Kathy Reichs - Break No Bones

Boyd jumped up. Ryan did not. The cop and the chow did the eyebrow thing. The counselor shot his to the hairline. Like Desi.

"And who's this nice young man?" A smile tweaked the corners of Pete's mouth.

I made introductions. Ryan half rose and the men shook hands.

Pete was in running shorts, a sweatshirt with the sleeves and neck cut off, and Nikes. Turning his back to the counter, he palmed himself up and sat facing us, lower legs dangling.

"Interesting time at GMC yesterday?" I asked.

"Not as interesting as yours." Pete's gaze slid to Ryan, back to me. The corners of his mouth again twitched.

I narrowed my eyes in a "don't you dare" warning.

Pete's face went Lucille Ball innocent.

Ryan's attention remained focused on the Cap'n.

"Money in. Money out," Pete said. "I'm of the growing opinion that Daddy Buck needs an accountant, not an attorney."

"Did you speak to Herron?"

"Damndest thing. The rev had to make an unscheduled trip to Atlanta. Unavoidable. So sorry. The staff will do everything they can to help."

"Everything except talk about Helene."

"They talk. What they say is, she was here, she's gone, we don't know, we haven't heard. Maybe California." Pete's feet were swinging, his heels thunking the under-counter cabinets. "Oh. And pray God she's well."

"Have they offered insight on how one of their brethren vanishes leaving no trace?"

"They're sticking with the gospel according to California. There are dozens of street clinics in the land of fruit and nuts, many operated, not surprisingly, by fruits and nuts. They suspect Helene may have abandoned the gospel for the teachings of crazoids and slipped outside the system."

Thunk. Thunkety-thunk-thunk went the Nikes.

"It's possible to effectively disappear if she's in some communal living arrangement, using no credit cards, paying no bills, car insurance, taxes, or social security."

"Which would explain the truncated paper trail. Cruikshank reported to Daddy Buck that he'd found nothing postdating last November. At least nothing up until his own disappearance. Anything new on Cruikshank?"

Thunk. Thunk.

I shook my head. "Stop banging Anne's cabinetry."

Pete's legs went still for a full ten seconds. He turned to Ryan.

"You drive that Jeep all the way from Canada?"

"Her name's Woody."

"Long trip."

"Tough on her. Her heart's back in the Adirondacks."

Blank stare.

"Must be a tree thing."

"Funny." Pete's face came back to me. "He's a funny guy."

Now I gave Ryan the eye squint warning.

"Did you learn why Cruikshank had that other guy's wallet?" Pete asked.

Thunk. Thunk.

"Chester Pinckney. No, we didn't."

"Good day yesterday?"

I described the recovery of the woman in the barrel.

"A gator's no match for you, sugar pants."

"Do not call me that."

"Sorry."

Thunk. Thunk.

I told Pete about the strangulation, the cat, the chip, and Dinh. Ryan listened and watched. I knew his philosophy. People speak two languages, only one verbal.

"How's Emma?" Pete asked.

"She took a pass."

"Still bad?"

"I've got to call her."

Pete hopped down, raised a heel to the counter, and began stretching. Ryan fluttered his lashes at me, a swooning deb. I repeated my eye squint.

"What's your next move?" I asked Pete.

"Beach run with Boyd. Then golf."

"Golf?"

Pete switched legs. "Tomorrow is Sunday, Herron will be back for the big show. That's when I climb into the ring for some divine intervention."

"Your metaphor is mixed."

"My results won't be."

"You're feeling pretty cocky."

"Relax, I'm wearing a jock strap." Lowering his leg, Pete winked in my direction.

Major league eye roll.

Seeing the leash unpegged, Boyd went wild. Pete squatted, hooked his collar, then rose and pointed in my direction.

"Have a really special day."

Pete and chow disappeared.

From beyond the door. "Sugar britches."

We took Ryan's Jeep into Charleston. He drove. I directed. On the way, I told him about my long friendship with Emma, about the curious rapport that kept us bonded, despite long periods of noncommunication. I shared the secret of Emma's lymphoma. He suggested a visit after we'd been to Isabella Halsey's house.

I also told Ryan about Dickie Dupree and Homer Winborne. He asked my level of concern, on a one-to-ten scale. I gave the developer a five, the journalist a minus two.

I remembered a comment from our discussion the night before.

"What's anomalous monism?"

Ryan gave me a look of feigned disappointment at the gap in my schooling. "It's a type of dualism in the philosophy of mind and action. Mental processes have genuine causal powers, but the relationships they enter into with physical entities can't be explained by the laws of nature."

"Like our relationship."

"There you go."

"Hang a left here. Why Woody?"

Ryan shot me a questioning look.

"When did you name your Jeep Woody?"

"This morning."

"You made that up."

"Inspired by GI Joe."

"Pete was a Marine. And don't say ridiculous things to him. I don't want him thinking you're a clown."

Isabella Halsey lived on King Street, deep in the heart of old Charleston. As usual, that district was crowded with people who looked like they'd arrived on the Donald Duck parking shuttle. Women in designer sundresses, or in shorts that barely covered their cheeks. Men with large bellies and mesh baseball caps blankly gazing, or talking on cell phones while wearing golf shirts and eighteen-hole tans. Sunburned kids. Hand-holding newlyweds, or weds-to-be.

The Old City Market was a hive of activity. Ice cream peddlers jangling their bicycle bells. Black ladies selling flowers and sweetgrass baskets, or offering to cornrow your hair. Husbands shooting footage of Mom and the kids. Retirees puzzling over walking-tour maps. Teens pointing throwaway Kodaks at each other. Vendors hawking beans, pralines, and peach preserves.

Halsey's address was just off the Battery, a harbor-front commons complete with statues, cannons, and a Victorian bandstand. The little park always strikes up a Sousa march in my head.

It also strikes up memories of fourth grade history with Sister Mathias. It was from the Battery, in April of 1861, that Charlestonians watched Confederate soldiers battle Union troops holed up across the water at Fort Sumter. Bonjour, Civil War. Some historical preservationists have yet to say adieu, and fight to preserve the Confederate flag and to sing "Dixie."

After parking, Ryan and I headed south on East Bay. Past Rainbow Row, we took Tradd three blocks inland to a narrow brick-paved portion of Church.

Unlike Cruikshank's humble digs, Halsey's home would have warranted the name "Magnolia Manor." Window boxes overflowed with flowers, and the side yard was crowded with the spreading breadth of the grand old trees.

Though realtors would use the terms "authentic," "original," and "uncorrupted" to describe the house itself, "handyman's delight" popped into my mind. The beige stucco, black shutters, and wrought iron fencing all needed paint. The walkway and courtyard pavers were green with infiltrating moss.

Approaching the gate, Ryan and I were enveloped in the fabled blossom scent.

"Washington log some Z's here?" Ryan asked in a low voice.

"The general did sleep around."

Through the magnolias, I could see a woman sitting at a side yard table, her white hair dappled with sunlight. The woman was knitting. Though her jaw, neck, and arms had the loose, wrinkled tissue of the elderly, her hand movements were strong and confident.

"The lady in the barrel was around forty," I said. "If the victim is Halsey, that could be her mother."