Bad news and good news.
No photos from Cagle.
No photos from the Grim Reaper.
I spent the weekend wondering about the Lancaster bones. If the skull and postcranial remains belonged to the same person, it wasn’t Brian Aiker. Who was it?
Did the privy skull really go with Cagle’s skeleton? I’d been so sure, but it was just instinct. I had no hard data. Could we actually have two unknowns?
What had happened to Brian Aiker? To Charlotte Grant Cobb?
I also pondered the whereabouts of Tamela Banks and her family. The Bankses were unsophisticated people. How could they simply disappear? Why would they do so?
On Saturday morning I made a quick visit to the Bankses’ home. The shades were still drawn. A pile of newspapers lay on the porch. No one answered my rings or knocking.
Ryan phoned daily, updating me on the condition of his sister and niece. Things were not sunny in Halifax.
I told Ryan about Ricky Don Dorton’s demise, about my discussions with Hershey Zamzow concerning bear poaching and the missing wildlife agents, and about Jansen’s goldenseal findings. He asked if I’d reported the Grim Reaper e-mails to Slidell or Rinaldi. I assured him that I had, and that they were increasing surveillance of my place and Lija’s town house.
Each time we disconnected, the annex felt oddly empty. Ryan was gone, his belongings, his smell, his laugh, his cooking. Though he’d only been in my home a short time, his presence had filled the place. I missed him. A lot. Much more than I ever would have imagined.
Otherwise, I puttered, as my mother would call it. Runs and walks with Boyd. Talks with Birdie. Hair conditioning. Eyebrow plucking. Plant watering. Always with an eye to my back. An ear to the air for strange noises.
Saturday Katy talked me into a late-night soiree at Amos’s to listen to a band named Weekend Excursion. The group was punchy, talented, and powerful enough to be picked up by instruments in deserts listening for signs of life in space. The crowd stood and listened, enthralled. At one point I screamed a question into Katy’s ear.
“Doesn’t anyone dance?”
“A few geeks might.”
The old ABBA song “Dancing Queen” ran through my head.
Times change.
After Amos’s, we had nightcaps one door over at a pub called the Gin Mill. Perrier and lime for me, a Grey Goose martini for Katy. Straight up. Dirty. With extra olives. My daughter was definitely a big girl now.
On Sunday we did manicure-pedicure mother-daughter bonding, then hit golf balls on the driving range at Carmel Country Club.
Katy had been a star on the Carmel swim team, semi-swimming her first lane rope-clinging freestyle at age four. She’d grown up on Carmel’s golf courses and tennis courts, hunted Easter eggs, and watched Fourth of July fireworks on its lawns.
Pete and I had feasted on Carmel buffets, danced under the twirling New Year’s Eve globes, drunk champagne, admired the ice sculptures. Many of our closest friendships had been formed at the club.
Though I remained legally married, entitling me to use of all facilities, it felt strange to be there, like revisiting a vaguely remembered place. The people I saw were like visions in a dream, familiar yet distant.
That evening Katy and I ordered pizza and watched
Monday morning I rose early and checked my e-mail.
Still no photos from Cagle or messages from the Grim Reaper.
After spinning Boyd around the block, I headed to the MCME, confident that the Cagle report would be on my desk.
No fax.
By nine-thirty I’d called Cagle four times at each of his numbers. The professor still didn’t answer.
When the phone rang at ten I nearly burst from my skin.
“Guess you heard.”
“Heard what?”
Slidell picked up on the disappointment in my voice.
“What? You were expecting a call from Sting?”
“I was hoping it was Wally Cagle.”
“You still waiting on that report?”
“Yes.” I twisted the spirals of the cord around my finger. “It’s odd. Cagle said he’d fax it on Thursday.”
“Walter?” Slidell drew the name into three syllables.
“That was four days ago.”
“Maybe the guy hurt himself pulling up his tights.”
