Speaking in Bones by Kathy Reichs
“Dissociation is a coping mechanism—the person simply disconnects from situations that are too violent, traumatic, or painful to assimilate with the conscious self. The condition is thought to result from prolonged childhood trauma.”
“So, what? The bastards beat her? Or raped her?”
“The abuse doesn’t have to be physical. Or sexual. It can be psychological. In Cora’s case, the severe isolation imposed because of her epilepsy combined with extreme religious fanaticism.”
Slidell watched a droplet break free and roll down his glass, swiped the track, then licked his thumb. “This shrink I been talking to thinks maybe Cora didn’t kill Eli, or maybe didn’t kill him on purpose. Either way, he thinks Eli’s death jump-started her flipping out or fragmenting or whatever the hell you call it.”
“Then the older sisters started leaving home.” I picked up the narrative. “Eventually Cora went to work for the Brices. She’d never been on her own before, had hardly met anyone outside the family or church, had never even seen TV. She couldn’t handle the freedom, the responsibility. She was completely overwhelmed. She or an alter killed River Brice.”
“I’ve been talking to Owen Lee. Hoke some. Their stories track with that.”
“John?”
“The arrogant prick keeps hand-jobbing the idea that the kid is controlled by Satan.”
“What do Hoke and Owen Lee say?”
“Cora offed the baby because she was possessed by a demon.”
“So their treatment was to lock her in their spanking-new kennel and shake crucifixes at her.” I’d meant to keep my voice neutral, but a note of bitterness now crept in. The thought of Cora in that place still sickened me. “Mason loved her. He guessed they had her, but didn’t know where they’d taken her.”
“Scared shitless of being next on the hymn list, he split for Johnson City. When Susan Grace mentioned seeing Cora, he figured it out, bought the recorder, came back to Avery and slipped the thing to her.”
“Mason probably planned to expose Hoke by giving the audio to the cops or the media. Maybe to a legit priest.” I’d thought this through. Over and over.
“You think Cora made the tape on purpose?” Slidell asked.
“We may never know. The device was voice-activated.” I took a sip of tea. “Have you learned how Mason got to her?”
“According to Owen Lee, he had a key.” At my surprised look. “During the church renovation they’d send him on supply runs to the store and the kennel.”
Birdie strolled in, paused to consider, decided to join us. We watched him work maneuvers around Slidell’s ankle, both picturing the scene when Mason returned to Cora’s little cell. Slidell spelled it out.
“So the kid goes back to collect the recorder. Cora snaps, kills and dismembers him. When Owen Lee shows up she’s covered with blood and Mason’s head’s in a bucket. He calls Daddy. Daddy says deal with it. And pray.”
“So Owen Lee chucks the body parts from the overlooks. Did he choose the locations because of Brown Mountain?”
Slidell shook his head. “No voodoo there. He knew them from hiking.”
“The DNA results came back yesterday,” I said. “It was Mason’s hair caught in the concrete. The olive oil and incense must have transferred to him from Cora.”
“The fingertips in the pine tar?”
“Also Mason.”
A beat as we both thought about that.
“And it was the same scenario for Hazel Strike.” Lucky. I swallowed. “Strike drives Cora to Charlotte. Cora dissociates and kills her. Owen Lee shows up, dumps Strike’s body in the pond, then hauls little sister back up to Avery.”
“That’s Owen Lee’s version, though he denies Cora killed anyone.”
“Who did?”
“The Evil One.”
“Right.” I didn’t bother hiding my revulsion.
“Lucifer or no, Owen Lee admits that, as a precaution, he smashed Strike’s phone and threw it over a guardrail, later pitched her computer into the dumpster in Banner Elk.”
“What about the recorder?”
“He claims he never saw it. I’m guessing Strike stashed the thing somewhere to keep you from getting it.”
“It wasn’t in her house?”
Slidell shook his head. “Good chance we’ll never find it.”
“Where do you think the murder went down?”
“My money’s on the park. That’s where Owen Lee says he found Cora. And CSU pulled a metal hiking stick out of the pond. When we tossed Strike’s house we found a couple like it in the garage. I’m guessing she kept one in her car. I’ve got a team back out there now.”
“Do you know how Cora hooked up with Strike?”
“Fatima came through on that one. She says Strike showed up at their house that Saturday. John threw her out, later found Cora missing. Seems they had a set of padded and locked rooms where they kept the kid when Hoke wasn’t waging his holy war against her demons.”
“Somehow Cora got out and persuaded Strike to take her away,” I said.
“When John discovered her gone he called Owen Lee. Owen Lee hotfooted it down to Charlotte.”
“How did he know where to go?”
“Strike left contact info in case anyone experienced a change of heart about talking to her.”
“Including a home address?”
“What the dame lacked in caution she made up for in zeal.”
“It was Owen Lee who sent the rock over the edge at the Devil’s Tail trail.”
“Yeah. He overheard you and Ramsey at Wiseman’s View, panicked, and followed you. Says he just wanted to scare you off. Owen Lee ain’t the brightest stripe on the flag.”
“No,” I agreed. “He’s not.”
“Here’s what I don’t get. How does a timid little mouse like Cora wig out and turn into a stone-cold murderer?”
“Some people with dissociative disorders have a tendency toward self-sabotage. Others turn the violence outward. But remember, in a way Owen Lee is right. It wasn’t Cora doing the killing. It was her alter. And I think you’ve put your finger on it. I’m not a psychiatrist, but I suspect Elizabeth Báthory emerged because of Cora’s sense of powerlessness.”
“And this chick makes her kill?”
“Not exactly. When under sufficient stress, Cora becomes Elizabeth. It is Elizabeth who is doing the killing.”
“Who the hell is she?”
“The bloody countess.”
“That clears it up.”
“Elizabeth Báthory has been branded the most prolific female serial killer in history. She was tried for torturing and murdering hundreds of girls.”
“When was this?”
“The sixteenth century. In Hungary.”
“Helluva way to get her rocks off.”
“Legend has it she liked to bathe in the blood of virgins to retain her youth.”
“Great role model.”
“Cora’s subconscious saw Báthory as powerful.”
“This kid wasn’t allowed TV or the Internet. Her books were screened, and, except for school and church, she wasn’t allowed outa the house. How’d she learn about this countess?”
“Katalin Brice is Hungarian. Cora probably found history books in their home.”
“So no speaking in tongues.”
I shook my head. “Nope. She was speaking Hungarian.”
“Well, she sure as hell was speaking in blood.”
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?”
“DI
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.
April 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,
“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?