Kathy Reichs - Spider Bones

“You met him at UVA?”

“Yep.”

“How is it that young Mr. Cooperton holds deed to a town house in Charlotte?”

“He finished school here.”

“Didn’t like Charlottesville?”

“Wasn’t invited back.”

“I see.”

“He’s really nice. Loads of fun.”

I had no doubt of that.

“And the town house?”

“His parents bought it for him when he transferred to UNCC. As an investment. They’re beaucoup bucks up.”

Thus Coop’s freedom to hold morally admirable but woefully underpaid aid jobs.

Whatever. Shaggy musician out. Humanitarian in. Worked for me.

“You and Coop dated following his return from Haiti?”

“When we could. He was in New York a lot.”

I paused, allowing Katy to get to the reason for her call. Turned out there was none.

“Well, Mommy-o. Have a good day.”

Mommy-o?

Who was this strange woman posing as my daughter?

Ryan delivered Charlie around noon. Eager to be off to Lily, he stayed only briefly. The door had barely closed when the bird fired off two of his bawdier quips.

“Fill your glass, park your ass!”

“Charlie.”

“Cool your tool!”

Clearly, the cockatiel training CD had seen no play time in my absence.

Point of information: confiscated during a brothel raid several years back, Charlie became Ryan’s Christmas gift to me. My little avian friend’s repertoire is, shall we say, colorful.

Jean-Claude Hubert, the chief coroner, phoned at one o’clock. Hubert had located John Lowery’s father, Plato Lowery, and informed him of the fingerprint ID on the body in Hemmingford. At first Plato was confused. Then shocked. Then skeptical.

The United States Army had also been brought into the loop.

“Now what?” I asked Hubert.

“Now we wait to see what Uncle Sam has to say.”

At one thirty I headed to Marché Atwater, near the Lachine Canal in the Saint-Henri neighborhood. A ten-minute drive from my condo, the market there dates to 1933.

Inside the two-story art deco pavilion, shops and stalls offer cheese, wine, bread, meat, and fish. Outside, vendors hawk maple syrup, herbs, and produce. At Christmas, freshly cut trees fill the air with the scent of pine. In spring and summer, flowers turn the pavement into a riot of color.

When I first started shopping at Atwater, the neighborhood was blue-collar and definitely down-at-the-heels. Not so today. Since the reopening of the canal in 2002, upscale condos have replaced low- and modest-cost housing and the area has become a real estate hot spot.

Not sure I’m a fan of such gentrification. But parking is easier now.

Inside, I purchased meat and cheese. Outside, I bought produce, then flats of marigolds and petunias. Made of sterner stuff, I figured their sort might survive my regime of horticultural neglect.

Back home, I planted the flowers around my postage stamp patio and in my little backyard. Rain was still falling. Hot damn. No need to water.

I was cleaning dirt from my nails when my cell phone sounded. 808 area code. Hawaii.

Toweling off, I clicked on.

“Dr. Tandler. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Though a Sunday call was unexpected, I had no doubt the topic.

“What? I have to have a reason?”

“Yes.”

Danny let out a long breath. “This Lowery thing is causing some concern on our end.”

Sensing an edge of anxiety in Danny’s voice, I waited.

“Yesterday Merkel got a call from Notter while driving home from the airport. You can imagine how getting tagged that soon after landing brightened his day.”

JPAC employs more than four hundred people, both military and civilian. In addition to the CIL, situated at Hickam Air Force Base, there are three permanent overseas detachments: in Bangkok, Thailand; Hanoi, Vietnam; and Vientiane, Laos; and another U.S. detachment at Camp Smith, in Hawaii. Each is commanded by a lieutenant colonel. The whole JPAC enchilada is under the command of an army major general. For now.

Danny referred to Brent Notter, deputy to the commander for public relations and legislative affairs, and Roger Merkel, scientific director and deputy to the commander for CIL operations. Merkel was Danny’s direct superior.

“After hearing from the Quebec coroner yesterday, Plato Lowery contacted his congressman,” Danny went on.

“Oh, boy,” I said. “What’s Lowery’s juice?”

“Juice?”

“Danny, we both know phone inquiries aren’t handled that fast. It’s been only twenty-four hours since Plato Lowery was informed of the situation. He must have connections.”

“According to Congressman O’Hare, John Lowery came from a family with a tradition of sending its boys into the military.”

“So do a lot of kids.”

“I checked. O’Hare has to run for reelection this year.”

“So do a lot of kids.”

“O’Hare and Notter were frat bros at Wake Forest.”

“That’ll do it.”

“Go Kappa Sig.” Danny was trying hard for casual. It wasn’t working.

“Is Notter worried?” I asked.

“Lowery was pretty upset. Wants to know why some guy in Canada is questioning his son’s proud record.”

“Understandable.”

“Why some Frenchie’s calling his kid a deserter.”

“I doubt the coroner used that term.” Or provided details of the circumstances surrounding John Lowery’s death. I kept that to myself.

“Congressman O’Hare has vowed to protect his constituent from a smear campaign by our neighbors to the north.”

“He said that?”

“In a statement to the press.”

“Why would O’Hare notify the media?”

“The guy’s a showboater, jumps at every chance he sees to ingratiate himself to the voting public.”

“But it’s ridiculous. Why would the government of Canada pick John Lowery of Lumberton, North Carolina, as someone to smear?”

“Of course it’s ridiculous. Merkel thinks O’Hare’s probably in trouble over NAFTA. Lashing out at Canada might make him look good with the home folk.”

That theory wasn’t totally without merit. North Carolina was hit hard by the North American Free Trade Agreement, lost thousands of jobs in the textile and furniture industries. But the agreement had been signed in 1994.

“Lowery senior also demands to know, if John died in Quebec, who the hell’s buried in his son’s grave.”

Understandable also.

“Notter wants to make sure the thing doesn’t turn into a media nightmare.”

“What’s his plan?”

“You live in North Carolina.”

“I do.” Wary.

“Y’all speak the native lingo.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Notter wants you to go to Lumberton and dig up whoever is in that grave.”

PLATO LOWERY WAS YOUNGER THAN I EXPECTED, EARLY EIGHTIES at most. His hair was the kind that turns L.A. waiters into stars. Though white with age, it winged thick and glossy from a center part to swoop down over his ears.

But Lowery’s eyes were what grabbed you, black as wormholes in space. His gaze seemed to laser straight into your soul.

Lowery watched as I called a halt to the digging. Others in the assembly: the backhoe operator; two cemetery workers; two coroner’s assistants; a reporter from the Robesonian ; another from WBTW; a Lumberton cop; an army lieutenant who looked all of sixteen.

It was Tuesday, May 11. Two days since my call from Danny.

Though the time was barely 10 a.m., the temperature already nudged ninety. Sun pounded the cemetery’s psychedelically green lawn. The scent of moist earth and cut grass floated heavily on the air.