Speaking in Bones (12 page)

B
irdie, up before the alarm, persuaded me to wake by chewing my hair.

The cat feigned starvation, so we moved directly to breakfast. As he crunched Science Diet, I ate a bagel with cream cheese and downed high test strong enough to hold the spoon upright.

Satiated, Bird scouted locales for his first morning nap. I filled a thermos with the remaining coffee, then made sandwiches and snugged them into my pack, all the while marveling at the presence of salami and cheese in the fridge. I had zero recall of buying either.

As I prepped, opposing feelings vied inside me. It was Saturday. Duke was playing Carolina in the NCAA final four, and I wanted to stay home, order pizza, and watch the game. I wanted to determine the identity of ME229-13.

Back in my room, I checked the weather forecast on my mobile. Charlotte was looking at sunny skies and a max of forty-five degrees. An icon indicated two missed calls. I clicked over.

Ryan had phoned but left no message. The familiar nagging guilt knocked softly. I refused it entry.

Hazel Strike had phoned. She asked that I call her back.

Knowing it would be colder at higher elevations, I dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved tee, wool socks, and field boots. Grabbing an extra sweater, I jammed the phone into my pocket and clumped downstairs. A moment gathering outerwear and my backpack, then I set off. It was 6:45
A.M.

I drove I-85 south to Gastonia, then 321 north to Hickory and onto I-40 west. The skyscrapers of the city, then the cookie cutter homes and strip malls of the burbs, slid by in the darkness around me. I paid no attention. My thoughts were on Mama. And Ramsey. And a place high in the mountains I’d never seen.

By the time I reached Morganton, the world beyond my windshield was a Monet canvas of muted ambers and greens. Utility poles, trees, and fence posts threw long fun-house shadows across the road and the fields stretching from each shoulder.

I rode north on 181 to Jonas Ridge, then cut left and looped back southwest on NC 183. Winding through the Pisgah National Forest for the second time in a week, I passed only four other vehicles. I counted.

Eventually I spotted a sign pointing the way to Wiseman’s View. I turned onto Route 1238, a forest service access road, gravel and barely wide enough for one car. I was just a few miles from the tiny community of Linville Falls.

After four miles of sharp turns and steep changes in gradient, which I can’t say I enjoyed, a second sign appeared among the foliage. I turned in to a paved parking area, wondering how many automotive parts and dental restorations had rattled loose.

Surprisingly, several cars were present—a red Camry, a pickup with a crack running the windshield in the shape of Cape Cod, a silver Audi A3, a black SUV. The sheriff’s department logo on the SUV told me Ramsey and Gunner had already arrived. I got out and looked around. Neither deputy nor dog was in sight.

The air was brittle with early morning chill. Not the damp Quebec cold that seizes your breath and numbs your face in seconds. But cold enough. And a biting breeze was swirling through the mountains around me.

I slipped into my jacket, then tucked the sweater, cap, and gloves into my pack. After taking my kit from the trunk, I stood a moment to listen.

And heard a symphony of tiny noises. The
tic-tic-tic
of my car’s cooling engine. The steady in and out of my own breathing. The scratch of branches overhead.

I glanced up. The wind was playing hell with a thrush working hard at construction.

Wishing the bird luck, I crossed to an opening in the trees beyond the SUV. It led to a walkway, narrow and, for the moment, paved with crumbling asphalt. The terrain plunged steeply beyond a rusty guardrail contouring its right side. Within yards, the trail cut left, hugging the mountain, and out of sight.

I pride myself on being unflappable. Mostly it’s true. But, full disclosure, one thing flaps me: unprotected heights. It’s not the fall I fear, it’s the hard landing.

Heart beating a little too fast, I adjusted the pack’s shoulder straps, tightened my grip on the kit, and stepped onto the trailhead. The mixed pine and deciduous forest was so thick it was like crossing into a trompe l’oeil mural built of shadow and light. From far below came the sound of energetic water.

I advanced, boot heels scraping loud in the crisp morning air. Here and there, a slash of sunlight strobed to the asphalt and I caught glimpses of the steep drop-off to my right.

Fifty yards ahead I heard footsteps and stopped. In seconds a couple appeared walking single file toward me. She strode confidently, gaze bouncing all around. He moved cautiously, eyes straight ahead. I pressed my back to the cliff face to let them pass.

As the sound of their movement receded, I listened again. Nothing but the muted rush of water.

Another hundred yards, and the walkway ended at a rock outcropping surrounded by the same rusty guardrail. Pulpits had been constructed on two sides, oriented toward points of interest. Four people stood near the one facing west, three gathered close, one off by himself. The three had done their shopping at L.L.Bean. The loner looked like a T. rex dressed for a hike.

Ramsey was elbow-leaning the rail opposite, Gunner at his side.

“Good morning, Carolina!” I called out in a muted Robin Williams DJ voice, the bravado meant mostly to steady my own nerves.

The dog’s ears shot up, then, purple tongue dangling, he trotted forward to meet me. I patted his head.

The deputy watched my approach for a few seconds, then his head swiveled back to the vista he’d been admiring. For a moment we both gazed in silence.

“We’re looking east toward Linville Gorge.”

“Impressive,” I said.

“One of the deepest canyons in the eastern U.S. And one of the most rugged. Know why it’s here?”

I shook my head.

“The Linville River starts high up on Grandfather Mountain, plunges two thousand feet in just twelve miles before leveling out in the Catawba Valley. All that pounding water carved right through the rock.”

“How far are we above the river?”

“Roughly fifteen hundred feet, mostly straight down.” A beat, then, “Ever hear of William and John Linville?”

“No.”

“Father and son explorers. In 1766 the Cherokee took exception to their being here and scalped them both.”

“Ouch.”

The corners of Ramsey’s mouth lifted ever so slightly. “Got their name onto a busload of landmarks.”

It was true. In addition to the gorge and river, caverns, a waterfall, a wilderness area, and several towns bore the name Linville.

“Still a tough way to get press,” I said.

Again, Ramsey may have grinned. Or not. He raised an arm and gestured, fingers straight, palm sideways. “Beyond the gorge is Jonas Ridge.” His hand did little chops as he named a series of rock formations. “Sitting Bear, Hawksbill, Table Rock, the Chimneys. The area’s a labyrinth of hiking trails.”

“Good word, labyrinth,” I said.

He did grin at that. Below the knit cap, drawn low to his brows, his face performed its rearranging act. Oh, boy.

“Where’s Brown Mountain?”

“See that low peak in the distance, beyond the ridge?”

I nodded.

“That’s her. Maybe eight miles off.”

“Where does the light show take place?”

“Most tourists point their cameras there.” He indicated the mountainside opposite.

“Think they’re real?”

“I’ve seen them.” At my look of surprise, “Kind of a flickering, like people waving flashlights around in the trees.”

“What’s your theory?”

“Some say swamp gas.”

“Swamp gas never spontaneously ignites in nature.”

“Agreed. It takes a specific mix of chemicals. Researchers have created it in labs. They say it happens with a pop followed by a blue-green flame.”

“No slow burn.”

“Nope.”

The gaggle behind us moved our way and took up positions along the rail. The loner trailed the others, but again stayed apart.

“Cherokee widows?” I asked.

“So you know the local lore.”

“Very little.”

“Problem is the ladies are supposed to wander the sky, not the land. But the lights aren’t refracted above the ridge, they’re down in the trees.” As though my suggestion had been serious. “And I doubt the Cherokee had lantern technology.”

“Carrying torches for their dead hubbies?”

Ramsey ignored the pun. Or didn’t get it. “I’ve done some looking. Haven’t come across a single mention of such a legend in Cherokee writings. Only references I’ve found are in literature concerning the lights. Doesn’t mean native stories don’t exist. Just means I didn’t find them.”

“Reflections of moonshine stills?” I threw out the only other theory I knew.

“You think illegal moonshiners are going to set up ops right there among the hikers and the rock climbers, in plain view of the state’s most popular overlook?”

“In the heart of the labyrinth.” Jesus. Was I flirting?

Ramsey straightened.

“But cause doesn’t matter. What
may
matter is that a lot of folks believe the lights are real, and that they’re paranormal or mystical or what have you.”

“That the mountain is haunted.”

“In a sense.” Ramsey’s jaw tightened, relaxed. “A few believe they’re the work of the devil.”

It took a moment. Then the implication hit. “Are you suggesting that’s the reason human body parts might have been tossed from these overlooks? Devil worship?”

“Demons? Aliens? Nymphs? Sprites? Who knows? These mountains have more than their share of loons.”

I said nothing.

“Sound crazy?” Ramsey asked.

“I’ve heard crazier.”

Down the rail, the three tourists continued pointing and jabbering. The loner had drifted closer to us. He wasn’t admiring the view. He stood motionless, eyes down, as though mentally plotting his route.

Ramsey straightened. “Crazy or not, no one did any tossing from here.”

“I agree. Too populated. And too hard to access.”

“Let’s roll.”

“Where?”

“The place I’d choose to off-load a body.”

Ramsey strode toward the walkway, Gunner trotting at his heels, leaving me no choice but to follow. When I reached the parking area, the canine was in back, the deputy at the wheel of the SUV. The passenger and rear doors stood wide. Subtle.

I dumped my gear in back and climbed in. After pulling from the lot, Ramsey surprised me by continuing to talk.

“What do you know about the Teagues?”

“Not much.” I told him what I’d learned from Hazel Strike. John. Fatima. Five kids. No MP report on Cora, the second youngest, last seen by an anonymous poster on the websleuth site CLUES.net three and a half years earlier.

“I did some asking around.” Ramsey turned onto 1238, and we began bumping and lurching south along the ridgeline. “Teagues belong to some oddball Pentecostal group. Congregation has maybe a hundred members.”

“What’s it called?”

“Church of Jesus Lord Holiness.”

“Snake handlers?”

I referred to the holiness movement, founded by George Went Hensley back in 1910. Members handle venomous snakes, drink poison, and, if successful in hooking up with the Holy Ghost, speak in tongues. Holiness churches are big in Appalachia, including the mountains of North Carolina.

Ramsey shrugged. “I’ve no idea the theology. All I know is they keep to themselves.”

“If they’re holiness, they wouldn’t be crazy about Satan,” I said.

“Don’t figure they would.” Sun slanted across Ramsey’s face, lighting his nose and deepening the lines and creases cornering his eyes and mouth. “I swung by the Teague place.”

That surprised me. “Were they cooperative?”

“I wasn’t invited in for biscuits, if that’s what you mean. Talked to John through the screen door.”

“What was your impression?”

“Intense.” He thought a moment. “Belligerent.”

“Abusive?”

“Possibly.”

“And the mother?”

“Never saw her.”

“What did John say about Cora?”

“She left with a man. Both are sinners. Both will burn in hell. Get off my property or I’ll bust your ass.”

“Think he’s telling the truth?”

“About busting my ass?”

“About Cora.”

“The guy’s big into God and not what you’d call forgiving.”

Ramsey pulled to the shoulder and cut the ignition. I looked around. Saw nothing but the same mix of trees, the same unpaved road we’d been navigating for the past ten minutes.

After pocketing the keys, Ramsey draped one arm on the wheel and turned sideways toward me. “Except for one thing.”

I couldn’t interpret Ramsey’s expression. But his voice had a hardness that hadn’t been there before. I waited.

“At your suggestion, I dropped by Cannon Memorial yesterday to ask about dropout chemo patients.” Ramsey referred to the Charles A. Cannon, Jr., Memorial Hospital in Linville. “Got zip. But when I floated the name Cora Teague, one doc suggested I take a look at the death of the younger brother.”

“Eli died when he was twelve.”

Ramsey gave me an odd look. “Right.”

“Cause?”

“Acute traumatic subdural hematoma. Parents said he fell down the basement stairs.”

“But this doctor had reservations?”

“He was working the ER back then. Remembers the kid. Couldn’t discuss details because of confidentiality, you know the drill. But he’s always felt that something was off.”

“Meaning the injury didn’t tally with the parents’ version of events?”

Ramsey’s fingers tightened on the wheel. He nodded.

I heard the voice of a terrified girl on a recording. Sensed the dark specter of Brown Mountain outside my window.

“You’re thinking zealot father. Rebellious daughter.” My voice sounded hushed in the quiet interior of the SUV. “Violent death of a younger sibling.”

“Could be a deadly trifecta,” he said.