Speaking in Bones (36 page)

I offered no comment.

A few seconds, then, “Looks like the countess ain’t alone in there.”

“Oh?”

“The shrink’s using hypnosis. Thinks he’s made another acquaintance.”

“It’s not uncommon that other personalities become known during treatment. Who’s the new one?”

“He don’t want to go into detail.”

Slidell and I both took a tea moment. Then he asked, voice edged with something I couldn’t define, “How common is this dissociating shit?”

“DID sufferers tend to have other issues as well—depression, anxiety, substance abuse, borderline personality disorder—so it’s hard to diagnose. But the condition is rare. I’ve read stats that put the incidence at one one-hundredth of a percent to one percent within the general population.”

Slidell blew a long breath through his nose. “I don’t know. Sounds like defense lawyer mumbo jumbo to me.”

“You remember Herschel Walker?” Knowing Slidell was a football fan.

“Course I do. Walker won the Heisman in ’82.”

“Hang on.” I went to the study, returned, and slid a book across the table. “You read, right?”

“Hilarious. What is this?”

“Breaking Free.”

“I can see that.”

“Walker is the author. In the book he talks about having DID.”

“Are you shitting me?”

I just looked at him. Then shifted gears. “So what will happen to Hoke and the Teagues?”

“Accessory after the fact, obstructing, improper disposal of a human body.” Slidell’s mouth pursed up in disgust. “And these assholes ain’t counting on Jesus for deliverance. They’re already lawyered up.”

“If one day Cora is declared competent, could the DA possibly bring charges? Except for Owen Lee, there are no witnesses, no forensics or physical evidence.”

“We got the video of the kid in Strike’s car. Maybe her prints. But unless she confesses, or Hoke or a family member agrees to testify, being competent to stand trial don’t mean she was competent at the time of the murders. And which of her personalities would you put on trial? The shrinks’ll say she couldn’t tell right from wrong or adhere to the right. Blah, blah, blah.”

We both knew the chances of prosecution were slim to none. Then Slidell stunned me. With a compliment.

“You know, Doc, when speaking in bones, you’re pretty good. Maybe you’ll come up with something.”

With that Slidell pushed to his feet. I walked him to the door. And he was gone.

A
pril twenty-seven. Ten forty-two
A.M.

Sun pounded through the floor-to-ceiling glass, warming eggshell walls and blond oak floors. Flames danced in a rectangular pit stretching low across a long marble hearth. At our backs, countertops and cabinets gleamed brilliant white and our images reflected off flawless stainless steel.

I loved the place. The place terrified me.

I crossed the dining room to look down on the city twelve stories below. Behind me, a realtor continued the hard sell.

Centreville was busy with the usual Monday morning shoppers, appointment keepers, dog walkers, and stroller-pushing nannies and moms. I leaned forward to peer out past the terrace.

To the east, students hurried in both directions through the gates at McGill. To the west, the Musée des beaux-arts, boutiques, galleries, shops, and residential buildings lined curbs heading toward Westmount, Notre-Dame-de-Grâce, and the West Island beyond.

The last of the mountainous winter drifts had melted, leaving streets and sidewalks iridescent with oily runoff. Here and there, chimneys exhaled thin streams of breath, pale and vaporous against the spectacularly blue sky.

Not yet, but soon the rituals of spring would begin. Jackets and boots would be exchanged for bare limbs and sandals. Tables would appear outside restaurants and pubs. Students would toss Frisbees, picnic, and lounge on newly greened campus lawns.

“…Carrera is one of the most beautiful of all marbles. So soft and warm. And versatile. Don’t you agree, Dr. Brennan?”

I turned back to reengage. The realtor, Claire or Cher, was beaming at me through tiny gold-rimmed readers perched on her nose. The woman’s rigidly disciplined gray pageboy made me think of Shakespeare. Odd, but there you have it.

“And that freestanding tub?
Mon dieu!
This condo, it is truly a gem.”

“An expensive one,” I said.

“But the location is
très
magnifique
!” Claire/Cher had an annoying habit of sucking on her teeth between overly enthusiastic outbursts. She did that now.

“Unfortunately, it’s out of our price range.”

From behind Claire/Cher came a narrow, squinty-eyed look. I kept my face blank.

“
Oui,
but you are a couple of such
élégance
. I had to show it to you.”

“He’s a cop. I’m a scientist.”

“We could move further down market.” Delivered as though suggesting we eat from a dumpster. “But I must warn you. This property will not be available for long.”

“Merci.”
Scooping my jacket and purse from the marvelous stone. “You’ve been very helpful. Detective Ryan and I will discuss it.”

Her stilettos clicked loud and annoyed as she followed us into the corridor, then the elevator. Outside, we went our separate ways, she toward her Beamer, Ryan and I toward rue Crescent and Hurley’s Irish Pub, three blocks south.

It was early and we had our choice of tables. Wanting quiet, we opted for a two-top in the snug. A waitress appeared as we were removing our jackets. Siobhan.

Siobhan asked our pleasure. Ryan ordered a Moosehead and the Guinness beef stew. I went for fish and chips and a Diet Coke. We knew every selection. Didn’t need menus.

“So,” I said.

“So,” Ryan said.

“It’s way over budget,” I said. “Don’t forget, I’ll still have expenses for my place in Charlotte. And we’ll be spending mongo bucks on airline tickets.”

“And lingerie.”

The comment merited no reply.

“It’s a great location,” Ryan said.

“Thanks, Cher.”

“Chantal.”

“What?”

“Her name is Chantal.”

“It should be Shylock.”

“Shylock was a moneylender, not a realtor.”

“She probably has a sideline.”

“So harsh,
madame
.”

Siobhan arrived with our drinks, allowing me time to structure a counterproposal.

“Maybe we should rent,” I said. “At least until we know how the new arrangement will work out.”

I was still reeling from Ryan’s news. He and Slidell retired and in partnership as PIs, one working each side of the border. That was the reason for all their phone conversations. An underlying agenda in Ryan’s stealth strike visit to Charlotte.

“We said in for a penny, in for a pound.” Ryan smiled, and the starburst crinkles at his eyes deepened.

“Penny? That place would put us into competition with the national debt.”

“Which nation?”

“Either,” I said.

“Our condos here will both fetch tidy sums.”

They would. The thought of selling mine knotted my gut. I said nothing.

Siobhan arrived with our food. For several moments we focused on napkins, utensils, and seasoning. Ryan picked up the thread.

“Besides, what’s money? You’ll be royalty one day. The Sultana of Starch and Steam.”

I rolled my eyes at Ryan’s reference to Mama’s upcoming nuptials. Turned out Clayton Sinitch owned not a solo operation but a chain of laundry and dry-cleaning stores. In addition, he’d invented a chemical process that earned him zillions annually. Harry had done some digging. Everyone who knew the guy said he was solid, a kind and generous widower who missed being married.

Generous, indeed. The rock on Mama’s finger was the size of a bagel.

At Daisy’s insistence, the happy couple was postponing the wedding until Katy rotated back Stateside. In the meantime, she and Goose were planning a bash that would, according to Harry, make Kate and William’s little shindig look cheap.

I’d yet to fully admit it to myself, but it was Mama who’d inspired me to take a chance on Ryan. Her exuberance. Her trust. Her belief that love never comes too late in life. Hell, her Aristotelian wisdom about one soul inhabiting two bodies.

“Maybe we should follow Daisy’s lead.” Ryan spoke through a mouthful of stew.

“What lead?” Taking a cue from Birdie, I refrained from comment on proper dining etiquette.

“You do. I do.”

“You’ll do.”

“Funny.”

“I try.”

“I’m serious.”

“Ryan, we agreed that living together is a good first step. By the way, renovations for your office start at the annex this morning.”

“May I hang my Habs poster over my desk?”

“Is it autographed?”

“Yvan Cournoyer.”

“That must be worth something.”

“It is to me. You can hang a picture of Dale Earnhardt in our bedroom here.”

“I just might,” I said. “Can we step out of
House Hunters
mode for a bit?”

“Mais, oui, ma chère.”
Lately Ryan was agreeing to whatever I wanted. “Your face looks much improved.”

“God bless concealer.”

Ryan scarfed a chip from my plate. “Are you feeling better about Cora and Strike? About the whole Brown Mountain mess?”

“I don’t know. The investigation was so confusing. First Cora looked like a victim. Then she looked like a vicious killer. In the end she turned out to be both.”

“But a victim of a very different sort. Of ignorance and religious fanaticism.”

“Still, it’s all so very sad. Cora should have spent her summers playing tennis and slapping on suntan lotion, her weekends drinking cheap wine with her BFFs. Giggling at a teacher’s bad hair, crying over boys, laughing over boys, whispering in the dark about first kisses. Instead, because of Hoke’s delusional freak show, she spent her days under the watchful eyes of Daddy and Jesus, her nights terrified that her body was a safe house for Satan.”

Ryan reached out and ran a thumb across my cheek. “True believers can be the most dangerous of all,” he said softly.

Our eyes locked, blue on hazel. Inexplicably, I felt the old flicker of unease, there sharp and fast as a pinprick, then gone. I banished the uncertainty and took Ryan’s hand.

“Yes,” I agreed. “They can.”

“Hoke and the Teagues will do time,” he said. “The Brices are healing. Cora is receiving the care she needs. It’s the best of all possible worlds.”

“Thank you, Candide.”

“You should be pleased.”

“I am.” I was. So why the confusion?

I took a sip of Coke. A poke at the muddle of emotions churning inside me.

“In a way, I’m most sorry for Grandma Gulley. The old woman lost her husband, her son, and her grandson. Hoke, her trusted adviser on all things godly, is heading to the slammer. I hope she can see reason and mend her relationship with Susan Grace.”

“The kid’s plucky.”

“Plucky?”

“Susan Grace will be fine.”

We ate without speaking for a while, each of us lost in our own private thoughts. I broke the silence with a question that had been troubling me.

“So who had the most irrational take on reality? Cora with her alter egos? Or Hoke and the Teagues with their belief in demonic forces?”

“Don’t forget Sarah Winchester with her unwinnable battle against guilt.”

“Salvation through construction.” I’d forgotten telling Ryan about the outlandish mansion in San Jose.

“Dissociation. Exorcism. Delusions of architecture. They’re all mechanisms to deal with a world that is too overwhelming.”

“Not bad, Ryan.”

“But, since you ask, Ramsey’s parents get my vote.”

I floated a brow.

“Who names a kid Zebulon?”

I bunched and tossed my napkin. Ryan batted the incoming down with one hand. “Here’s one that’s been bothering me,” he said. “What does create the lights on Brown Mountain?”

I raised both brows and palms in a “Who knows?” gesture.

“Still an unsolved mystery,” he said.

“It is,” I agreed.

Then Ryan’s face went solemn. Reaching across the table, he took my hand in his.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you, Tempe. It must have been terrifying in that kennel. Cora. Hoke. Owen Lee. The dogs.”

“Slidell and Ramsey did just fine.”

“It should have been me.”

“No, Ryan. It’s much better that it wasn’t you rushing in to save me.”

“I like to rush in to save you.”

“I’m serious. I think—” I stopped. What did I think? “The possibility of imbalance was part of my hesitation in committing to”—I sought the perfect word, settled—“a relationship.”

“To us.”

“Yes. To us. I guess I botched my explanation the day you came to Charlotte.”

“Your meaning was clear.”

“I have to be my own person, Ryan. To fight my own battles, win or lose. I can’t play damsel in distress to your Galahad.”

“Message received, then and now. Just remember the next time you get a flat tire.”

My eye roll was epic.

“So. What about it?” Ryan did one of his famous fast segues. “Can we afford Shylock’s condo?”

I looked into the astoundingly blue eyes. Into the face that I’d loved for so many years.