“Ryan,” I said, a note of reproach in my voice.
“I’ll tell you all about it when you’re here.”
Before I could press, Ryan looped back.
“You think Strike’s death is related to the Cora Teague situation?”
“I don’t know what I think.”
“Did you ever get the audio recorder from her?”
“No. Hopefully Skinny will find it when he tosses her house.” Another note to self. Call Slidell.
A moment of thoughtful silence, then, “Granger Hoke is a Catholic priest?”
“Jesus Lord Holiness is a breakaway group that has issues with Rome. The congregation is small but fervent. And fiercely private. John Teague is a real piece of work.”
“Could the remains you recovered tie in to some form of crazy involving Brown Mountain and Satan?”
Ramsey had mentioned that same possibility. The implication for Hoke and his flock didn’t need stating.
Until my father died and Gran whisked Mama, Harry, and me south to the land of Baptists and Presbyterians, my upbringing was Catholic. I was schooled by nuns peddling water-and-wine miracles, virgin birth, and resurrection. The hopelessness of unbaptized pagan babies. The evils of venial and mortal sin. The power of forehead ash, penance, and prayer.
To my young mind, life everlasting was a pretty sweet deal. But the cost of a ticket was mighty high, the odds of achievement extremely low. It seemed I was doomed before I’d begun. My birthright was wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony. My female body was the devil’s wicked lure, meant to be veiled and used only for reproduction.
Unquestioning obedience was my only salvation. And endless ritual. Friday fish. Saturday confession. Sunday Mass.
All were called but few were chosen. The God-fearing and God-compliant. The alternative was Satan and a fiery hell.
“…to Brennan?” Ryan’s voice had gone lower, the edges softer.
“I’m here.” Please don’t.
“I love you.”
I made a noise that could have meant anything.
“That’s good to know,” Ryan said.
“It’s late.”
A blip of a pause.
“You’re dodging me, Tempe. And avoiding the issue. I’m not talking about putting off a trip to the dentist. Or coming up here. I’m talking about our lives.”
“I know.” Barely audible.
“Avoidance is corrosive.”
“I hate long-distance discussions.” Knowing as I spoke that the phone wasn’t the issue. “We’ll talk when I’m there.”
“I do love you. And I’ll wait. But not forever.”
An icicle of pure crystalline pain slashed through my chest.
Ramsey’s directions guided me to the end of a blacktop lined with cuter-than-Heidi’s-bloomers log cabins, the type rented short-term by summer tourists and fall foliage devotees. All were shuttered and dark. Final approach was via a long gravel drive shooting from a cul-de-sac much too large for any purpose I could imagine for such a remote locale.
Addams Family on crack. That’s what flashed through my mind as I parked.
Martha Gulley’s home was a rambling two-story frame behemoth that hadn’t seen paint since the Babe signed with the Red Sox. Complete with dormers, weather vane–topped tower, wraparound porch, and greenhouse, the place looked like the bastard offspring of a Gothic-Victorian tryst.
I was taking in detail when Ramsey pulled up. I got out and waited for him to join me.
“Did you know about this beauty?”
“I’ve been by here, but never had cause to enter.” Ramsey was surveying the property, one hand shading his eyes. “Rumor has it that old Oscar was hoping to create an East Coast version of the Sarah Winchester house. Died ten years into the project.”
“Is that the mansion in San Jose?”
“It is. Back in the day, Sarah lost her child then her husband, spent the rest of her life adding on to an old farmhouse. By the time she passed the place had one hundred and sixty rooms and sprawled over six acres. Story is she did it to escape the ghosts of people killed by Winchester rifles.”
Ramsey certainly did like history.
“You think Fester’s still got his lab in the basement?” I asked.
“Who?” Swiveling to face me.
“Never mind.” History, not sitcom TV, was Ramsey’s thing. “Does Grandma know we’re coming?”
“She does. And she’s not thrilled.”
I tipped my head toward a black Chevy Tahoe parked beside the greenhouse. Which looked like it hadn’t nurtured flora in many decades. “She still drive?”
Ramsey shrugged. Who knows?
We crossed a brown, rutted patch of weeds, once a lawn, and climbed to the porch. Ramsey thumbed the bell. The action triggered no muffled bonging or chiming.
Ramsey knocked on the door. Which looked jarringly new. And cheap, maybe a Home Depot stock item.
A full minute. Then a bolt snicked, a chain rattled, and the door swung in. A whole eight inches.
Through the gap I could see a figure silhouetted against very inadequate lighting. A tall figure. Grandma Gulley’s height was such that I had to lift my chin to meet her eyes. Which were green and wary behind heavy black-framed glasses designed for a man. They landed on me a nanosecond, then hopped back to Ramsey.
“Don’t know what you’re wanting from me, Sheriff.”
“I’m just a deputy, ma’am.” Self-effacing grin.
“Who’s she?” Tip of the head in my direction.
“Dr. Brennan.”
“Don’t believe in doctors.”
“Thank you for agreeing to see us, Mrs. Gulley.” Friendly as apple pie at the fair. “You said late afternoon would be convenient?”
“Weren’t like you give me much choice. Is this about Mason?”
“May we come in?”
A dramatic straightening of the shoulders. Then Grandma stepped back and angled the door a few inches wider. Ramsey and I slipped through and she slammed and locked it behind us.
The entrance gave directly onto a parlor that, like the house, looked frozen in time. The drapes were drawn and only one lamp was lit. In the dimness I made out an old upright piano, a corner hutch, three groupings of wooden and upholstered furniture.
A stone fireplace occupied most of the wall to our left. In front of it, a pair of ancient sofas faced off across a table made of tree trunk sections covered by a slab of glass.
At one end of the far sofa sat Granger Hoke, Roman collar a little white square in the gloom. Palm-smoothing the greasy black hair, he rose to greet us.
I trailed Grandma across the room, impressed by the size of the woman’s frame. Though her neck was now scrawny and her jawline flaccid, it was clear she’d once carried substantial bulk.
“Deputy.” Hoke volleyed off a wide smile and a hand. “It’s so nice to see you again.” The high-beam welcome swung to me. “To see both of you.”
“Sir.” Ramsey shook with the priest. “This is a surprise.”
“Yes, yes. I hope my presence isn’t an intrusion. Martha is quite nervous. She’s never been interrogated by the police.”
“This is hardly an interrogation.”
“Of course not.” Conspiratorial chuckle. Old people. “But Martha is one of my parishioners. When she called, I couldn’t say no. We’ve prayed to Jesus to give her strength.” Hoke arced an arm, the same gesture he’d employed on the church stoop. No green bird now. In lieu of vestments, he wore a simple black suit. “Shall we?”
The priest resumed his seat. Grandma settled down-sofa from him. Ramsey and I sat facing them, at separate ends of a scratchy, overstuffed horror.
“Your home is lovely,” I said to put Grandma at ease.
“The Lord Jesus don’t condone waste. Most of it’s closed off. No sense heating unneeded space.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Is that important?”
“No, ma’am. I understand your husband worked many years constructing the house.”