Kathy Reichs - Devil Bones

“If Lingo gets wind of this one, he’ll roll it into his current soap opera.” Hawkins tossed his empty bottle onto a Winn-Dixie bag beside the cooler. “The Devil Goes Down to Georgia.”

“He’ll be dead-ass wrong,” I said.

“You don’t get satanic vibes from this?” Larabee asked.

“From this one, yes. From that cellar, no.”

I described what I’d found.

“Don’t sound like Baptists to me,” Hawkins said.

I outlined what I’d told Slidell and Rinaldi about syncretic religions. Santería. Voodoo. Palo Mayombe.

“Who’s into animal sacrifice?”

“All of them.”

“Satanists?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s your money?” Larabee’s bottle joined Hawkins’s.

“The colored beads, the coins, and the Catholic saint point to Santería. The wooden sticks and the padlocked nganga suggest Palo Mayombe.”

“The human remains?”

I raised my hands, frustrated. “Take your pick. Voodoo. Santería. Palo Mayombe. Satanism. But the cellar had no inverted pentagrams or crosses, no six-six-six symbols, no black candles or incense. Nothing typical of devil worship.”

“Nothing like this kid here.” Larabee tipped his head toward the lake.

“No.”

“You think there’s a link?”

I pictured the mutilated body lying on the shore.

The cauldron skull and leg bones.

I had no answer.

Wending toward the highway, I passed two cars. One pleased me. The other did not.

The SUV held the search dog promised by Rinaldi. I wished the canine better luck than I’d had in locating the missing head.

The Honda Accord was driven by the same woman I’d seen outside the Greenleaf house Tuesday night. What had the Observer photo credit been? Allison Stallings.

“Just friggin’ great.” I palm-smacked the wheel. “Who the hell are you, Allison Stallings?”

Noting her plate number, I wished Radke luck in keeping Stallings far from the body.

My mobile rang as I was merging from the entrance ramp onto I-77. Traffic was heavy, but not yet the bumper-to-bumper crush it would be.

The caller ID showed an unfamiliar number with a 704 area code.

Curious, I clicked on.

“Go Mustangs,” a male voice said.

I was tired, preoccupied, and, to be honest, disappointed the call was local and therefore not from Ryan. My reply wasn’t overly courteous.

“Who is this?”

The response was the first line of the Myers Park High School fight song.

“Hi, Charlie.”

“Up for that coffee?”

“It’s not a good time.”

“Six o’clock? Seven? Eight? You name it.”

“I’ve been in the field all day. I’m tired and grubby.”

“As I recall, you clean up real good.” An old Southern expression.

I am competitive. Play hard. Work hard. Some people manage to do those things and remain well-groomed. I’m not among them. Following our tennis tournaments, Charlie usually looked like a GQ model. I usually looked like a badly permed shih tzu.

“Thanks. I think.”

“Katy tells me you like lamb chops.”

The veering segue caught me off guard.

“I-”

“My specialty. How about this? You shower while I hit the Fresh Market. We meet at my place at seven. You relax while I toss a salad and throw chops on the grill.”

Whoa, big fella!

“Katy’s invited, of course. I’ll catch her before she leaves here.”

I suspected his co-conspirator was right at his side.

“It’s been a long day,” I said.

“A shower will make a new woman of you.”

“But the old one will still have to work in the morning.” That sounded lame even to me.

“Look. You like lamb chops, I like lamb chops. You don’t feel like cooking. I do.”

He had me there.

“I have to go to the ME office to FedEx some bugs.”

“Dead ant, dead ant.” Sung to the opening bars of The Pink Panther theme.

“Mostly flies.” I couldn’t help grinning.

Curtis Mayfield. No lyrics.

“Superfly,” I guessed.

“Very good,” Charlie said.

“I can’t stay late.”

“I won’t let you.”

A car cut into my lane, forcing me to brake hard. The phone dropped to my lap. Steering one-handed, I groped it back to my ear.

“You still there?”

“Thought you’d hung up on me,” Charlie said.

Looking back, I probably should have.

My clothes went directly into the laundry. My body went directly into the shower.

Emerging, I found Birdie batting a blowfly around the bathroom floor. Before I could act, he ate it.

“Gross, Bird.”

The cat looked proud. Or smug. Or introspective, pondering the nuances of fly.

Smiling, I spread orange blossom body cream onto my skin.

Charlie was right. I felt rejuvenated. Cheery, even. Going out was a good idea. Making new friends was a healthy move.

A group of memory cells offered a collage of images, fuzzy, like snapshots left out in the rain.

The Skylark.

Charlie in cutoffs. Just cutoffs.

Me in shorts and a tank with bling on the front. A sparkly butterfly. Or was it a bird? Hair doing that layered, flippy seventies thing.

Upholstery stinging my sunburned back.

Maybe this wasn’t such a peachy idea.

Reacquainting with old friends, I amended my thinking. Friends. Just friends.

Uh-huh, the memory cells said.

Moving to the bedroom, I clicked on the news and crossed to the dresser.

“-sorcerers and fornicators and murderers and idolaters, and everyone who loves and practices falsehood. Those words of Revelation never sounded more true. Lucifer is right here, at our own city gates.”

I froze, panties half out of the drawer.

BOYCE LINGO WAS ON THE STEPS OF THE NEW COURTHOUSE, cameras and mikes aimed at his face. Behind him stood a middle-aged man with buzz-cut hair, Brad Pitt cheeks, and a prominent chin. From the conservative dress, I guessed he was an aide. Navy jacket, white shirt, blue tie, gray pants. He and Lingo looked like fashion clones.

The commissioner was staring straight into the lens.

“Another body was discovered today. Another innocent slaughtered, his head cut off, his flesh desecrated. Why such brutality? To serve Satan. And what do the authorities say? ‘No comment.’”

My fingers curled around the panties.

“They will not comment on a headless body identified three days ago, a twelve-year-old child dragged from the Catawba River. They will not comment on a human skull found last Monday in a Third Ward basement.”

I stood rigid.

“No comments, indeed.” Lingo shook his head in theatric dismay. “Why alert the public to the godless depravity invading our city?”

Lingo paused for effect.

“Citizens of Charlotte-Mecklenburg, we must not accept ‘no comment.’ We must demand answers. Swift and forceful action. We must insist that these murderous devil worshippers not be allowed to go unpunished.

“Let me share a story. A sad story. A horrifying story. In London, in 2001, a tiny, headless body was found in a river. The child is called Adam because, to this day, his name is unknown. What is known is that little Adam was smuggled to England by human traffickers to serve as a human sacrifice.”

Lingo wagged a finger at the camera.

“We must protect our children. These evildoers must be rooted out. The guilty must be arrested and prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Satan’s minions must be driven from amongst us. Our city has no room for a Night Stalker. An Andrea Yates. A Columbine. A poor little Adam.”

Birdie was licking orange blossom from my leg. I couldn’t take my eyes from Lingo. Richard Ramirez? Andrea Yates? Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold?