Groaned again.
Dropping onto the edge of the bed, I hit callback. Slidell picked up right away. Background noise suggested he was in a car. “Yo.”
“You phoned.”
“Tell me this ain’t some new epidemic?”
My drug-clogged brain could do nothing with that.
“First Ryan takes a powder, then you.”
Seriously? “You’re welcome for the photocopies,” I said.
Slidell made a noise I took to mean thanks.
“You pulled your own disappearing act.” I yanked a tissue from the box and held it to my nose.
“Had to check out a lead on the Leal thing.”
“What lead?”
“Guy walking on Morningside Friday afternoon spotted a kid getting into a car. Said she looked upset.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning the moron’s got the IQ of lentil soup. But the time line fits, and the guy’s sketch of the kid skews right.”
“Did he get the license?”
“Two digits. What the hell’s wrong with your voice?”
“It could be a break.”
“Or it could be the toad’s hallucinating.”
“What’s with you and Tinker?”
“Guy’s like something crawled out of a saucer at Roswell.”
Slidell’s negativity didn’t surprise me. His knowledge of the alleged UFO incident did.
“Is it just that Tinker’s state?”
“It’s all bullshit.”
“What do you mean?”
“The SBI’s taken a real hosing in the press lately. Now some asshole in Raleigh’s decided a clear on a serial involving kids is just the spit shine they need.”
Beginning in 2010, the SBI had been rocked by a scandal involving the serology and bloodstain units in its forensics lab. The North Carolina attorney general commissioned an investigation, and the conclusions were blistering. Faulty lab reports. Failure to report contradictory results. A unit director who lied about his training, perhaps perjured himself. Prosecutorial bias up the wazoo.
Defense attorneys throughout the state did the happy dance.
Appeals were submitted. Convictions were overturned. The ensuing avalanche of litigation was expected to cost North Carolina millions.
The media went batshit.
In the end, heads rolled, including that of the lab director. The legislature enacted a number of reforms. Procedures and policies were revamped. The accreditation process was changed. The SBI was still battling to restore credibility.
Was Slidell right? Was the bureau inserting itself into our investigation in an attempt to rehab its image?
“You think Tinker was sent to this morning’s meeting because of politics?”
“Nah. I think he likes the pickles they serve downstairs.”
“Nance has been cold for years. Isn’t it risky for the SBI to insist on involvement in such an old unsolved?”
“The public sees a clear, they’re heroes. They don’t, we’re the dumb rubes who screwed up.”
I had to admit, that made some sense. “SBI input isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Maybe Tinker can help. You know, bring a different perspective.”
“The fuckstick’s already on my back.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I’m topping his speed dial.”
“Perhaps he has something useful to tell you.”
“He’s trying to slime into my case.”
Sensing further discussion of Tinker would be unproductive, I changed tack. “What’s your take on Rodas?”
“Lose the cap. It ain’t bear season.”
“Actually, it is. In some counties.”
“Guy seems okay.”
“His first name is Umpie.”
“No shit.”
“No shit.”
“I may have to rethink my view. Look, while I’m tied up with Leal, what say you go back over Nance. See if anything jumps out at you.”
“Sure.” I closed my eyes for a moment. Rebunched the tissue. “You think you’ll find her alive?”
“I gotta get back on the street.”
Three beeps, then dead air.
Birdie was in the kitchen staring at his dish. I filled it.
No appetite, but I forced myself to eat. Tuna on toast. Gourmet.
When I was finished, I took the Nance file to the dining room and spread the folders on the table. I started with the case review I’d glanced at earlier.
The cold meds were still jamming my wiring. And the morning’s retelling of the horror had me on edge. Instead of Lizzie Nance, I kept seeing the old house on rue de Sébastopol. The dank cellar where Pomerleau and Catts had caged their victims.
The case had started quietly enough. Many do. A pizza-by-theslice joint. Leaky pipes. A long forgotten staircase.
Who knew why the plumber ventured into the basement. How he spotted the human femur sticking out of the dirt.
The proprietor called the cops. The cops called me.
I excavated three partial skeletons, one in a box, two buried naked in shallow graves. I brought them to my lab for analysis. Young girls.
Foul play? No one thought so at first. The bones were probably ancient, like the rat-infested building under which they lay.
Radioactive isotopes proved that theory wrong.
Ryan worked the case also. And a city cop named Luc Claudel.
In the end we learned the names of the dead. The names of their killers.
But questions remained.
The bones provided no clue as to cause of death. Did the girls die of starvation? Abuse? Loss of will to live another day in hell?
We learned of one captive from a journal entry. Never found her remains. Kimberly Harris. Hamilton. Hawking. Where was this young woman whose name I couldn’t remember? Did she lie somewhere in an unmarked grave? Did others?
One victim had survived, and I’d thought of her from time to time ever since. Asked myself: Is recovery possible after years of torture and isolation? After a childhood stolen by madness?
Andrew Ryan also invaded my thoughts. More fragmented images.
Ryan’s features gouged from darkness by the soft yellow of my porch light.
Ryan’s tears as he talked of Lily’s death. His embarrassment at having shed them.
Ryan’s back receding into the night.
Ryan didn’t inform his superiors, didn’t take leave. He told no one his destination or when he’d return. If he’d return.
That no one included me.
I’d numbed the pain by blocking Ryan from my thoughts.
Now, as I tried to focus, it all crashed back.
Murdered children in Montreal. Murdered children in Vermont, possibly Charlotte. The unthinkable. The horrific possibility that Anique Pomerleau was active again.
Pressure to locate a man I’d forced myself to forget. To persuade him to reenter a world he’d abandoned.
And waves of fever rolling over me.
At nine I gave up.
After a hot, steamy shower, I downed two more tabs and dropped back into bed.
I’d been there only moments when the landline rang.
The voice blindsided my overwrought, overmedicated brain.
CHAPTER 4
I LOVE THE Carolina mountains. Love driving the narrow two lanes that worm like twisty black ribbons through the humpty-back giants.
That morning the beauty was wasted on me. I hadn’t the time. Or the mindset for a Blue Ridge outing.
The dashboard clock said 7:44 A.M. I’d been up two hours, on the road ninety minutes. Surprisingly, I felt good. Or at least better. God bless chemistry.
Just before Marion, I turned east off Highway 226. The sun floated above the horizon, a yellow-orange ball winking on and off as I rounded curve after curve. Long slanted rays sparked mist still lingering in low spots between the ridges.
I passed a field with a chocolate mare grazing side by side with her colt. Both raised their heads and ears, mildly curious, then resumed eating.
Within minutes a sign peeked from the foliage on my right. Wrought-iron script announced the entrance to Heatherhill Farm. Discreetly. If you don’t know we’re here, just keep on motoring.
I turned onto an unmarked strip of asphalt arrowing through enormous azaleas and rhododendron. When I cracked the window, a post-dawn mix scented the car’s interior. Pine, wet leaves, damp earth.