Kathy Reichs - Devil Bones

Finney’s brows dipped. “Wicca incorporates specific ritual forms, the casting of spells, herbalism, divination. Wiccans employ witchcraft exclusively for the accomplishment of good.”

Slidell made one of his uninterpretable noises.

“Like many followers of minority belief systems, we Wiccans are continually harassed. Verbal and physical abuse, shootings, even lynchings. Is that what this is, Detective? More persecution?”

“I’m asking the questions.” Slidell’s drawl was pure ice. “What do you know about a cellar on Greenleaf Avenue?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

I watched Finney for signs of evasiveness. Saw only resentment.

“Got cauldrons and dead chickens.”

“Wiccans do not practice animal sacrifice.”

“And human skulls.”

“Never.”

“How ’bout a guy named T-Bird Cuervo?”

There was a subtle tensing around Finney’s eyes.

“He is not one of us.”

“Ain’t what I asked.”

“I may have heard the name.”

“In what context?”

“Cuervo is a santero. A healer.”

“You two dance in the moonlight together?”

Finney’s chin hiked up a notch. “Santería and Wicca are really quite different.”

“Answer the question.”

“I don’t know the man.”

Again, a crimping of the lower lids?

“You wouldn’t be lying to me, now would you, Asa?”

“I don’t have to sit still for your bullying. I know my rights. Dettmer versus Landon. 1985. A district court in Virginia ruled that Wicca is a legally recognized religion to be afforded all benefits accorded by law. Affirmed in 1986 by the Federal Appeals Court for the Fourth Circuit. Get used to it, Detective. We’re legal and we’re here to stay.”

At that moment my cell chirped. The caller ID showed Katy’s number. I rose and walked to the living room, closing the door behind me.

“Hey, Katy.”

“Mom. I know what you’re going to say. I’m always dumping you. And, yes, I’ve probably bailed way too many times. But I’ve been invited to this awesome picnic, and if you don’t mind, I’d really, really like to go.”

I was lost. Then I remembered. Saturday. Shopping.

“It’s not a problem.” I was speaking softly, trying not to be overheard.

“Where are you?”

“You go, enjoy.”

Through the door I heard the cadence of voices, Slidell’s harsh, Finney’s affronted.

“You’re sure?”

Oh, yeah.

“Absolutely.”

As we spoke, I perused book titles on a set of wooden shelves pushed up against one wall. Coming to the Edge of the Circle: A Wiccan Initiation Ritual; Living Wicca; The Virtual Pagan; Pagan Paths; Earthly Bodies Magical Selves: Contemporary Pagans and the Search for Community; Living Witchcraft: A Contemporary American Coven; Book of Magical Talismans; An Alphabet of Spells.

On a lower shelf, two books caught my attention. Satanic Bible and Satanic Witch, both by Anton LaVey. How did those fit in?

“Charlie said you rocked the other night.”

“Mm.”

My eyes roved to a statue of a goddess with upraised arms, a stone bowl of crystals, a cornhusk doll. Hearing soft clacking, I looked up.

A miniature wind chime swayed from a hook screwed into the top outer frame of the bookcase. The shells hung on strings attached to a pink ceramic bird.

Katy said something that my brain failed to take in. My gaze was locked on an object barely visible behind the dangling cowries.

“Bye, sweetie. Have fun.”

Pocket-jamming the phone, I dragged a chair to the bookcase, climbed up, and reached for the top shelf.

BARELY BREATHING, I RAN A MENTAL CHECKLIST.

The mandible retained no incisors or canines. The wisdom teeth were partially erupted. All dentition showed minimal wear. The bone was solid and stained tea brown.

Every detail was consistent with the jawless Greenleaf skull.

Back in the kitchen, Finney was explaining the creation of script for video gaming. Slidell looked as though he’d swallowed raw sewage.

Both turned at the sound of the door.

Wordlessly, I placed the jaw on the table, slapped the LaVey books beside it.

Finney regarded me, a flush creeping up from his collar.

“You have a warrant to search my belongings?”

“It was in plain view on the bookshelf,” I said.

“You invited us in,” Slidell snapped. “We don’t need no warrant.”

“Those your books?” Slidell demanded.

“I strive to understand different perspectives.”

“I’ll bet you do.”

“I’ll do a full exam,” I said. “But I’m certain this jaw belongs to the skull found in T-Bird Cuervo’s cellar.”

Finney’s eyes dropped from my face. But not before I noted the lower lid tremble.

“So, asshole, you want to explain why this jawbone’s in your crib, given you don’t know Cuervo or his little shop of horrors on Greenleaf?”

Finney looked up and met Slidell’s glare coming his way.

“Know what I’m thinking?” Slidell didn’t wait for an answer to his question. “I’m thinking you and your pals killed some kid at one of your freakfests, then stashed her skull and leg bones to play your sick little games.”

“What? No.”

Striding to the table, Slidell leaned close to Finney’s ear, as though preparing to share a private moment. “You’re going down, asshole,” he hissed.

“No!” High and whiny, more the wail of a teenaged girl than a grown man. “I want a lawyer.”

Jerking Finney to his feet, Slidell spun and cuffed him. “Don’t you worry. This town’s got more lawyers than a bayou’s got gators.”

“This is harassment.”

Slidell read Finney his rights.

Driving into the city, Finney sat with head down, shoulders slumped, cuffed hands clasped behind his back.

Slidell called Rinaldi, told him about the jaw and about Finney’s arrest, and pushed back their rendezvous time. Rinaldi reported that his canvass was yielding good follow-up.

I asked Slidell to drop me at my car on his way to headquarters. An unpleasant sight greeted us at Cuervo’s shop. Allison Stallings stood with face pressed to the glass, digital Nikon clasped in one hand.

“Well, isn’t that just finger-lickin’ brilliant.”

Shoulder-ramming the door, Slidell heaved from behind the wheel and lumbered across the asphalt. I lowered my window. Finney raised his head and watched with interest.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Research.” Grinning, Stallings framed Slidell in her LCD screen and clicked the shutter.

Slidell made a grab for the camera. Stallings raised it, snapped the Taurus, then dropped the Nikon into her backpack.

“Stay the hell away from my car and my prisoner,” Slidell blustered.

“Let’s go,” I shouted, knowing it was too late.

Stallings beelined to the Taurus, bent, and peered into the backseat. Slidell stormed behind, face cherry pie red.

Before I could react, Finney leaned toward my open window and shouted, “I’m Asa Finney. I’ve done nothing wrong. Let the public know. This is religious persecution.”

I hit the button. Finney kept shouting as my window slid up.

“I’m a victim of police brutality!”

Breathing hard, Slidell threw his girth into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. “Shut the fuck up!”

Finney went mute.

Slidell jammed the gearshift. We shot backward. He jammed again and we flew from the lot, tires spitting up rainwater.

While Slidell booked Finney, I went to the MCME to determine if the jaw was, in fact, consistent with the cauldron skull. X-rays. Biological profile. State of preservation. Articulation. Measurements. Fordisc 3.0 assessment. Everything fit.