Kathy Reichs: Bare Bones

Three pages.

A teen with palm extended in protest, face twisted away from the lens. The teen was about sixteen, and wore an enormous golf shirt over baggy cutoffs.

It was the hammer-baseball-buckaroo boy, though his hair was darker now. The visible cheek was smooth and pink and dotted with acne. The boy’s hips were wide, his body softly feminine, with a marked lack of muscle definition.

I looked up at Mrs. Cobb.

“My child. Charles Grant Cobb.”

Circling the table, she sat and wrapped her fingers around her mug.

For sixty ticks we both listened to the cuckoo. I broke the silence.

“Your son must have had a difficult time during his teenage years.”

“Charlie Junior just never went through the right changes. He never grew a beard. His voice never changed, and his—” Five ticks. “You know.”

XXY. A Klinefelter’s syndrome boy.

“I do know, Mrs. Cobb.”

“Kids can be so cruel.”

“Was your son ever examined or treated?”

“My husband refused to admit there was anything wrong with Charlie Junior. When puberty came, and nothing seemed to happen except for Charlie Junior getting heavier and heavier, I suspected something wasn’t right. I suggested we have him looked at.”

“What did the doctors say?”

“We never went.” She shook her head. “There were two things Mr. Cobb hated with all his might. Doctors and fags. That’s what he called, well, you know.”

She dug for another Kleenex, blew her nose again.

“It was like arguing with a cinder block. To his dying day Charlie Senior believed Charlie Junior just needed to toughen up. That’s what he was always telling him. Tough up, kid. Be a man. No one likes a girly boy. No one likes a pansy.”

I looked at the boy in the photo, and thought of cool guys shoving geeks in the halls at school. Of kids taking lunch money from smaller kids. Of loudmouthed bullies picking at flaws and frailties, making others bleed like unhealed scabs. Of kids taunting, tormenting, persecuting until their victims finally give up on themselves.

I felt anger, frustration, and sadness.

“After Charlie Junior left home he decided to live as a female,” I guessed.

She nodded.

“I’m not sure exactly when he switched, but that’s just what he did. He”—she struggled for the proper pronoun—“ she visited once, but Charlie Senior pitched a fit, told him not to come back until he’d straightened himself out. I hadn’t seen Charlie in over ten years when he”—more pronoun confusion—“when he went missing.”

Conspiratorial smile.

“I talked to him, though. Charlie Senior didn’t know that.”

“Often?”

“He’d call about once a month. He was a park ranger, you know.”

“A Fish and Wildlife Service agent. That’s a very demanding profession.”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time you spoke with Charlie Junior?”

“It was early December, five years ago. I got a call from a cop not long after, asking if I knew where Charlotte was. That’s what Charlie Junior took to calling himself. Herself.”

“Was your son working on anything in particular at the time of his disappearance?”

“Something to do with people killing bears. He was pretty fired up about it. Said people were slaughtering bears by the bushel just to make a few bucks. But, as I recall, he talked about it like it was something on the side, not an official assignment. Like it was something he just stumbled on. I think he was really supposed to be looking out for turtles.”

“Did he mention any names?”

“I think he said something about a Chinese. But wait.” She tapped a bony finger to her lips, raised it in the air. “He said there was a guy in Lancaster and a guy in Columbia. Don’t know if that had to do with bears or turtles, but I remember wondering about it later, because Charlie Junior was working up in North Carolina, not down here.”

The clock cuckooed once, marking the half hour.

“More coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

She rose to refill her cup. I spoke to her back.

“Skeletal remains have been found, Mrs. Cobb. I believe they could be those of your son.”

Her shoulders slumped visibly.

“Someone will be phoning?”

“I’ll call you myself when we’re sure.”

She balled her fists, slipped them into the pockets of her sweater.

“Mrs. Cobb, may I ask one last question?”

She nodded.

“Why didn’t you share this information with those investigating your son’s disappearance?”

She turned and regarded me with melancholy eyes.

“Charlie Senior said Charlie Junior’d probably gone off to San Francisco or somewhere so’s he could pursue his lifestyle. I believed him.”

“Did your son ever say anything to suggest he was considering a move?”

“No.”

She raised her mug to her lips, set it back down on the counter.

“Guess I believed what I wanted to believe.”

I rose. “I should be going.”

At the door, she asked one last question.

“You read much Scripture?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t.”

Her fingers bunched and rebunched the Kleenex.

“I can’t figure the world out.” Barely audible.

“Mrs. Cobb,” I said, “on my best days, I can’t figure myself out.”

Weaving through the whirligigs, I felt eyes on my back. Eyes filled with loss and sadness and confusion.

As I walked toward my car, something on the windshield caught my attention.

What the hell?

Two paces more and the object grew focused.

I stopped in my tracks.

One hand flew to my mouth. My stomach rolled over.

Swallowing hard, I took two steps closer. Three. Four.

Dear God.

Revolted, I closed my eyes.

An image crawled through my mind. Crosshairs on my chest.

My heartbeat shot into the stratosphere. My eyes flew open.

Did the Grim Reaper have me in his sights? Had I been followed?

I had to force myself to look at the macabre little form scarecrowed against my windshield.

Propped between the wiper blade and the glass was a squirrel. Eyes glazed, belly slit, innards sprouting like mushrooms on a rotting log.

34

I WHIPPED AROUND.

The inner and aluminum doors were closed.

I scanned the block.

One jogger with a mongrel dog.

Had I been followed? I felt a chill spread through my gut.

Holding my breath, I lifted the wiper blade, took the squirrel by its tail, and tossed it into the trees. Though my hands were shaking, my mind was automatically taking notes.

Stiff. Not freshly dead.

Digging Bojangles’ napkins from the glove compartment, I cleaned the glass and slid behind the wheel.

Use the adrenaline. Go with it.

Gunning the engine, I shot up the road.

The jogger and dog were rounding the corner. I turned with them.

The woman was thirtyish, and looked like she should jog more often. She wore a spandex bra and bicycle shorts, and headphones with a small antenna framed a blonde ponytail. The dog was attached to one of those blue plastic leash feeders.

I rolled down the window.

“Excuse me.”

The dog turned, the jogger did not.

“Excuse me,” I shouted, inching forward.

The dog cut to the car, nearly tripping its owner. She stopped, dropped the headphones around her neck, and regarded me warily.

The dog placed front paws on my door and sniffed. I reached out and patted its head.

The jogger appeared to relax a bit.

“Do you know Mrs. Cobb?” I asked, the calm in my voice belying my agitation.

“Uh-huh,” she panted.

“While we were visiting, something was left on my windshield. I wondered if you’d noticed any other cars near her trailer.”