Page 46 of Evil Bones
“You got a lot on your dance card today?”
“Enough.”
“I can go without you.” Slidell’s tone was totally neutral, suggesting I could take his words anyway I chose.
“Which location?”
“Chantilly Park. That’s near your crib. How ’bout I pick you up in thirty.”
“I’ll be ready.”
I lowered the window and set out for home, enjoying the smell of fresh rain as I drove.
Chantilly is wedged between Plaza Midwood and Elizabeth, where Katy lives. Originating with the construction of a few homes in 1913, the neighborhood grew during the 1940s and, for a while, thrived. Eventually, with the expansion of housing options throughout the Queen City, the hood’s fortunes began a slow decline.
Then, a renaissance. As with Elizabeth, Chantilly’s affordable pricing and proximity to Uptown were recognized as a winning combo by those with limited budgets and by those wanting to avoid the expense and tedium of a long commute. Older homes were purchased for restoration, others for demolition and replacement by more modern construction.
Inevitably, property values climbed. Soon followed the restaurants, funky stores, and art galleries frequented by millennials and Gen Z. Or whatever gen young property buyers were of late.
Bottom line: Chantilly is home to both the run-down and the renovated. And contains some of the hottest real estate in Charlotte.
Slidell’s reference to feedback from the forensics lab had been a type of bait and switch. He’d gotten a prelim report, all right. But all it said was that the fabric, feathers, glitter, and other articles decoratingBear’s skull had been unremarkable, items that could be purchased at a Michaels or any handicrafts store.
Slidell delivered that news while driving past brick-and-frame bungalows set behind sodden front yards, finishing as he turned onto Wyanoke Avenue. At the rear of the hood, he pulled into a small parking area by the entrance to the park.
We got out and crossed to a pebbled path barricaded by two chest-high posts to prevent the passage of cars and trucks. Beyond the posts was a wood-chipped playground similar to the one at Park Road Park. Swings. Slide. Monkey bars. All glistening wet.
An elderly woman in a long black skirt and a sweatshirt proclaiming something pertaining to Jesus sat on a bench holding an umbrella and bouncing a pram with one foot. Her red high-topped sneakers reminded me of a similar pair at home in my closet.
A young, blond woman stood by the swings, eyeing her phone while pushing a towheaded toddler buckled into a baby seat. The child’s face was red and scrunched. I couldn’t tell if it was crying or laughing.
Two teens slouched at a picnic table, elbow leaning, legs outstretched. Dyed black hair, purple eye shadow, and abundant facial hardware suggested they were going for a goth look. Both were soaked and appeared to be stoned.
I wondered briefly if everyone had arrived after the rain. Or weathered the storm under the corrugated tin roof covering part of the playground.
Slidell had nailed it. This trip was a reboot of our previous outing.
Entering the woods via a gap in the trees, Skinny continued a short distance, then veered off to the left. Cursing and swatting at mosquitoes and gnats, he stopped at an ancient elm and pointed upward.
My eyes followed the sightline of his finger. Spotted fragments of yellow police tape caught in a lower branch.
“Let’s do that grid thing,” Slidell got out between wheezy breaths.
We did.
Found nothing.
As I walked back and forth on parallel tracks, eyes scanning the ground, Ruthie’s words again looped in my brain.
I imagine what the animal is feeling. What it’s experiencing in that moment.
As a scientist, I like my data hard, not slippery. Evidence I can measure, weigh, dissect, photograph. Thus, my attraction to bones. I suppose you’d say I’m pragmatic by nature, skeptical of out-of-body travel, ESP, clairvoyance, the paranormal. I don’t deny that people experience these things. But I believe such phenomena can be explained via logical principles.
Still. Could Ruthie’s approach work with humans? With me? In this place of his choosing, could I enter the mind of the psycho we were pursuing? Sense his thoughts? His feelings? His motivation?
Probably not.
What the hell.
