“Did the NOK file an MP report?” Larabee used the shorthand for next of kin.
I shook my head.
“Who put Teague up on this CLUES site?”
“There’s no way to know. All posters are allowed to remain anonymous.”
Larabee’s face executed something between a grimace and a scowl. Held the expression several seconds. Then he said what I’d expected.
“I can’t commit funds or personnel to something this thin. Phone back up to Burke County. Talk to Ferris. See where that goes.”
I nodded. Got to my feet and returned to my office.
This time Opal Ferris took my call.
I introduced myself. Ferris remembered me. And the bones. And her trek around the mountain with Mort. She asked if new info had surfaced.
For what seemed the hundredth time I went through the recent time line, focusing on developments unknown to Ferris. Websleuthing. Strike’s NamUs epiphany and visit to Burke County. Cora Teague. The audio.
Ferris listened. I think. There seemed to be a lot going on in the background.
“This key chain thingy was just lying in the dirt?” Ferris’s voice was raspy, maybe from smoking, maybe from vocal cords working on a node.
“So Strike claims.”
“And the family thinks the kid’s run off with some local fella?”
“I’m unsure of his place of residence.”
“But the bottom line is she’s not been reported missing.”
“Except on CLUES.”
“Which any pig nut can access.”
I said nothing.
“Teague have a cellphone?”
“No.”
“Any Internet presence?”
“Not according to Strike.”
“Uh-huh. I’m sorry, Doc. But it don’t sound like you’ve got squat. A few bones in Burke, someone who may or may not be missing in Avery. That someone being eighteen and free to stay gone if she chooses.”
It was hard to argue with that.
“Can you make a couple of calls?” I asked. “See if the mother or one of the sisters is willing to provide a DNA sample?”
I waited. Quite a while. When I was sure Ferris was about to blow me off, she said, “I’ll get back to you.”
—
Ferris didn’t. But an Avery County deputy sheriff named Zeb Ramsey did. At four that afternoon, as I was pulling into my drive.
The mother and both sisters had refused to allow themselves to be swabbed. Though none of them had heard from Cora since 2011, all believed she was alive and doing just fine.
Deputy Ramsey sounded about as fired up about the situation as Ferris had been. Disconnected before I could pose a single question about the Teague family.
First Ryan, now Larabee, Ferris, and Ramsey. The enthusiasm level was sending streaks of tension straight up my back.
I tossed my mobile onto the dash and gave it the finger. In answer, it rang. I snatched it up, thinking Ramsey was calling back.
“Brennan.”
“Sounds like you’re having a real bad day.”
“I’m off duty, Ms. Strike.”
“Mrs.”
I sighed, considered whether to beg off or simply disconnect.
“I won’t chew your ear, just wanted to invite you so’s everything’s on the up and up. I aim to take another pass at that overlook tomorrow.”
“You’re returning to Burke County?”