Kathy Reichs - Devil Bones

And froze in a Halloween cat tableau, back arched, tail poofed to double its size. A primal clicking sound rose from his throat.

The skin crawled on my arms and neck.

I gathered Birdie and displaced him to the floor. He shot back onto the counter.

Blocking the cat with one arm, I disengaged the flaps one-handed and opened the box.

A dead copperhead lay upside down in the bottom, belly slit, innards billowing, glossy and red. Below the jaw, an inverted pentagram had been carved into the pale yellow skin.

MY SLEEP WAS VISITED BY THE COPPERHEAD I’D SEALED IN A trash bag and placed in the marigolds flanking my porch. In my dream it was very much alive, pursuing me through dense trees hung with thick Spanish moss, all the while emitting a breathy, sibilant sound. Asa. Asa. Asa.

The faster I ran, the closer the snake came to my heels. I climbed a tree. It slithered past me up the trunk and grinned down from above, Cheshire cat-style. Its tongue flicked my face. I batted at its head.

The tongue came at me again. Above the forked tip I could see three red sixes. Above that, a tiny glowing cross.

A tree branch morphed into a sinuous tentacle and circled toward me holding a microphone. The metal brushed my cheek.

Again I lashed out.

And connected with something solid and furry.

I awoke to find Birdie licking my face.

“Sorry, Bird.” I wiped saliva from my cheek.

The clock said 7:20.

I was making coffee in the kitchen when my cell phone rang. Slidell. Bracing, I clicked on.

“They kicked him this morning.”

It took me a moment. “Finney?”

“No. Jack the Freakin’ Ripper. ’Course I’m talking Finney.”

I held back a comment.

“Bleeding-heart DA agreed with the PD we got insufficient evidence to charge Finney with either Klapec or Rinaldi. And the bones rap ain’t enough to keep him locked up.”

Slidell’s reference to Charlie Hunt caused another mental cringe. OK. No more avoidance. I’d call Charlie this morning.

“-dirty and I ain’t giving up on the little prick.” Slidell’s voice brought me back. “Anything on your end?”

I told him about the snake.

“Sonovabitch. Who you thinking?”

I’d given the question considerable thought.

“I criticized Boyce Lingo publicly last Friday.”

“Man’s got a lot of fans, but they don’t seem the type to be carving up reptiles.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“It made the papers you and me tossed Cuervo’s operation on Greenleaf.” Slidell paused, considering other possibilities. “Or maybe it was one of Finney’s voodoo-ass buddies.”

I told him about Jennifer Roberts and my trip to Full Moon, then waited for the tirade. Slidell surprised me.

“Gimme your take.”

“A lot of ecofeminism and bad poetry.”

“Meaning?”

“Though unconventional, the people I met seemed benign.”

“So did John Wayne Gacy.”

“Do you think the copperhead was meant as a threat?”

“That or someone’s unhappy Finney was busted, decided to try a little mojo to spring him.” Slidell snorted loudly. “Wouldn’t that be ironical. They juju some snake, next morning their boy walks. Whatever, what ain’t funny is some nutjob knows where you live. You need to watch your back.”

I’d thought of that, too.

“How about I step up surveillance on your place?”

I was about to decline, thought of Rinaldi. Why take a chance?

“Sure. Thanks.”

“I’ll have a unit swing by every hour or so, make sure everything’s kosher. Maybe we should agree on some sort of distress signal.”

“A lantern in the tower of the Old North Church?”

“Huh?”

“One if by land?”

Nothing.

“If there’s trouble I’ll leave the porch light on.”

“That works.”

“You want the snake?”

“What the hell am I gonna do with a gutted copperhead?”

I told Slidell about the slides I’d left with Marion Ireland at UNCC.

“Why’s it important?”

“It may not be. I’ll know when I get the blowups.”

I listened to a moment of nasal wheezing. Then, “Found a guy name of Vince Gunther was booked for solicitation on twenty-eight September. Spent the night in the bag until someone ponied up bail the next afternoon. I’m thinking Gunther could be Eddie’s chicken hawk, Vince. I’m gonna try tracking him through the bondsman.” Slidell paused. “I guess they’re finding Eddie was having money problems.”

“Oh?”

“Over fifty thousand in credit card debt.”

“And?”

“And nothing. They’re checking it out.”

“He never mentioned financial difficulties to you?”

“No.” Tight.

“Do they think he got involved in something that got him killed?”

“They’re checking it out.” There was a long pause. “I don’t see it. After his wife died all Eddie wanted to do was go home, play his egghead music, and work crossword puzzles. And that other thing. That thing with numbers.”

“Sudoku?” I guessed.

“Yeah. That’s it. And he’d cook, just for himself. Real meals, with fresh pasta and herbs and stuff.” Slidell pronounced the h.

Sudden stab of pain. Though I’d known Rinaldi for almost twenty years, other than the fact that he originally came from West Virginia, had been widowed and lived alone, was compulsively neat, liked classical music, good food, and expensive clothing, I’d learned very little about the man. Now I never would.

“Did Eddie have family?”

“A married son. Tony. Lives somewhere up near Boston. Has since he was a toddler.”

“Did they keep in touch?”

“Yeah. But it was something Eddie never wanted to discuss.”

I didn’t ask why Rinaldi’s son had been raised by others. “What’s Tony saying?”

“Find the bastards that killed his father.”

Recognizing Slidell’s surliness as grieving, I let the remark go.

“Look. They got a homicide detail directing the investigation. Robbery and rape are pitching in on neighborhood canvasses, chasing witness leads, doing records checks, that kind of thing. Since the weather was crap, no one was on the street Saturday night. No one saw nothing. At least that’s the story I’m getting. Members of the team don’t exactly keep me on their speed dials.”

I could understand that. Slidell was hard to control under normal circumstances. Given his level of emotional involvement, there was no telling what he would do if privy to even the most tenuous lead in Rinaldi’s death.

“See you at the church?” I asked.

“I’ll be in back.”

After disconnecting, I logged onto my computer and checked my e-mail.

Katy had written to apologize for our spat. Easier than phoning, I guess.

A man in Nigeria wanted my partnership in a scheme to liberate two million pounds. All I had to do was send bank account information.

A colleague at UNCC had sent an e-invite to a Halloween party. Remembering the previous year’s event, I declined.

Astall@gmail.com. Subject line blank.

Oh, no.

Oh, yes. Allison Stallings wanted to meet for a drink. She had some follow-up questions.

Bloody hell. Larke Tyrell was correct in his anger. I had talked to Stallings during my bender on Monday. But had I called her? No way.

If she’d contacted me, how had she gotten my home or cell number? Mrs. Flowers would never give out personal information. Nor would anyone at UNCC.

Anyone who knew. What was the name of the new secretary? Natasha? Naomi?

I looked at the clock: 8:05. I dialed.

Naomi swore she’d shared my number with no one.

Had I ? I thought back over the past few weeks. Of course. Takeela Freeman. Stallings could have gotten the number from her.