Kathy Reichs - Devil Bones

“Uh-huh. You married?”

“More bullshit.”

Slidell gestured at Takeela’s belly. “We got a daddy?”

“Nooo. I’m the sweet Virgin Mary.”

“What?” Sharp.

“Why you want to fry my ass?”

“The father’s name?”

Heavy sigh. “Clifton Lowder. He lives in Atlanta. We’re not mad at each other or split up or nothing. Cliff’s got kids there.”

“And how old is Cliff Lowder?”

“Twenty-six.”

Slidell made a sound like a terrier choking on liver.

“Is there a Mrs. Lowder in Atlanta?” I asked.

Takeela jabbed a thumb in my direction. “Who’s she?”

“Answer the question. Mr. Wonderful got a wife?”

Takeela shrugged one shoulder. So what?

I felt a wave of emotions. Anger. Sadness. Revulsion. Mostly revulsion. Slidell nailed it.

“What kind of yank-off works the school yard for nooky?”

“I told you. I ain’t in school.”

“Good career planning. Big Cliff weigh in on that decision?”

“He treats me good.”

“Yeah. And I’ll bet he’s a swell dancer. The asshole knocked you up, kitten. Then he dumped you.”

“I already tole you. I ain’t been dumped.”

“Will Mr. Lowder be helping with the baby?” I tried to sound sympathetic.

Another shrug.

“When’s your birthday?” Slidell’s tone was as far from sympathetic as a tone can be.

“What? You gonna put me in your address book? Send me a e-card every year?”

“Just wondering your age when you and loverboy tripped the light fantastic. If you weren’t sixteen, he could be looking at statutory rape.”

Takeela’s mouth clamped into a hard line.

I changed gears. “Tell us about Thomas Cuervo.”

“Don’t know no Thomas Cuervo.”

“You just left his shop,” Slidell snapped.

“You talking ’bout T-Bird?”

“I am.”

Another shrug. “I was out walking, saw T-Bird’s door open.”

“Walking. In a typhoon.”

“I wanted primrose oil to rub on my belly.”

“Can’t have stretch marks ruining our runway dreams.”

“Why you so mean?”

“Must be a gift. Where is T-Bird?”

“How the hell would I know?”

For a full minute no one spoke. Rain drummed the roof and ran in rivulets down the windows.

After watching a plastic bag skitter across the street and paste itself to the windshield, I broke the silence.

“Do you live with your grandmother, Takeela?”

“So?”

“I’ve heard that T-Bird is a wonderful healer.”

“Last I looked, that ain’t illegal.”

“No,” I said. “It’s not illegal.”

“Why’d T-Bird have your picture?” Slidell cut in.

“What picture?”

“The picture laying on my desk. The picture we can go downtown and peruse together.”

Takeela splayed her fingers and widened her eyes. “Ooh! That’s me looking real scared.”

Slidell’s jaw muscles bulged. His gaze slid to me. I squinted “Cool it.”

“T-Bird has been missing for several months,” I said. “The police are concerned he may have come to harm.”

For the first time she turned to face me. I saw turmoil in her eyes.

“Who’d want to hurt T-Bird? He just help people.”

“Helps them how?”

“If someone need something special.”

I pointed to the cross on her neck. “You’re Christian?”

“That’s a dumb question. Why you ask that?”

“T-Bird is a santero ?”

“The one ain’t got nothing to do with the other. You want to pray, you go to church. You want action, you go to T-Bird.”

“What kind of action?”

“You got a cough. You need a job. Whatever.”

Suddenly it clicked.

“You went to T-Bird because you’re pregnant.”

Takeela gave a quick, noncommittal shrug.

Abortion? Healthy baby? Girl versus boy child? What had this girl sought from a santero ?

Leaning forward between the seats, I placed a hand on her arm.

“You gave T-Bird your class photo to use in a ritual.”

Suddenly, the defiance was gone. Now she just looked tired and wet. And pregnant. And very, very young.

“I wanted Cliff to take care of me and the baby.”

“But he won’t leave his wife,” I guessed.

“He gonna change his mind.” Unconsciously, one hand stroked her belly.

“Do you know where T-Bird might have gone?” Softly.

“No.”

“Does he have family?”

“I don’t know nothing ’bout no family.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Maybe in the summer.”

“Is there anything you can tell us?”

“All I know is, my grandma say you need something, T-Bird make it happen.”

Takeela laced her fingers over her unborn child and looked at Slidell.

“You gonna charge me with a crime?”

“Don’t leave town,” Slidell said. “We may get to do this again real soon.”

“Next time get party hats.” Takeela hit the handle, pulled herself out, and started up the sidewalk.

Sudden thought. Would she be insulted? What the hell. I knew her future should she follow her current course. Single motherhood. Minimum-wage jobs. A life of long hopes and empty wallets.

I got out.

“Takeela.”

She half turned, hands resting lightly on her swollen middle.

“If you like, I can make some calls, see what sort of aid might be available.”

Her eyes drifted to my face.

“I can’t promise anything,” I added.

She hesitated a beat. Then, “Me neither, lady.”

Jotting a number, I handed her my card.

“That’s my private line, Takeela. Call anytime.”

As I watched her walk away, Slidell got out of the Taurus. Together, we started back toward the botánica.

“So the kid in the cauldron ain’t the kid in the photo.”

“No,” I agreed.

“So who the hell is she?”

Taking the question as rhetorical, I didn’t answer.

“Don’t matter. This creep still had some kid’s skull and leg bones in his cellar. Cuervo’s into more than just curing the clap.”

I started to respond. Slidell cut me off.

“And what about Jimmy Klapec? No question ’bout that being murder. But you say that’s Satanists and Cuervo ain’t, right?”

I raised both hands in frustration.

“And where the hell’s Rinaldi?” Slidell dug for his mobile.

Hurrying through the rain, I kept churning thoughts in my mind.

Takeela Freeman.

Jimmy Klapec.

T-Bird Cuervo.

Santería.

Palo Mayombe.

Satanism.

I had no idea that by day’s end we’d score two more ID’s, close a cold case, and come face-to-face with yet another perplexing religion.

AN HOUR OF SEARCHING TURNED UP NOTHING SINISTER IN Cuervo’s shop. The botánica housed no skulls, slaughtered animals, or impaled dolls.

“So T-Bird limited his bone-collector act to the Greenleaf crib.”

I set down the jar I was examining and glanced at Slidell. With his rain-pasted hair and clothing he looked like the couch potato from the Black Lagoon. But I wasn’t exactly at my best either.

“Makes sense,” I said. “The cellar was secret, more secure.”

“Cauldrons are typical of that palo stuff.” I wasn’t sure if Slidell was asking a question or thinking out loud.

“Palo Mayombe. But Takeela’s description of Cuervo makes him sound more like a garden-variety santero. ”

“If he’s harmless, how come he’s got cauldrons?”

“Santería has no hard-and-fast rules.”

“Meaning?”

“Maybe T-Bird simply likes pots.”

“And animal corpses.” Slidell whacked the cauldron with the tip of a loafer. It made a hollow ringing sound. “Why’s this one empty?”