Page 9 of The Bone Code
Inara had made landfall as a Cat 2 storm between Savannah and Charleston around nine the previous night. After a five-hour tantrum, she’d moved offshore and was now Virginia’s problem.
Good news. Charlotte had caught only her western edge.
I opened the closet door. Pearl-gray light was seeping between the closed slats of the plantation shutters, throwing off-angle slashes onto the floor.
I crawled out into the hall. Birdie, ever cautious, remained huddled in the blankets.
Inside the annex, all was quiet. No humming refrigerator orblowing AC. Outside, bird chatter high above and the staccato barking of a distant dog.
Using my iPhone for illumination, I made a quick tour of both floors. Save for a torn screen on one bedroom window, everything appeared to be intact.
Coffee was impossible, so I got a Diet Coke from the slumbering fridge, then crossed the kitchen. Despite much forceful shoving and shouldering, the back door wouldn’t budge. Encountering no such impediment in front, I stepped out onto the stoop.
As is typical following hurricanes, the air seemed extraordinarily clear and crisp. The sky, slowly brightening, was unmarred by even the tiniest of clouds.
Sharon Hall looked as if a bomb had gone off. Trees were down, and debris and vegetation covered the grounds. Uprooted shrubs lay jumbled along the manor house foundation, and a trash can hung wedged between its pillars. Two concrete urns lay shattered on the porch, soil and begonias spewing from them like innards from a squashed roach.
Slowly, my neighbors began to emerge, hesitant but game, like survivors of some B-movie apocalypse. Most were already suited up for yard work. A few pushed wheelbarrows. Many carried garden tools.
I went inside, brushed my teeth, and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. After locating a pair of old work gloves, I joined the recovery effort, doing my bit with a very questionable rake.
Shortly after nine, word spread that the power had been restored. I took a break to return to the annex to plug in my mobile. And to rejoice. I have to admit, I’m a huge fan of electricity.
Birdie had ventured forth, startled awake when the bare bulb in his haven lit up. He was calmer, but still needed two milligrams of something to restore him to normal.
I was heading back outside when my newly connected mobile warbled. The first of three calls that day. Not the one that would send my life off-kilter.
Recognizing the number, I steeled myself. Previous conversations had shown that—I’m being kind here—Lloyd Thorn lacked certain interpersonal skills.
“Good morning, Mr. Thorn.”
“I wasn’t sure I’d get through. A real pisser, this storm.”
“We’ve just started to clean up the mess.”
“My clients are shitting their shorts waiting for your take.”
“I understand.”
“Don’t misread me. Tereza’s death is a freakin’ tragedy. But my clients did nothing wrong. It’s an outrage they’re sitting in jail.”
“Please hold while I get my notes.”
Resuming the conversation, I placed Thorn on speaker. I could hear him fidgeting impatiently, probably clicking a ballpoint pen.
“I’m somewhat limited having never examined Tereza or viewed a photo of her. But I did spend several hours with the X-rays.”
“Let’s cut to the chase.”
“In my opinion, Tereza at the time of her death was in her early to mid-twenties. I believe she had a condition called Silver-Russell syndrome, or SRS.”
“What’s that?” The clicking stopped. Paper rustled.
“A congenital growth disorder tha—”
“I went to law school, not med school. For now, just the basics.”
“SRS can explain the stunted growth.”
