“Be careful. It’s old.”
In the murky light I saw what looked like an illustration from an antique medical text. Though black and white, the image had the sepia dream quality characteristic of turn-of-the-century photographs. Yet the detail was clear.
The subject, a male in his teens, was shown in four views. A full frontal head shot. A close-up of the neck. A close-up of the fingers and toes. A close-up of the mouth, upper lip curled back by a second party to reveal the dentition.
The man had wispy blond hair and dark crescents below his eyes. Blotches of pigmentation cornered his mouth and formed irregular, netlike patterns on his neck. His fingernails looked brittle and weak. His toenails cut sideways across the ends of the first digits.
But the subject’s most remarkable feature was his dentition. The incisors, both upper and lower, were reduced in size and flanked by daggerlike canines. On almost every tooth, the enamel was darkly dull in spots.
At the top right, the collection of photos was identified as “Plate LXXXIV.” At the bottom left was printed: “Copyright, 1905, G. H. Fox.” Centered below the collage were the words “Ectodermal-Dental Syndrome of Unknown Origin.”
“Who is it?” I asked.
“When I found the pictures I showed them to Grandpa. He tossed a freaker. Said it was his older brother, Edward, who died a long time ago. Insisted I give him the page and never discuss it with Grandma. Totally off-limits. Like my parents.” Again she swiped at her cheeks, obviously fighting a blitzkrieg of emotions. “I staged my own hissy, so eventually he let me keep it.”
“Why are you showing this to me?”
“My brother looks like Edward.”
Different. Unnatural. Evil made flesh.
“Do you have the rest of the book?” Careful to mask my revulsion for Grandma’s medieval interpretation of Mason’s peculiarities.
“No. Just this page. It’s, like, a hundred years old. Someone cut it out and saved it.”
“Do you know who or why?”
“Probably my grandfather. Here’s what I managed to worm out of him.”
A short, thoughtful pause.
“Grandpa was named for Oscar Mason, a photographer back at the turn of the century. Medical stuff mostly, but kind of famous. Grandpa’s family was living in New York then, and they were friends with Mason. Maybe neighbors. Anyway, Oscar Mason noticed something was off with Edward, and asked if he could take pictures of him. Some doctor put the pictures in a book and gave Great-Grandpa a copy as a thank-you.”
An almost inaudible ting-a-ling. A galaxy away in my memory banks. Oscar Mason? G. H. Fox?
“Susan Grace, I have to admit, I’m lost.”
The young woman sat silent. Perhaps regretting her impulse to reach out to me. Perhaps deciding on a line in the sand—what to share, what to hold back.
Apparently she decided on caution.
“You need to talk to the Brices.” Voice whispery, eyes cutting left then right to take in the darkness outside our little bubble of light.
“Who are the Brices?”
“Cora Teague worked for them as a nanny.”
“Go on.”
“They used to be members of Jesus Lord Holiness.”
“But not any longer?”
“No.”
“Why did they leave the church?”
“I can’t say.”
“Why did they fire Cora?”
“I can’t say.”
“There’s not much I can do with that.”
Susan Grace leaned toward me, hands clenched on the edge of the center console. “Do you know about Eli?”
“Eli Teague?”
“Yes.”
“What about him?”
Absolute frozen silence.
“Susan Grace?”
“Eli didn’t fall down any stairs.” Hushed, but ardent.
“What are you suggesting?”
More silence.
Wind nudged the car and whistled through the gaps surrounding the windows.
“Susan Grace, it’s late. I’m going to have to—”
“The Brice baby died on Cora Teague’s watch.”
“Died how?” Something cold began congealing in my chest.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s why Cora was fired?”
“That and other things. You need to talk to them. I think they live in Asheville now.”
“Are you saying Cora killed Eli and the Brice baby?” Using mind-bending effort to keep my voice steady.
“My brother is nutso over Cora Teague. He’ll do anything for her. The woman is—” In the oozy light offered by the little overhead box, I could see one lip corner hitch up. “You know what Grandma calls her? A she-devil.”
“I’m confused. Are you saying Mason might have left with Cora?”
“Never without telling me.”
“How can you be sure?”
“It’s like he’s possessed. He loves and hates her at the same time.” It was another nonanswer.
“But you can’t be certain they aren’t together.”
“Yes.” Susan Grace’s face went hard. “I can.” The angles and planes shifted as she struggled toward a decision about divulging further or cutting her losses. “Mason and Cora disappeared at the same time. July 2011. That’s true. But I talked to my brother almost every day after he left. And he wasn’t with her.”
That stunned me. “Where was he?”
“Johnson City, Tennessee.”
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Where did Cora go?”
“I never found out. And I really tried.”
“Tried how?”
“Mason asked me to watch for Cora. To play spy. I was a kid, it seemed like a fun game, Mission: Impossible or something. We were secret agents, but Mason was undercover, so I had to do the snooping and report to him.”
“But you never saw her.”
“Maybe once, at a convenience store. But I was in a car. We were going fast and I couldn’t really see the person’s face.”
“How long did the game go on?”
“A month, maybe a little longer.”
“You spoke by mobile?”
Susan Grace snorted. “God forbid I tread the treacherous landscape of mobile technology. Grandma would have a thrombo. Mason called me on a pay phone outside my school. We had prearranged times. It was all part of the game.”
“What happened?”
“In September, he just stopped. For a couple of weeks, I’d wait by the phone. He never called again.”
“How did he get to Johnson City?”
“Probably hitchhiked. When Mason put on a cap he looked pretty”—she glanced down at her hands—“normal.”
“Do you know where Mason was staying?”
“A motel. That’s all he’d say.”
“He was living off money he stole from your grandmother.”
“Mason didn’t steal it. I did.”
“And gave it to him.”
“Yeah.”
I thought about the pay phone. After four years I doubted the calls could be traced.
“Did you ever call him?” I asked.
“Mason didn’t want to, but I said I’d quit the game if he didn’t give me his number. I called once, but he wasn’t happy. I never used it again.”
“Any chance you still have it?”
She handed me a folded paper. “It really sucks. Mason has the kindest heart you could ever imagine.” A hiccupy sound escaped her throat. She inhaled, as though to continue. A beat, then she let the breath out as a sigh.
I wanted to say something comforting. But my head was spinning. And the little bell had been joined by a voice. A voice warning that I could be listening to adolescent delusion.
Was that it? Or did we have it all backward?
Who was Cora Teague?
Maybe it was Mama’s Aristotelian allusion. Maybe leftover adrenaline from my encounter with Susan Grace. Again, I felt an overwhelming desire to talk to Ryan.
While driving, I phoned him. Got voice mail. Left a message.
I also called Ramsey. He picked up. I relayed my conversation with Susan Grace.