Page 81 of Evil Bones
The Accord made a U-turn, a right onto the street, then a left one block south.
Was Ball Cap following Ruthie?
As a wave of uneasiness washed over me, I tried but failed to make out the plate.
Yanking my cell phone from my purse, I dialed my niece’s number.
CHAPTER 18
Early the next day, Slidell and I set out to mingle with taxidermists.
Clemmons, a suburb of Winston-Salem, claims a population of twenty-two thousand residents and boasts more than five hundred holes available to golfers. The town’s main point of pride is its proximity to Tanglewood Park, a recreational area offering tennis, horseback riding, gardens, campgrounds, and, of course, golf.
Members of the NCTA—the butt-stuffers, as Slidell had taken to calling them—were holding their annual conference at the Village Inn, just off I-40. At ten-thirty he swung his Trailblazer into the hotel’s parking area and killed the engine.
We spent a moment assessing the setup. Saw a red-roofed overhang shielding a glass-walled lobby accessed via double glass doors. A low-rise wing shooting off to the left. The entrance to a place called The Crosby, presumably a bar, lit by neon signage halfway down the wing.
Wordlessly, Slidell and I got out and went in through the main entrance.
Inside, the place looked like every other convention hotel I’ve ever visited. Gleaming tile on the lobby floor. Globe pendants overhead. Patterned faux-wool carpeting on corridors leading to rooms in which marriages were celebrated, proms danced, business strategies hammered out.
I assumed meetings were in session, since the large open space was mostly deserted. A placard on a tripod listed options: educationalseminars covering topics such as stitching and air brushing; a trade show with exhibitor demonstrations; a mounting competition.
A man and woman stood to the right of the reception desk, shoulders touching, but not talking. Both appeared to be well past sixty. Their red plaid shirts looked like variations on a theme.
Four women huddled in a scrum, discussing a pamphlet held by the tallest of the group. Raised voices and agitated gestures suggested sharp disagreement.
A priest sat in one of the upholstered armchairs, hands resting on the handle of a carved wooden cane. As with everyone that I’d encountered since arriving at the Inn, staff excepted, he wore a plastic-encased badge on a lanyard looping his neck.
“Yeah, baby.”
The utterance brought my attention back to Slidell. The big man was already on the move, striding toward a beverage cart being rolled into position against the far wall.
Equally desperate for caffeine, I followed.
Wiggling free a Styrofoam cup, Slidell helped himself by thumbing the lever on the industrial-sized coffee maker. After adding three packets of sugar and the cream-like contents of two tiny plastic containers, he stirred, sipped, then winced.
“Jesus Christ, that’s freakin’ scalding.” Touching a finger to his upper lip.
I pointed to a sign beside the urn.Hot Coffee.
“Yeah, but they don’t gotta make the stuff like it’s lava.”
I said nothing.
Blowing across the offending liquid, Slidell started to share his take on the crowd.
“These yahoos look like they fell off a slow boat—”
“What is it you hope to accomplish here?” I asked curtly. I’d overdosed on Skinnyisms during the one-hour drive from Charlotte.
“I’mhopingsomeone knows something about the dickhead nailing corpses up on my turf. Thedickheadnow adding humans to his sick little game.”
“Have you thought about what to say?”
Slidell swiveled to face me, brows V-ing down above the bridge of his nose.
“I’m thinking I’ll open with something like, ‘Excuse me, ma’am, any chance you know a sick fuck gets his jollies nailing up dead animals or robbing graves?’?”
