Kathy Reichs - Devil Bones

“I don’t know.”

“And where the hell is this guy?”

“Ecuador?” I suggested.

“All I care, his ass can stay there. I should be working Klapec.”

With that, Slidell disappeared through the curtain.

I followed.

Outside, the rain had diminished to a slow, steady drizzle. Slidell’s cell rang as he was locking the shop.

“Yo.”

I could hear a voice buzzing on the other end.

“The kid believable?”

The buzz resumed.

“Worth some shoe leather.”

Shoe leather? I curbed an eye roll.

Slidell described our session with Takeela Freeman and our search of the botánica. There was more buzzing, longer this time.

“No shit.” Slidell’s eyes slid to me. “Yeah. She has her moments.”

Slidell waited out a very long sequence of buzzes.

“That address current?”

Again, Slidell glanced at me. I couldn’t imagine what was being said on the other end.

“You stick with Rick. I’ll swing by Pineville. We’ll hook up later this afternoon.”

Buzz.

“Roger.”

Slidell clicked off.

“Rinaldi?” I asked.

Slidell nodded. “Some homey saw Klapec with a john the night he dropped off the scanner. Older guy, wearing a baseball cap. Not a regular. Kid told Rinaldi the dude creeped him out.”

“Meaning?”

“Who the fuck knows? Remember Rick Nelson? Rock and roller got killed in a plane crash back in the eighties?”

“Ozzie and Harriet.”

“Yeah. Remember ‘Travelin’ Man’? Guy had chicks all over the world. Fraulein in Berlin, señorita in Mexico. Great song.”

“What’s Rick Nelson got to do with Rinaldi’s witness?” I asked, heading off the possibility that Slidell might sing.

“Genius said Klapec’s john looked like Rick Nelson in a baseball cap. Real brain trust, eh?”

“What’s in Pineville?” I asked.

Slidell grinned and cocked his head.

Not in the mood for guessing games, I cocked mine back.

“Rinaldi says you’re good.”

“I am,” I said. “What’s in Pineville?”

“Asa Finney.” Slidell’s grin broadened, revealing something green between his right lower premolars. “Popped right out when Rinaldi ran your print.”

“The one in the wax?”

“That very one.”

“Why’s Finney in the system?” I felt totally jazzed.

“D-and-D six years ago.” Slidell referred to a drunk and disorderly charge. “Moron thought peeing on a gravestone was performance art.”

“Who is he?”

“Computer geek. Twenty-four years old. Lives down in Pineville, works from home. You ready for this?”

I waggled impatient fingers.

“Finney’s got a Web site.”

“Millions of people have Web sites.”

“Millions of people don’t claim to be witches.”

“You mean santero ? Like Cuervo?”

“Rinaldi said ‘witch.’”

That made no sense. Santería had nothing to do with witchcraft.

“We going down there now?”

Slidell was silent so long I was certain he was about to blow me off. His answer surprised me.

“We take one car,” he said. “Mine.”

Pineville is a sleepy little community curled up between Charlotte and the South Carolina state line. Like the Queen City, the burg owes its existence to trails and streams. Pre-Chris Columbus, one route ran westward to the Catawba Nation, the other was the good old Trading Path. The streams were Sugar Creek and Little Sugar Creek.

Farms. Churches. The railroad came and went. Mills opened and closed. The town’s one claim to fame is being the birthplace of James K. Polk, eleventh president of the US of A. That was 1795. Not much has happened there since. In the nineties, the construction of an outer beltway morphed Pineville into a bedroom burb.

Finney’s house was a post-beltway newcomer with yellow siding and fake black shutters. A nice, neat, forgettable ranch.

A dark blue Ford Focus was parked in the driveway. Slidell and I got out and moved up the walk.

The stoop was concrete, the door metal and painted black like the shutters. A sculpture was centered on the door, a butterfly with lace enveloping the wings.

Slidell pressed the bell. Muted harp sounds trilled somewhere inside.

Seconds passed.

Slidell rang again, held the button.

Lots of harp.

We heard rattling, then the door swung in.

Hair swelled from Finney’s forehead like a wave rolling from a beach. Comb tracks ran straight backward above each temple. His lashes were long, his smile bad-boy crooked. Had it not been for severely acne-scarred skin, the man would have been rock-star good-looking.

“You Asa Finney?” Slidell asked.

“Whatever you’re selling I will not buy it.”

Unsmiling, Slidell showed his badge. Finney studied it.

“What do you want?”

“Talk.”

“This isn’t-”

“Now.”

Wary, Finney stepped back.

Slidell and I entered a tiny foyer with a gleaming tile floor.

“Come with me.”

We followed Finney past a cheaply furnished living-dining room combo to a small kitchen at the back of the house. A faux pine table and chairs occupied the center of the room. A half-eaten carton of yogurt and a bowl of granola sat on a place mat, spoons jutting from each.

“I was eating lunch.”

“Don’t let us stop you,” Slidell said.

Finney resumed his chair. I sat across from him. Slidell remained standing. Interrogation tactic: height advantage.

Finney finger-drummed the table. Nervous? Annoyed that Slidell had outwitted him by staying on his feet?

Slidell folded his arms and said nothing. Interrogation tactic: silence.

Finney draped his napkin over one knee. Picked up his spoon. Set it down.

I looked around. The kitchen was spotless. A carved stone mortar and pestle sat on one counter beside an herb garden nourished by long fluorescent bulbs.

Above the sink hung an intricately carved rendering of a naked, antlered figure with a stag to its left and a bull to its right. A ram-headed serpent coiled one arm.

Finney followed my line of vision.

“That’s Cernunnos, the Celtic father of animals.”

“Tell us ’bout that.” Slidell’s tone was glacial.

“Cernunnos is husbandman to Mother Earth.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He is the essence of the masculine aspect of the balance of nature. In that depiction the god is surrounded by a stag, a bull, and a snake, symbols of fertility, power, and masculinity.”

“You get off on those things?”

Finney’s gaze swung back to Slidell. “I beg your pardon?”

“Sex. Power.”

Finney began picking at one of his cheeks. “What are you implying?”

“You live by yourself, Asa?” Interrogation tactic: subject switch.

“Yes.”

“Nice house.”

Finney said nothing.

“Must cost some bucks, a crib like this.”

“I have my own business.” Finney’s scratching had created a flaming red patch among the pits. “I design video games. Manage some Web sites.”

“Word is you got a dandy of your own.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“You tell me.”

Finney’s nostrils narrowed, expanded. “The same old ignorant bigotry.”

Slidell tipped his head.

“Look, it’s no secret. I’m Wiccan.”

“Wiccan?” Heavy with disdain. “Like witches and devil worshippers?”

“We consider ourselves witches, yes. But we are not Satanists.”

“Ain’t that a relief.”

“Wicca is a neopagan religion whose roots predate Christianity by centuries. We worship a god and a goddess. We observe the eight sabbats of the year and the full-moon esbats. We live by a strict code of ethics.”

“Those ethics include murder?”