Kathy Reichs - Devil Bones

“You catch Lingo last night?” Slidell’s question was directed at me.

“Oh, yeah,” I said.

“Any truth there?”

“Look at this.”

I singled out a close-up of the plywood with the Magic Marker glyphs. Slidell picked it up. Rinaldi moved to his side.

“See any pentagrams or inverted crosses?”

“No.”

“I doubt this is Satanism.”

“Great. We know what it ain’t.” Slidell raised theatrical palms. “What the hell is it, voodoo?”

“More like Santería.”

“That some occult herb-doctor thing?”

“Yes and no.”

I explained the basics. Syncretism. Orishas. Ashe and ebbo.

Rinaldi took notes with a Mont Blanc pen.

When I’d finished, I pulled a second photo from the stack and indicated the statue. “Saint Barbara is the cover image for Chango.” I chose another shot and, one by one, tapped the necklaces. “Alternating red and black beads, Eleggua. Alternating red and white, Chango. Yellow and white, Oshun. All white, Obatalla.”

I selected a photo showing the two-faced effigy. “Eleggua, the trickster god.”

“Describe these deities.” Rinaldi poised pen over paper.

I took a minute to compose my thoughts.

“They’re not unlike Catholic saints. Or Greek gods. Each has a function or power. Chango controls thunder, lightning, and fire. Babalu Aye is the patron of the sick, especially skin diseases. Each can help with certain things and inflict certain punishments. For example, Obatalla can cause blindness, paralysis, and birth deformities.”

“Piss off Babalu and you break out in boils?”

“Leprosy or gangrene.” Curt. I was not appreciating Slidell’s sarcasm.

“ Ashe is parallel to the Christian concept of grace,” Rinaldi said.

“In a way,” I agreed. “Or mana. Believers strive to acquire ashe because it provides the power to change things. Ebbo is like penance, or kneeling on ashes.”

“Give-ups during Lent.”

I smiled at Rinaldi’s comparison. “Catholic?”

“With a name like Rinaldi?”

“Every year, mine was chocolate.”

“Comics.”

“These synthetic religions, they roll with offing animals?” Slidell asked.

“Syncretic. Yes. Since different types of sacrifice suit different problems, a serious difficulty or a tough request may require a blood offering.”

Slidell threw up his hands. “Santería, voodoo, who gives a shit? They’re all crazoids.”

“The doc’s saying there are important differences.” Rinaldi, the voice of reason. “Santería evolved in Cuba, that’s Spanish. Voodoo evolved in Haiti, that’s French.”

“ Ex-cuse-ay-moi. How many of these wing nuts we got floating around? A handful?”

“Santería, probably several million. Voodoo, maybe as many as sixty million worldwide.”

“Yeah?” Slidell considered, then, “But we’re talking win me the lottery, cure my kid’s bellyache, help get my pecker up, right?”

“Most followers of voodoo and Santería cause no harm, but there is a dark side. Ever hear of Palo Mayombe?”

Two negative head wags.

“Palo Mayombe combines the belief systems of the Congo with those of the Yoruba and Catholicism. Practitioners are known as paleros or mayomberos. Rituals center not on orishas, but on the dead. Paleros use magic to manipulate, captivate, and control, often for their own malevolent purposes.”

“Go on.” Slidell’s voice was now devoid of humor.

“The paleros ’s source of power is his cauldron, or nganga. It’s there that the spirits of the dead reside. Human skulls or long bones are often placed in the nganga. ”

“Obtained how?” Rinaldi asked.

“Most are purchased from biological supply houses. Occasionally, remains are stolen from cemeteries.”

“So how’s this kid fit in?” Slidell was looking at the skull.

“I don’t know.”

“How’s the animal snuffing fit in?”

“A palero makes a request. Cause sickness, an accident, death. When the spirit of the nganga delivers, blood is offered as an expression of gratitude.”

“Human blood?” Rinaldi asked.

“Usually goat or bird.”

“But human sacrifice is not unheard of.”

“No.”

Slidell jabbed a finger. “The kid in Matamoros.”

I nodded. “Mark Kilroy.”

Rinaldi underlined something in his notebook. Underlined it again.

Slidell opened his mouth to speak. His phone rang. Clamping his jaw, he clicked on.

“Talk.”

Slidell was moving through the door when Larabee appeared in it, face so tense it looked molded to the bone.

“What’s happened?” I asked Larabee.

“When?” Slidell’s voice floated in from the hall.

“Just got a call about a body at Lake Wylie,” Larabee said to me. “I may need your help.”

“Sonovabitch.” Slidell sounded agitated.

“Why?” I asked.

“We’re on it.” Slidell’s phone snapped shut.

“Vic’s missing his head,” Larabee said.

LARABEE RODE IN THE VAN WITH HAWKINS. THOUGH SLIDELL offered a lift, I was familiar with his auto hygiene. Less tolerant than Rinaldi, I took my own car.

Twenty minutes after departing the MCME, I was exiting I-485 onto Steele Creek Road. Following Hawkins’s directions, I forked southwest onto Shopton Road, crossed Amohr Creek, then made a series of turns through a pocket of forest that had temporarily escaped the developer’s ax. Though vague on my exact position, I had a sense the McDowell Nature Preserve lay roughly to the south, the Gaston County line somewhere to the west.

One more left and I spotted a CMPD patrol unit backlit by an expanse of choppy blue water. A uniformed cop was half sitting, half leaning against a rear quarter panel. Pulling to the shoulder, I got out and walked toward him.

Stretching from Mountain Island Dam in the north to Wylie Dam in the south, Wylie is one of eleven lakes in Duke Power’s Catawba River chain. On maps, the thing resembles a furry vein snaking from the Tar Heel into the Palmetto State.

Despite the nuclear power plant humming on its southwestern shore, Lake Wylie is ringed by a number of upmarket developments – River Hills, the Palisades, the Sanctuary.

Palisaded against whom? I often wondered. Sanctuary from what? Day-Glo bass and eight-legged toads?

Whatever the threat, there were no fortified mansions on this piece of the lakeshore. The few homes I’d passed were strictly vinyl siding, aluminum awnings, and rusting carports. Some were little more than shacks, remnants of a time when Charlotteans went to “the river” to escape the press of urban living. Little did they know.

On spotting me, the cop pushed upright and assumed a wary stance. His face and body were lean, his shades straight out of The Matrix. At five yards out I could read the name Radke on a small brass plaque on his right breast.

I flicked a wave. It was not returned.

Behind Radke, a plastic-tangled lump lay on the shore.

I gave my name and explained who I was. Relaxing a hair, Radke chin-cocked the lump.

“Body’s over there. This cove’s a magnet for crap.”

My face must have registered something. Surprise? Reproach?

Reddening, Radke chest-folded his arms. “I’m not referencing the vic. I mean, it appears a lot of stuff washes up here. It’s a crazy strong wake zone.”

My eyes drifted past Radke. On sunny weekends, Wylie is a gnat swarm of boats. Today a half dozen putted and skimmed nearby.

“You search the area?”

“I walked the shore maybe twenty yards in either direction. Poked around in the trees. Nothing systematic.”