“What’s your take?”
“She’s one angry kid.”
“Who wouldn’t be, living in that house?”
I couldn’t disagree.
“So Mason has his kid sister spy on his girlfriend while he goes to ground in Johnson City.”
“Susan Grace didn’t put it quite like that.”
“She can’t say why Mason went away.”
“More like she won’t. And let me add. For sixteen, she’s very articulate.”
“And she doesn’t care for Cora.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“Did she explain why?”
“No.” Eyes flashed red on the shoulder, late-to-bed deer startled by my headlights. I eased back on the gas. “She said she doesn’t like how her brother sucks up to Cora. And that her grandmother would call her a she-devil.”
“The old bat probably calls you a she-devil.”
“I’m flattered.”
“So they play Boris and Natasha for a while, then Mason drops off the grid.”
“Yes.”
“Where was the kid staying in Johnson City?”
“Susan Grace didn’t know, but she had a phone number. I’ll text it to you.”
“Is she afraid something has happened to him?”
“She swears he’d never leave without giving her a heads-up.”
“Unless he’s putting miles between himself and a homicide.”
“Unless that. Or could it be Cora?”
“Could it be Cora what?”
“Needing to boogie.”
Ramsey thought about that. Then, “Brice. Don’t know the name.”
“Susan Grace said the family might be living in Asheville.”
“So she thinks they’ve left Avery.”
“You’ll find them?”
“I’m on it.” Ramsey’s pet phrase.
I told him about the photo of Edward Gulley.
“Thus Grandma’s homeschooling of little Mason,” he said.
“I’m surprised she didn’t drown him at birth.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“I’m on it.”
“Bold attitude.”
I was approaching the outskirts of Charlotte when Ramsey called back.
“Brice, Joel and Katalin. Joel is a welder. Katalin is a baker. They have one daughter, Saffron, a second grader. They lost a child, River, in the summer of 2011. He was nine months old. Shortly after River’s death they moved from Avery to Asheville.”
“Did you phone them?”
“I spoke with Joel. Briefly.”
“How did the baby die?”
“Sudden infant death syndrome.”
“Terrific.”
“What?”
“Most professionals define SIDS as the unexplained death, usually during sleep, of a seemingly healthy baby less than one year old. It’s like saying ‘undetermined.’ You’ll talk to the coroner? Get the full story?”
“If I can track him down.”
“Did the death occur on Cora’s watch?”
“Joel refused to discuss Cora Teague.”
“Did they hook up with Cora through Jesus Lord Holiness?”
“Also not a popular topic.”
“Did you ask why they fired her?”
“Wildly unpopular.”
“Did you ask why they left the church?”
“Also off-limits.”
“How did he respond?”
“Hung up.”
“What was your sense?”
For a long moment, I heard nothing but Ramsey’s breath. Then, “I sensed a whole lot not being said.”
I tried to focus on my driving. But my mind kept running in loops.
What would happen when I opened the concrete mold in the morning? Had my idea worked? If so, whose face would I see? Cora Teague’s?
Why had Hazel Strike phoned me on Saturday? Why was it so urgent that I call her back? Did she have news to share? Or was she alarmed and looking for help? To whom had she turned when I was unavailable? Had that person killed her?
Had Strike revisited John and Fatima Teague? Grandma Gulley? The Brices? Had one of them felt so threatened or incensed they’d traveled to Charlotte to demand she cease the harassment? Had things gotten out of hand?
Had Wendell Clyde learned of Strike’s meeting with me at the MCME? Of her continuing interest in the disappearance of Cora Teague? Had Clyde confronted her? Bludgeoned her to death and dumped her body in the pond?
Susan Grace popped back into my thoughts. Twice she’d phrased questions in a way that bothered me. Once in the car, once at home.
Was it just a turn of speech? Or was she being literal?
I wondered if Ramsey had noticed. Wished I’d mentioned it to him.
The light at the intersection of Queens Road and Queens Road was red. It’s Charlotte—don’t ask. While waiting out the green, I hit a key on my speed dial.
Three rings, then a gruff “Slidell.”
“It’s Dr. Brennan.”
“I know.”
I’m well, dickhead. Thanks for asking.
“I’m wondering if there’s been any progress on Strike.”
“Ain’t we all?” I could hear voices in the background, a ringing phone. Figured Slidell was in the homicide squad room.
“You’re working late,” I said.
“You got a specific concern?”
I told him about my conversation with Susan Grace.
“The kid thinks Cora Teague is bad news.”
“She does,” I said.
“Teague stole her big bro’s attention. She’s jealous.”
“Maybe. But she posed a couple of questions in a way that bothered me.”
Slidell made an indecipherable sound in his throat.
“She asked her grandmother: Does anyone even try? She asked me: Are any of you really looking?”
“And?”
“Isn’t that a strange way to put it?”
“You said she’s a strange kid. Look, I gotta—”
“It implies that others are searching for Mason.”
“What’s this got to do with Strike?” Impatient.
“Maybe Strike’s hunt for Cora Teague led her to Mason. And maybe she wasn’t the only one looking.”
“You talking about this rival websleuth, Wendell Clyde?”
“You have a better idea?” Sharp. Slidell’s skepticism was making me surly. And I was tired.
“Yeah. I’m thinking it’s time I head out for some ’que.”
Easy.
“Strike told me she was going back up to Avery. She probably visited John and Fatima Teague, Grandma Gulley, maybe the Brices. Could be she angered or frightened someone.”
Slidell started to speak. I pressed on.
“Or maybe Wendell Clyde learned of Strike’s trip, lost it, and took her off the board.”
Long pause. Then, “Remind me—when did she call you?”
“Strike called me three times on Saturday. I’m guessing she was up in Avery at the same time I was.”
“But you never talked to her.”
“No.”
Slidell responded with a stretch of silence. A long one.
“I tossed Strike’s crib today. Shit bucket out in Derita.”
“Derita is a perfectly fine middle-class neighborhood.”
“Yeah. All kids and poodles and Granny’s paint-by-number on the walls.”
I rolled my eyes. Which, given my fatigue, did not feel good.
“But Strike wasn’t into decorating. Couple bedrooms, kitchen, bath, living-dining combo, all painted piss yellow. The only art in the place was a calendar taped to the refrigerator door. Had an ad for birdseed down in one corner.”
I wondered what high culture adorned Slidell’s walls.
“Any sign of a break-in?” I asked.
“No.”
“Did it appear Strike was killed there?”
“No blood, no overturned furniture, broken glass, rifled drawers.”
“No sign of a struggle.”
“Or someone cleaned up.”
“You requested CSU?”
“Never thought of that.”
Take a breath.
“Do you know if they found a key chain containing a voice-activated audio recorder?”
I heard springs squeak, assumed Slidell was reaching for the list of items recovered by the techs.
“Nothing like that on the log. Why?”
“Strike had one when she first visited me. Said she’d found it at the Burke County overlook where the initial remains were discovered in 2013.”