Bones of the Lost (8 page)

“Yo, doc.” In the background I could hear the play-by-play of a baseball game.

“How’re you coming on the hit-and-run vic?”

“Tomorrow—”

“Have you canvased the neighborhood? There are a few shops along Old Pineville Road.”

“Like I said—”

“What about body shops?”

“I’m on it.”

“Clothing and boot shops?”

“On it.”

“Clinics?”

No response.

“Did you drop by St. Vincent de Paul?”

“On it.”

“On it when?” Slidell’s cavalier attitude was pissing me off.

“Look, we got nada. We’re going to get nada. If she’s illegal, no one’s gonna come forward. If she’s on the stroll, no one’s gonna come forward.”

Deep down I suspected Slidell was right. Still.

“How about running her picture in the paper?”

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“Can’t hurt, right?”

“Neither can tossing goat turds into the sea.” Deep sigh. “Look, I ain’t blowing you off. A few hours ago I caught an MP with ties to the mayor. Single mother, two kids, steady job at the Rite Aid. Gone. Chief says I got no life till the lady is found.”

The line went silent.

I sat, irritated but not totally discouraged. Though sometimes slow out of the gate, Slidell usually came through in the stretch. Unless preoccupied. Enter high-pressure missing-person case.

I pictured the girl with the pink barrette.

I pictured Katy the last time I’d seen her, at Fort Hood the day she graduated from basic combat training. Instead of barrettes she wore camouflage fatigues, boots, and a black beret. Her body was rock hard, her long blond hair tightly knotted at the nape of her neck.

Throughout that day, I’d fought back tears of pride. Tears of dread.

The same dread I felt sitting alone in that parking deck.

What if Katy disappeared and no one bothered to find her? To determine if she was dead or alive?

The human brain is a switching station that operates on two levels.

As my hand turned the key, my higher centers sent up images of a lonely stretch of two-lane.

Instead of going home toward Myers Park, I wound through uptown toward I-77.

Took the southbound ramp.

Headed toward Woodlawn.

T
HE STRETCH OF OLD PINEVILLE
Road I was driving had once been the main route from Charlotte to Pineville. But the town and the road had both seen better days. And busier. South Boulevard, to the east, now had all the action, and few motorists made this strip their final destination.

I flicked on my turn signal and tapped the brakes. Double beams bore down on my trunk. A horn blared and a large mass swerved around me, taillights like glowing red eyes in the darkness.

After reversing direction, back toward uptown, I pulled to the shoulder and studied my surroundings. No sidewalks. No traffic signals. Deadly for pedestrians.

Off my passenger side ran a broad strip of weeds and scrub vegetation. Beyond that, the tracks of the Lynx Blue Line, the first and only spur on Charlotte’s light-rail system.

Had the girl come here by train? To what station? Woodlawn? Scaleybark? If she’d descended from a Lynx platform, might someone have seen her?

Had she come by car? On foot? Was she alone? With a companion? A kindly stranger who’d offered a lift? A burger? A drink?

And, above all, why? Why was she here? Larabee was placing her time of death at somewhere between eleven and two. What had lured a teenage girl to this isolated spot in the middle of the night? With no jacket in the chilly weather.

I knew the CSU techs had photographed and bagged every scrap of evidence. So why was
I
here after my long, frustrating, blister-raising day?

To see for myself. To hear. To smell. To sense the place.

Keys firmly in my pocket, I popped the door. A gust of wind caught my hair and flipped the hem of my jacket. Though summer lingered by day, come sunset the air was already turning cool.

I zipped up to my chin.

I was more warmly dressed than my Jane Doe had been. Why? An adolescent fashion statement? A rushed departure? Anticipation of an evening indoors?

I pictured the high-heeled boots and denim skirt. Meaningless. Kids dressed like that to hang out at the mall, attend school, or party with friends.

A train whistled softly in the distance. Not the light rail. A freight line on parallel tracks. Norfolk Southern? CSX? Aberdeen and Carolina Western?

Had the girl hopped from a boxcar and walked to Old Pineville Road? A long shot, but possible.

If the girl had arrived by car, it was doubtful she asked to be dropped here. Did the driver force her to disembark? Why? An argument? The conclusion of a cash transaction?

I thought about the semen stains.

Was the sex consensual? Was it followed by a disagreement, her slamming from a vehicle in anger? Was she raped, then tossed aside like last week’s trash?

Was Slidell right? Had the girl tried to turn a trick and been run over by a renegade john?

I scanned the far side of the road, saw the black silhouettes of commercial buildings. Pewter-gray space between.

I thought about the US Airways club card in the girl’s purse. About John-Henry Story. Why was she carrying a dead man’s plastic? Had she been traveling with him the last time he used it? Going where? Had he given the card to her? Had she stolen it from him? It was nothing she could have used without him present. Why had she kept it?

The girl’s body was found near the intersection of Old Pineville and Rountree, a short distance in front of me. Was she running when
hit? Standing still? Walking? How far had she crawled after being struck?

A truck rumbled by, arcing wide to avoid my Mazda.

Note to self: Have Slidell check with truckers frequenting this route. Appeal to motorists driving here late last night. But he would know to do those things.

Did the girl see the vehicle that killed her? Did she try to avoid it, or was she hit before sensing danger?

I stood a moment, shivering, listening. The silence was broken only by the
tic-tic
of a wind-tossed wrapper. A muted car horn.

My nose took in the scent of oily cement. Exhaust. Dry leaves, the way they smell only in autumn.

I scanned up and down the pavement. On the opposite side, maybe a quarter mile behind me, I detected a faint blue-and-red twinkle I hadn’t noticed before. Sliding behind the wheel, I hung a U-ey and drove toward it.

The twinkle came from a white stucco cube that probably began life as a filling station. Christmas lights rimmed a front window in which faded announcements covered most of the glass. Red lettering on the front wall identified the establishment as the Yum-Tum Convenience Mart.

The only vehicles present in the Yum-Tum’s lot were a rusty gray pickup and an ancient red Ford Escort. I parked beside the truck and got out.

Through the iron-barred glass door I could see a single clerk behind a chest-high counter. An alarm beeped when I entered.

I noted ceiling cameras, one facing the counter, another in a corner, pointed at the door. Both looked old. I guessed they were programmed to rerecord every twenty-four hours.

If they functioned at all.

Note to self. Ask Slidell about security tapes.

A man in Bermuda shorts, high-top sneakers, and a Panthers jersey was paying at the register. While waiting him out, I took in more detail.

Beer, soft drinks, and milk in the coolers. Racks of salted this and fried that, with warnings of health hazards printed on the bags. Donuts under warming lights, glistening like plastic. Hot dogs revolving on a greasy rotisserie. The place was an intestinal terrorist attack.

Wordlessly, the clerk handed Bermudas his change. She had platinum hair, milky skin, and dark goth eyes. The effect was both tough and innocent. Like a preteen Halloween mishap.

As Bermudas exited, I plucked a pack of mints and approached the counter.

“Busy shift?”

“That it?”

“It is.” I held out a ten. “Were you working last night?”

“I work every weeknight.”

“So you saw the accident?”

The Morticia eyes rose to mine. Narrowed. “Sort of.”

“What’d you make of it?”

“Why are you asking?”

“I’m with the medical examiner’s office. I examined the victim.”

“Like, her body?”

No, genius. Her argyle socks. “Yes, her body.”

“You’re, like, the coroner?”

“I work for the medical examiner.”

“Like, at a morgue?”

Remove the word
like
from her vocabulary and the kid would be tongue-tied.

“Yes.”

“I guess that’s cool.” She slammed the register and handed me my change. “Did you have to go to school for, like, decades?”

“Yes. May I ask your name?”

“Shannon King.”

“Are you a student, Shannon?” I gestured at an anthology of short stories lying on the counter.

“I’m taking some classes at CPCC.”

“That’s very enterprising.”

“My English instructor makes us keep a blog. It’s a bitch, because, you know, I’m here every night, some afternoons. How much can you say about Cheetos and Pepsi?”

“Must make you a good observer.”

King eyed me, uncertain if I was mocking her. Then, “I guess.”

“The accident, for example.”

“I saw zip. Heard nothing until the sirens.”

“Really?”

“Look, I thought what you’re thinking. I said to myself, Shannie, you must’ve heard something. Tires. Wham-o. Something. I didn’t.”

“Until the sirens.”

She drew a breath, then her upper teeth came down on her lower lip.

“Except?” I prompted.

“I don’t want to sound stupid.”

Too late.

“Of course you won’t,” I said.

“I’m not sure. I may be, like, backfilling.”

“Any little thing could turn out to be important.”

“Maybe someone screamed. But not nearby. And it was more like a yelp. But it could have been a passing driver changing radio stations. Or a cat.”

“Or a scream.”

“Yeah, a scream.”

“You didn’t go out to check?”

“Yeah, I did. The store was, like, totally empty. But there was nothing. Same as every night.”

“Did you see any vehicles slowing or accelerating rapidly?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“It was good that you looked.”

“Listen, I’ll try to comb my memory.” She shrugged, embarrassed at what she viewed as unbridled enthusiasm. “Might help my blog. That’s all.”

“That would be good.”

“Or I can ask customers. Be cool about it, you know. Like, ‘Did you see that accident Monday night?’ The way you did with me.”

I passed her the Polaroid I’d taken in the morgue cooler. “Have you ever seen this girl?”

“Is that her?” Staring at the photo. “The girl that got killed?”

“Yes.”

“Holy shit. She’s young.”

“Yes.”

“What’s her name?”

“We don’t know. We’re trying to find out.”

“I wish I could help.” She started to slide the photo toward me on the counter. Stopped. “I could keep it. Show it around. You want I should do that?”

I considered, decided against it. Not with her alone here at night. No way I wanted her alerting the wrong person.

“I’ll talk to the investigator in charge about getting you a copy.”

“What’s his name?”

“Detective Slidell.”

“He’ll call me?”

“He’ll do that.”

I handed her my card. “Please phone if you think of anything. Anything at all.”

My hand was on the door when her question stopped me.

“What was she doing out here so late?”

“I don’t know, Shannon. But I will find out.”

Thirty minutes later I was home in bed.

T
HAT NIGHT MY DREAMS WERE
ragged snatches, all forgotten upon waking. Save one.

Ryan was walking down a shadowy road overhung with dark, intertwined branches. His back was to me.

I called to him, but he didn’t stop. A car approached from beyond, illuminating his long, lanky form in the brilliance of its headlights.

Ryan turned. Slowly, his features morphed into Pete’s.

The Pete/Ryan figure came toward me, twirling a folded umbrella. When close, he poked my side with the tip, again and again.