Kathy Reichs - Devil Bones

Age. Gender. Height. Robusticity. Preservation. Staining.

Cuervo’s cauldron contained the partial remains of a black female who’d died in her mid to late teens. A black female now missing her head, jaw, and thigh bones.

Susan Redmon was a perfect match for the girl in the cauldron.

It was full night when Slidell and I left Elmwood. Thick clouds blanketed the moon and stars, turning trees and tombstones into dense cutouts against a background only slightly less dense. A cold rain was still falling, and legions of tree frogs matched vocal offerings with armies of locusts. Or maybe they were crickets. Whatever. The sound was impressive.

Burkhead assumed responsibility for securing the remains and locking the crypt. I promised to return Finney’s jaw and the cauldron skull and femora as soon as I’d satisfied my boss that they were, indeed, Susan Redmon’s missing parts. He promised to do his best to persuade cousin Thomas to cough up for a new casket.

Slidell was restless and grumpy. Though he’d left messages, Donna Scott-Rosenberg had not phoned him back

Slidell called Rinaldi again as I was buckling my seat belt.

I looked at my watch. Nine fifteen. It had been a very long day. I’d eaten nothing since the turkey and Cheddar sub at headquarters.

Leaning back, I closed my eyes and began rubbing circles on my temples.

“Broad isn’t burning up the line getting back to me. I’ll give her till morning, then bring down some heat. Let’s focus on Klapec. Anything new up there?”

Rinaldi said something. From Slidell’s end of the conversation I gathered he’d returned to NoDa.

“Oh, yeah? This guy’s really credible?”

Rinaldi spoke again.

“And he’s willing to share?”

More listening on Slidell’s end.

“See you at ten.”

Slidell’s mobile snapped shut.

We rode in silence. Then, “Ready to call it a day, doc?”

“What’s Rinaldi got?” I mumbled.

“His hawk is willing to dish on this Rick Nelson john.” Slidell stopped. “Know what I liked about Nelson? His hair. Guy had hair like a Shetland pony.”

“What’s the kid’s story?” I brought Slidell back on track.

“Describes the guy as average height and build, white, a conservative dresser, not a talker. Says he used to do Ricky-boy until he got the crap beat out of him.”

I opened my eyes. “The man was violent?”

“Kid claims the asshole tuned him up good.”

“When was this?”

“June. When he refused to do him anymore, Klapec took over.”

“Anything else?”

“Says he’s got info, but it won’t be free. There’s a novel approach. Rinaldi’s meeting him at ten.”

“Where?”

“Some Mexican joint on North Davidson. I’m gonna stop by, provide a little sales incentive of my own. You want I should run you back to your wheels?”

My stomach chose that moment to growl.

“No,” I said. “I want you should buy me an enchilada.”

Located at Thirty-fifth and North Davidson, Cabo Fish Taco is a bit upmarket to qualify as a joint. The place is more Baja surfer meets Albuquerque artiste.

Slidell parked outside the old Landmark Building, now home to the Center of the Earth Gallery. Hanging in the window was a still life of a glass tumbler containing an egg yolk and two halves of a plastic Easter egg balanced on the rim.

Seeing the painting as we exited the Taurus, Slidell snorted and shook his head. He was about to comment when he spotted Rinaldi walking toward us, from the point where Thirty-fifth dead-ends at the tracks.

Slidell gave a sharp whistle.

Rinaldi’s head came up. He smiled. I think. I’m not sure. At that moment, reality went sideways.

Rinaldi’s hand started to rise.

A gunshot rang out.

Rinaldi’s arm froze, half crooked. His body straightened. Too much.

A second shot exploded.

Rinaldi spun sideways, as though yanked by a chain.

“Down!” Slidell shoved me hard toward the pavement.

My knees cracked cement. My belly. My chest.

Another shot rang out.

A vehicle screamed south on Davidson.

Heart hammering, I looked up, barely raising my head.

Gun drawn, Slidell was thundering up the block.

Rinaldi lay still, long spider limbs arrayed terribly wrong.

SCRABBLING TO MY FEET, I RAN UP THIRTY-FIFTH.

Sirens wailed in the distance. The previously deserted sidewalks were filling with the curious. Ahead, a circle was forming around Rinaldi. Between pairs of legs I could see his motionless form, a dark tendril oozing toward the curb from below his chest.

Shoving aside gawkers, I made my way up the street. Slidell was kneeling, face splotchy, both hands pressed to his partner’s chest.

My heart leaped into my throat.

Rinaldi’s eyelids were blue, his face morgue white. Rain soaked his hair and shirt. Blood crawled the pavement and oozed over the lip of the curb. Too much blood.

“Get back!” Slidell screamed, voice tremulous with rage. “Give the man some goddamn air!”

The circle expanded, immediately began to contract. Cell phones clicked, capturing images of the gore.

The distant wails grew louder. Increased in number. I knew Slidell had called in the code for officer down. Units were responding from all over the city.

“Let me do that,” I said, dropping beside Slidell. “You deal with the crowd.”

Slidell’s eyes whipped to mine. He was breathing hard. “Yeah.”

I slid my hands onto Rinaldi’s chest below Slidell’s palms. I could feel trembling in his arm.

“Hard! You gotta press hard!” A vein pounded up the center of Slidell’s forehead. Wetness haloed his hair.

I nodded, unable to speak.

Shooting upright, Slidell lurched toward the gawkers, feet slipping in the rain and the slick of Rinaldi’s blood.

“Get the hell back!” Slidell’s upraised palms were a horrifying crimson.

I dropped my gaze, thoughts pointed at only one goal.

Stop the blood!

“Give me some fucking room! Now!” Slidell bellowed.

Stop the blood!

Too much! Dear God, no one could survive such a loss.

Stop the blood!

Seconds passed. The rain fell in a slow, steady drizzle.

A siren screamed to a stop close by. A second. A third. Lights pulsated, turning the street into a flashing whirlpool of red and blue.

Stop the blood!

Doors opened. Slammed. Footsteps pounded. Voices shouted.

Stop the blood!

Sensing movement and space, I glanced up, palms still pressed to Rinaldi’s chest.

Uniformed cops were now muscling the onlookers back.

My eyes returned to my hands, now glossy and dark.

Stop the blood!

Feet appeared at my side, one pair in boots, one in New Balance running shoes. Muddy. Wet.

Boots squatted and spoke to me. I barely heard through the mantra controlling my mind.

Stop the blood!

Boots placed his hands over mine on the blood-soaked shirt. I looked into his eyes. The irises were blue, the whites latticed by a network of tiny red veins.

Boots nodded.

I rose and stepped back on rubber legs.

I knew the drill. ABC. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. I watched numbly as the paramedics went through it, checking Rinaldi’s trachea, bagging him with oxygen, evaluating his carotid pulse.

Then they strapped Rinaldi to a gurney, lifted him, and slammed the doors. I watched the ambulance race into the Charlotte night.

Leaving the scene to others, Slidell and I drove straight to CMC. On the way we passed dozens of squad cars speeding toward NoDa. Dozens more clogged the streets. The city throbbed with sirens and pulsating lights.

The ER waiting room already held a half dozen cops. Barely acknowledging their presence, Slidell barked his name and demanded Rinaldi’s doctor.