Kathy Reichs - Devil Bones

The shop was murky and jammed with so many smells it was hard to ID any single contributor. Tea. Mint. Dust. Sweat. Other odors only teased. Fungus? Cloves? Gingerroot?

My eyes were still adjusting when Slidell found the lights.

The square footage was approximately twenty by twenty. Aluminum shelves lined the walls and formed rows down the center. Slidell headed down one.

I headed down another, reading random labels on my right. Energy enhancers. Brain rejuvenators. Tooth and gum restorers.

Pivoting, I scanned the products at my back. Skin poultices. Fertility oils. Aloe balms. Tinctures of slippery elm, barberry, fennel, juniper.

“Here’s a good one.” Slidell’s voice sounded loud in the musty stillness. “Parkinson’s kit. No more tremors, my ass.” I heard the tick of glass hitting metal, then footsteps. “Here we go. Passion oil. An ancient Hindu recipe. Right. That’ll make your johnson sit up and smile.”

Though I didn’t disagree, I offered no comment.

Beyond the shelving, a wooden counter paralleled the shop’s rear wall. On it sat an old but ordinary-looking cash register. Centered behind it was a curtained doorway.

Slidell joined me, features crimped with disdain.

“Looks like pretty standard fare,” I said.

“Uh-huh.” Slidell lifted a hinged wooden flap connecting the far end of the counter to the wall. “Let’s see what the Prince of Passion keeps stashed in back.”

Crossing the threshold was like entering a different time and place. Even the smells underwent a metamorphosis. Beyond the curtained doorway, the overall impression was of flora and fauna and things long dead.

The space was windowless, and little illumination seeped in from out front. Again, Slidell located a switch.

In light cast by a single overhead bulb I could see that the room was roughly ten by fifteen. As in front, shelves lined both sides. Wood, not aluminum. Those on the right were divided into compartments measuring eight inches square. A small bundle lay centered in each cubby.

The shelves on the left had been converted into pull-out bins, the kind from which seeds or flour might be sold in bulk.

A table ran the length of the back wall. Spread along it were an old-fashioned two-plate scale and approximately twenty glass jars. Some housed recognizable things. Gingerroot. Tree bark. Thistle. Others contained dark, gnarled objects whose provenance I could only guess.

In front of the table sat two folding chairs. Equidistant between them was a large iron cauldron.

“Well, hell-o,” Slidell said.

To the right of the table was a half-open door.

Striding forward, Slidell reached in and felt the wall with his fingers. In seconds, amber light revealed a rust-stained toilet and sink.

I was moving toward the cubbyhole cabinet when a bell tinkled.

I froze. Brushed eyes with Slidell. He flicked a low backward wave with one hand.

Silently, we eased to the left of the door. Slidell’s hand rose to his hip. Backs pressed to the wall, we waited.

Footsteps crossed the shop.

The curtain flicked sideways.

HAD HATSHEPSUT’S MUMMY APPEARED IN THAT DOORWAY I couldn’t have been more surprised.

The girl was young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with nutmeg skin and center-parted hair tucked behind her ears. Only her waistline differed from the school portrait. Based on belly size, I guessed she was almost full term.

The girl scanned the room, expression watchful and alert.

“Está aquí, señor?” Whispered.

I held my breath.

Still clutching the curtain, the girl stepped forward. Backlight from the shop sparkled moisture in her hair.

“Señor?”

Slidell’s hand dropped. Nylon swished.

The girl’s face whipped our way, eyes wide. Flinging aside the curtain, she bolted.

Without thinking, I blew past Slidell and raced across the shop. By the time I cleared the shelving, the girl was out the door.

Rain still poured from the sky and sluiced along the pavement. Head lowered, I pounded after my quarry, water pluming up from my sneakers.

I had the advantage. I wasn’t pregnant. By the pizzeria, I’d closed the gap enough to lunge and catch hold of the girl’s sweater. Reaching back, she knuckle-drilled my hand again and again.

It hurt like hell. I held on.

“We just want to talk,” I shouted through the downpour.

The girl gave up pummeling my carpals to claw at her zipper.

“Please.”

“Leave me alone!” Struggling to shrug free of the sweater.

I heard splashing behind me.

“Hold it right there, little lady.” Slidell sounded like a whale spouting air.

The girl’s thrashing grew desperate. Rain flicked from her hair, sending spray across my face.

“Let me be. You got no-”

Slidell pinwheeled the girl and clamped her arms to her sides.

She kicked back with one foot. A heel connected.

“Sonova-”

“She’s pregnant,” I yelled.

“Tell that to my goddamn shinbone.”

“It’s OK,” I said in what I hoped was a reassuring voice. “You’re not in trouble.”

The girl glared at me, fury in her eyes.

I smiled and held her gaze.

The girl squirmed and kicked.

“Your choice.” Slidell panted. “We do this civilized, or I cuff you and we do it downtown.”

The girl stilled, perhaps laboring through her alternatives. Then her shoulders slumped and her hands balled into fists.

“Good. Now I’m going to let you go and you’re not gonna do nothing stupid.”

We all stood there, breath coming in gasps. After a moment, Slidell released his grip and stepped back.

“Now. We walk to my car, all calm and collected.”

The girl straightened and her chin tipped up in defiance. I could see a small gold cross lying in the hollow of her throat. Below it, a pulse beat hard.

“We all on the same page?” Slidell asked.

“Whatever gets you off,” the girl said.

Regripping the girl’s arm, Slidell motioned for me to follow. I did, watching drops dimple the lake at my feet.

Slidell eased the girl into the passenger seat. As he circled the hood I displaced a mashed pizza box, a Chinese takeout bag, and a pair of old sneakers, and climbed in back. The Taurus’s interior smelled like week-old underwear.

“Jesus.” The girl’s left hand rose to cover her nose. The fourth finger wore no ring. “Something die in here?”

Sliding behind the wheel, Slidell slammed and leaned against the door, then pointed a key in her direction.

“What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?”

Slidell badged her.

The girl blew air through her lips.

“What’s your name?” Slidell repeated his question.

“Why you want to know?”

“In case we lose touch.”

The girl rolled her eyes.

“Name?”

“Patti LaBelle.”

“Buckle up.” Slidell yanked and clicked his seat belt, then jammed the key into the ignition.

The girl raised a hold-it palm, then lay both hands on her belly. “All right.”

Slidell relaxed into the seatback. “Name?”

“Takeela.”

“That’s a good start.”

Eye roll. “Freeman. Takeela Freeman. You want I should spell that?”

Slidell produced a notebook and pen. “Phone number, address, name of parent or guardian.”

Takeela scribbled, then tossed the tablet onto the dash. Slidell picked it up and read.

“Isabella Cortez?”

“My grandmother.”

“Hispanic.” More statement than question. “You live with her?”

Tight nod.

“How old are you, Takeela?”

“Seventeen.” Defensive.

“You in school?”

Takeela shook her head. “It’s all bullshit.”