“No.” A sudden thought struck me. “I think Strike was in Avery County last Saturday. When we were together in Burke, she had issues with you. Do you suppose she could have sent that boulder our way?”
“Why?”
“To distract us? Because we pissed her off? Because she was crazy?”
“Or could Wendell Clyde be our guy? Maybe thinking Strike was down there with us?”
Always questions. Never answers.
“Any success with the impressions?” I was referring to the hollow vacated by the rock.
“Tool mark guys are saying crowbar.”
“Any particular kind?”
“No.”
Great. That narrowed the possibilities to roughly ten zillion.
“The Devil’s Tail bucket definitely contained Mason Gulley’s head,” I said, as much to organize my own thoughts as to continue briefing Ramsey. “And I’m sure the Burke County thumb and fingertip were his. That suggests that the original torso bones from Burke are also Mason’s. Which leaves only the Lost Cove Cliffs material.”
“You hear back from the WCU prof on that?”
“No.”
We both waited out a loud burst of static. Ramsey must have turned down the volume, because the crackling grew more muted.
“So someone cut this kid up and tossed his body parts from at least two, maybe three overlooks.”
“Looks that way,” I said.
“Who?”
“I’m not liking what I’m hearing about Cora Teague. Dead sibling. Dead baby. The she-devil ref.”
“Killer, not vic.” Ramsey’s tone suggested he’d been dipping his toe in the same murky waters.
“Maybe we’ve been going at it all wrong.”
I heard him inhale deeply. Exhale. “What do you propose?”
“I’ll try again to contact the anthropologist who did the analysis on the Lost Cove Cliffs remains. I’ll also phone our DNA folks to see if they’ve had any luck sequencing anything. I’d sure as hell like to know if we’re looking at a single victim.”
“And on my end?”
“How about we meet in Asheville first thing tomorrow?” I said. “Have a chat with the Brices.” A return to the mountains was the last thing I wanted right then. Though, mercifully, Asheville was a quicker drive from Charlotte than the trek to Avery County.
“Roger that.”
A second, then Ramsey read off an address. I wrote it down.
“In the meantime, I’ll see what I can dig up on the Brice baby’s death. The more info we have, the better we can press them.”
“And maybe look into Cora Teague’s health issues,” I suggested.
“You know how that will go.”
I did. Cora was a minor. No one would reveal squat about her medical history.
“Be clever,” I said.
“Deputy Devious. Going ten-eight.”
Dead air.
I wasn’t sure the meaning of Ramsey’s code. But I liked the guy more with each interaction.
I phoned the DNA section. Was told the person running the samples, a tech I didn’t know named Irene Trent, was out to lunch. I requested a callback.
The conversation reminded me I’d eaten nothing since a bagel at seven that morning. The clock now said two-fifteen.
Quick trip to the staff lounge. I zapped a frozen burrito. While downing it with a Diet Coke, I tried Ryan. Again got voice mail.
For a second I saw Ryan’s face, softly shadowed in the yellow porch light. In my mind I heard his stumbling proposal. We hadn’t spoken in days. Why wasn’t he returning my calls?
A pinprick of fear. Had I waited too long? Had he changed his mind about wanting me to come to Montreal? About wanting me at all?
I spent the next hour photographing the bust of Mason Gulley. Different angles. Different lighting effects. In some shots the resemblance to Uncle Edward was freaky. In the black and whites, Mason looked eerily alive.
Observing the wretched stone face, I again felt revulsion for Martha Gulley. How could a woman revile a child for a genetic lapse that occurred at his conception? Condemn her own grandson?
Trent finally phoned back at four. She didn’t laugh when I asked how the DNA testing was coming, but she came right to the edge. Fair enough. I’d submitted the samples only one week earlier. Her opinion, when pushed: The bone was shit. Don’t bet the farm on a testable sample.
As we were disconnecting, I remembered the swabs I’d taken from the hollow inside the concrete. Asked to be transferred to trace.
Got voice mail. Left a message.
I was on a roll.
Next I tried Marlene Penny at WCU. Was shocked when she picked up. Disappointed with what she could tell me.
The bones, found by her students in 2012, represented portions of a lower leg and foot. Due to extensive surface abrasion and fragmentation, she’d been unable to determine gender, race, height, age, cause of death. The remains had been sent to the University of North Texas for DNA testing. All attempts at amplification had failed. The bones were now in a box in her lab.
“Shall I scan and send you copies of my photographs?”
“Sure. Thanks. Eventually, I’ll need the bones.”
I provided my email address and we disconnected.
I was sitting, dulled by frustration, when my mobile started buzz-skipping across the blotter. I tipped my head to read the caller ID.
Great.
One steadying breath. I clicked on. “Hey.” Perky as a cherry topping a sundae.
“Oh, Tempe.” Breathless. “Are you just too unbearably busy to talk?”
“Never too busy for you, Mama. What’s up?”
“I was so afraid to tell you. I was petrified what you’d think. What you’d say.” So tremulous her words were taking little hops. “That’s why I was unforgivably distracted during your visit. Then you told me your news. Well, I was—”
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“Tell me!” Heart racing.
She did.
In long, swoopy superlatives and giddy little gasps.
Mama’s words buzzed like an electrical short in my head. As I walked to the car. Drove home. Prepared cheeseburgers and ate them with Birdie.
I didn’t want to reflect on what Mama’s euphoria could mean. Didn’t know in reality what I thought of her tale.
My mother, gray-haired and dying of cancer, was madly in love.
I didn’t fly to the phone or fire off a text or an email. Frankly, I wasn’t sure where to reach out. Her Heatherhill doctor, Luna Finch? Goose? Harry?
Somewhere in her giddy outpouring, Mama had mentioned my sister. I decided to start there.
Harry didn’t answer her cell. A chirpy voice asked me to “Leave a short message like this one!” I did. With a far less bubbly air.
Baby Sister called as I was brushing my teeth.
“Have you talked to Mama?” I asked, still swishing and spitting.
“Now, Tempe, don’t you take that snippy tone. She’s happy.”
“She’s crazy.”
“Well aren’t we Judge Judy.”
“You’re right. That was insensitive. But Mama is hardly what you’d call a stable personality.”
“She says she’s taking her pills.”
“Mama always says she’s taking her pills.”
“She’s under the eye of a boatload of doctors.”
“That will do it.” Our mother was a master at sleight of hand. Had, over the years, evaded medication in the most creative of ways.
“Goose knows all Mama’s tricks.” Defensive.
“Right. So who is this geriatric gigolo?”
“Clayton Sinitch. And he’s not all that old.”
“Please say the guy’s not thirty-five.”
“The guy’s not thirty-five.”
“Harry!”
“He’s sixty-three.”
“What does he do?”
“Owns a dry-cleaning shop.”
“Well hallelujah! Mama can get her pants pressed at a discount.”
“And all her pleats starched.”