“No good deed goes unpunished?”
“You’ve got it.”
“It’s a solve, Ryan. You did your job.”
“Pop the bubbly.” No masking now. Ryan sounded raw-edged and spent. “The poor schmuck leaves behind a wife, three kids, and a crappy ten acres.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t help. You at home?”
“I am. You?”
“Yeah.” Ryan took another deep pull on his cigarette.
“I had it all wrong,” I said.
A moment. Then, “The Teague thing?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t think the kid’s dead?”
“I do think she’s dead. And Mason Gulley.”
“I’m listening.”
I told him about my conversations with Susan Grace Gulley and Katalin Brice. About Mason Gulley’s head in the concrete. About Denver’s trace evidence report.
“What the hell’s boswellic acid?”
“A substance extracted from the resin of trees in the family Burseraceae. Most of it comes from the Arabian Peninsula, Somalia, India.”
“For what?”
“It’s an ingredient in a wide range of health and aromatherapy products. And a component in frankincense.”
“Wise men bearing gifts.”
“I think it was the three kings, but yes.” Birdie hopped onto the couch. I paused to allow him to curl beside me. Perhaps for melodrama. “Frankincense and olive oil are commonly used in the performance of exorcisms.”
“Exorcisms?”
“Yes.”
“Like vomit and levitation and rotating heads?”
“That’s movie bullshit.”
“What’s your point?”
“Millions of people still believe in evil spirits.”
A fractional pause. “You talking about Hoke and his holiness nut brigade?”
I provided a condensed version of what I’d learned from Morris. The unauthorized exorcisms. The shift toward a hellfire theology. The defrocking.
“Wait. Back up. What are you saying?”
“Mason’s grandmother referred to him as unnatural. Cora’s father called her a whore. Both are missing. The trace suggests Mason was exorcised.”
“Let me get this straight. You’re suggesting the priest killed Cora Teague, dismembered her, and tossed her body parts from overlooks surrounding Brown Mountain?”
“Ex-priest. And I’m not saying it was Hoke.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“And this unknown perp killed Mason Gulley following or during an exorcism, cut off his head, stashed it in concrete, then tossed his body parts from the same overlooks?” Ryan’s skepticism was thick as pea soup.
“Could you be a little more condescending?”
“Convince me.”
“Think about it. His own grandmother said he was evil made flesh.”
“What was her beef?”
“She thought he didn’t look or act like a boy should. Maybe it wasn’t just the NJF syndrome. Maybe Mason was gay.”
“Then why run off with Cora Teague?” That tone again.
“I’m just thinking out loud here, Ryan.”
“And Teague?”
“Ramsey and I talked to Cora’s physician, a buffoon who hasn’t updated his skills since the Bronze Age. He was treating Cora for epilepsy.”
“You’re suggesting Gulley was killed because of bad nails and bad teeth, and Teague was killed because she had seizures?”
“If she even had them. I think Cora’s issues were psychiatric.”
“Go on.”
I told him about River Brice, Eli Teague, and the puppy.
“Whoa. You’re saying the kid was homicidal?”
“I’m saying a lot of crap went down around her.”
I waited out another cigarette moment. Smoking meant Ryan was stressed. I was sorely regretting my impulse to share.
“Here’s my take. You have no positive ID on any of the Brown Mountain remains. No DNA. I’m guessing Larabee’s not signing off on Gulley based on a hunk of cement and oddball fingertips.”
“No.”
“You have no known victim, no primary scene, no weapon, no motive, no witnesses, no legit suspect. You don’t know for sure if Cora Teague is dead. Or even missing. Her mental state is mere speculation.”
My face felt like hot tin. Ryan was right. It was all conjecture.
I said nothing.
Ryan took another deep drag, then asked, “How does Hazel Strike fit in?”
“I’m not sure. Strike phoned me three times on Saturday. Maybe she’d uncovered something and told the wrong person.”
Because I’d ignored her. Again the guilt.
“Hoke?” Ryan said.
“I never said the killer was Hoke!” So sharp Birdie scrambled to his feet.
“Tabernac. Don’t bite my head off.”
“Sorry.”
“Have you rolled this past Slidell? He hasn’t mentioned it.”
“When did you talk to Slidell?”
“Couple times.”
“Why?”
“I wanted his take on something. Does that bother you?”
It bothered the hell out of me.
“Let’s talk about something else,” I said.
I heard the sound of Ryan’s phone switching ears. “How’s the weather down there?”
“The trees are in flower. It’s spring.”
“It’s snowing here.” On a very long breath. “The river is still frozen.”
“Try to stay warm.”
“I lit a fire.”
The melancholy in Ryan’s voice sent a million images flaring in my head. His face, which I knew by heart, down to the scar on his brow from a biker’s bottle. The tiny flecks of teal in the too-blue eyes.
I saw in detail the place he was sitting. Where I’d sat so many times. The stone hearth. The snowy river spreading out beyond the wide wall of glass. The leather couch, scratched by Birdie’s claws in an embarrassing rollover.
The guilt and anger morphed into a sudden aching. A hollowness, like a void calling out to be filled.
“Fly down for a visit,” I said softly.
“I’d like that.”
“Soon?”
A beat. Then Ryan sighed. “I didn’t mean to give pushback.”
“Just playing devil’s advocate?”
“Clever pun.”
“It’s what I do.”
I smiled. Wondered if Ryan was smiling a thousand miles to the north.
The moment, if it was one, ended quickly.
“Lay out your scenario for Slidell. See what he thinks.”
“Does Skinny think?”
“He’s a good cop.”
I fell asleep wondering at Ryan’s newborn appreciation of Skinny Slidell.
I woke feeling edgy and out of sorts, as though my skin was no longer large enough for my body. Small wonder, given the stalled progress on the investigation. And the sterling state of my personal life.
It was raining like hell, which ruled out a jog. And I was too bummed to suit up and drive to the gym.
After a bagel and coffee, dressed in baggy sweats and bunny slippers, I settled at the dining room table, determined to stay put until I’d eyeballed every goddamn receipt in the box. At least I’d get Allan Fink off my back.
By four I’d pretty much decided that rolling the dice on a tax audit was preferable to the paperwork hell in which I was stuck. I was deciphering an illegible bill from a restaurant I’d never heard of when a sharp knock rattled the back door. Delighted to escape, I headed to the kitchen.
And froze before clearing the swinging door.
Through the window I could see a figure standing on the back stoop. Tall. Male. Wearing jeans and a weathered brown leather jacket.
A knot twisted my stomach. I was still feeling off, actually worse than earlier due to the added joy of eyestrain. The last thing I needed was rancor or confrontation.
But something else was peeking around the foreboding that had ballooned in my chest. Something that fluttered softly, like a butterfly on a leaf.