railroad track. Perhaps drunk. Perhaps naive about the high-speed technology that had so recently come to his town. Cuervo was a harmless
Jimmy Klapec had been driven into the streets by an ignorant and intolerant father. Like Eddie Rinaldi and Glenn Evans, he died because a man went off his meds and lost touch with reality.
Vince Gunther/Vern Ziegler’s life ended why? Because his own brain betrayed him? Because he was evil by nature? Neither Ryan nor I had an answer for that one.
Asa Finney’s death was the most disturbing of all.
“Klapec, senior shot Finney because he was tormented by guilt,” Ryan said.
“No,” I said. “He was driven by fear.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Americans have become a nation afraid.”
“Of?”
“A shooter on a rampage in a school cafeteria. A hijacked plane toppling a high-rise building. A bomb in a train or rental van. A postal delivery carrying anthrax. The power to kill is out there for anyone willing to use it. All it takes is access to the Internet or a friendly gun shop.”
Ryan let me go on.
“We fear terrorists, snipers, hurricanes, epidemics. And the worst part is we’ve lost faith in the government’s ability to protect us. We feel powerless and that causes constant anxiety, makes us fear things we don’t understand.”
“Like Wicca.”
“Wicca, Santeria, voodooism, Satanism. They’re exotic, unknown. We lump and stereotype them and bar the doors in trepidation.”
“Finney was a witch. Lingo’s rhetoric tapped into that fear.”
“That plus the fact that people have lost confidence in the system on other grounds. Klapec was a sad example. There’s a growing belief that, too often, the guilty go free.”
“The O.J. syndrome.”
I nodded. “A bonehead like Lingo stirs the public into a froth and some citizen vigilante appoints himself judge and jury.”
“And an innocent man dies. At least Finney’s death should put an end to Lingo’s political career.”
“It’s ironic,” I said. “The witch and the
“Nothing’s ever what it seems.”
Birdie and I slept upstairs.
Ryan slept on the couch.
39
SUNDAY, I ROSE EARLY AND DROVE RYAN TO CHARLOTTE-DOUGLAS International. Outside the terminal, we hugged. Said good-bye. Didn’t speak of the future.
At eleven I dressed in a dark blue blazer and gray pants. Allen Burkhead met me at the entrance to Elmwood Cemetery. He was holding a key. I was carrying a black canvas bag.
The new coffin was already in place in the tomb. Shiny bronze, a sprightly cradle for a very long slumber.
Burkhead unlocked the casket. I took Susan Redmon’s skull from my bag and nestled it carefully above her skeleton. Then I positioned the leg bones. Last, I tucked a small plastic sack under the white velvet pillow. Precipitin testing had shown that the brain was human. Maybe it was Susan’s, maybe it wasn’t. I doubted she’d mind sharing eternity with another displaced soul.
Weaving back through the tombstones, Burkhead told me he’d done some archival research. Susan Redmon had died giving birth. The child survived, a healthy baby boy. What happened to him? I asked. No idea, Burkhead said.
I felt sadness. Then hope.
In dying, Susan had given life to another being.
My next stop was Carolinas Medical Center. Not the ER, but the maternity center. This time my bag was pink and carried a large fuzzy bear and three tiny sleepers.
The baby was cafe au lait, with a wrinkled face and wild Don King hair. Takeela had named her Isabella for her maternal great-grandmother.
Takeela remained cool and aloof. But when she gazed at her daughter, I understood why she’d phoned to accept my offer of help. Seeing her baby girl, she’d resolved to reach out. To take a chance for Isabella.
Driving home, I thought about death and birth.
Things end and others begin.
Susan Redmon died, but had a son who lived.
Rinaldi was gone, but Slidell was entering into a new partnership.
Cuervo was dead, but Takeela had a new baby girl.
Pete seemed ended. Was I about to embark on a new beginning? With Charlie? With Ryan? With someone new?
Could Ryan and I go back, start over again?
Could America find a new beginning? Could we return to a time when we all felt safe? Protected? Confident in our values and our purpose? Tolerant of customs and belief systems we didn’t understand?
Charlie?
Ryan?
Mr. Right?
How would my sister, Harry, put it?
No way of knowing which hound will hunt.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks go to Dr. Richard L. Jantz, statistical guru behind Fordisc 3.0; to Dr. M. Lee Goff, a most excellent bug guy (his real name is Madison); to Dr. Peter Dean, coroner extraordinaire; and to Dr. William C. Rodriguez, one of the wisest forensic anthropologists in the kingdom. Dr. Leslie Eisenberg, Dr. Norm Sauer, and Dr. Elizabeth Murray also gave input on bone minutiae.
Sergeant Darrell Price, Sergeant Harold (Chuck) Henson, and Detective Christopher Dozier, Charlotte- Mecklenburg Police Department, answered cop questions. Mike Warns shared knowledge and opinions on many things. What he didn’t know, he found out.
Dr. Wayne A. Walcott, Senior Associate Provost, UNC-Charlotte, provided information on the availability of scanning electron microscopes on campus. UNCC has five. Who knew?
I appreciate the continued support of Chancellor Philip L. Dubois of the University of North Carolina- Charlotte.
I am grateful to my family for their patience and understanding, especially when I am grumpy. Or away. Special thanks must go to my daughter, Kerry, who took time to discuss my book while writing her own. (Yay! First novel:
Deepest thanks to my awesome agent, Jennifer Rudolph Walsh; to my brilliant editors, Nan Graham and Susan Sandon; and to my magnificent publisher, Susan Moldow. Thanks to Kevin Hanson and Amy Cormier in Canada. I
