Page 6 of Evil Bones
“Lead on.”
Our feet crunched on the gravel bordering the pavement, went silent as we entered the knee-high scrub beyond. Flying insects rose up and swarmed my face and whined in my ears. Now and then, a loner kamikazed into one of my eyes. I batted the nasty things away as best I could.
The air was thick with the smell of petroleum, heated asphalt, and sunbaked vegetation. Rivulets of sweat began running down my back.
Up close, the oak looked almost primeval, its branches semi-nude and terminating in clawlike twigs. Its scabby bark was black in patches, green with moss in others.
Nailed to the tree’s trunk, roughly ten feet above the ground, was the reason for my visit. Before climbing up, I set down my case and took pics with my iPhone, then expanded and studied the enlarged images.
Faded blue fabric partially wrapped the object, obscuring some detail. But just beneath a weathered old ball cap, within the shadowy folds, I spotted the curve of a cheekbone, the dark recess of an orbit, the yellowed enamel of dentition.
An eight-foot stepladder lay on the ground below the tree. Together, F. Torgeson and I lifted, spread, and maneuvered it into position. He stood at the base as I climbed, a spotter at the ready should his teammate tumble.
One rung. Two. Three.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Otherwise, the only sound was that of my boots hitting the aluminum rungs.
Halfway up, I paused. Surprised.
The smell of decomposing flesh is like no other, sweet and fetid and rank. The odor hung there on the hot, midday air, faint but unmistakable.
Yanking a latex glove from the back pocket of my jeans, I inflated, then snugged it onto my right hand. Probably overkill for an animal DOA, but what the hell. Best to follow protocol.
Two more rungs, then I encountered the flies. They swarmed and darted, whining in protest at the intrusion, the sun iridescent on their blue-green bodies.
Their presence at that height also surprised me.
Shooing the flies with my gloved hand, I mounted the final rung.
And got my first good look.
Holy bloody hell.
CHAPTER 2
My Charlotte home is part of Sharon Hall, a nineteenth-century estate-turned-condo complex adjacent to the Queens University campus. The property’s centerpiece is a redbrick manor house with a wide front porch, white shutters, pediments, and columns. The grounds are accessed via a circle drive cutting through acres of lawn shaded by enormous magnolias. A naïve tourist might mistake the place for a set fromGone with the Wind.
My little abode is just inside the estate’s eastern wall, next to a gnarled old pine. The odd little two-story structure is called the Annex.
Annex to what? No one knows. The building appears on none of the estate’s historic plans. The hall is there. The coach house. The herb and formal gardens. No annex. Clearly, the tiny edifice was a postscript to the original design.
Friends and family used to play games guessing my home’s initialraison d’être. Hothouse? Smokehouse? Playhouse? Kiln? I’d play along. But I’m not much concerned with the architect’s intended purpose.
The Annex’s livable space measures barely fifteen hundred square feet. The kitchen faucet drips. Two staircase treads are warped. Nevertheless, the place suits my needs just fine. Bedroom, bath, and wee study up. Kitchen, dining room, and parlor down.
Why live in a tiny unit with bad plumbing and wonky flooring, you ask? Why not a slick high-rise condo like the one with your name on the deed in Montreal? Or a town house with modern wiring, a Sonos sound system, maybe a Toto toilet?
Attachment? Laziness? Lack of motivation? I’m not sufficiently introspective to probe my reasons for staying put. Maybe it’s the backstory that keeps me rooted.
Eons ago, finding myself suddenly single and needing a rental stat, I chose the Annex as a stopgap measure. My plan was to take my time, find something bigger and more up-to-date, and move on. Turned out I loved the place, warts and all.
I’ve made some modifications over the years, expanded the second floor when Ryan and I decided to try cohabitation. Splurged on new appliances. Upfitted the primary bath. I no longer think about leaving. Well, not often.
At seven-forty that evening I was sitting on a lawn chair on my small porch, tired but satisfied with the outcome of my trip to Stanly County. The specimen, which still baffled me, would be waiting at the MCME for analysis in the morning.
I was sipping a Perrier with ice, wishing the drink was vodka with lime. Another long story, colorful, but neither original nor pretty. Let’s just say that, for me, every bottle is permanently corked.
My cat, Birdie, was curled in my lap, mostly dozing, sporadically raising his head for a halfhearted sniff. Or to remind me that I should keep stroking his back.
