Not Flesh Nor Feathers

But they weren’t finished yet. Down by the river, workers were laying down turf and rocks to cover the banks they’d stripped; and along the waterfront, cement was being poured. Rumors were being stifled.

One of the workers wrote an anonymous letter to the newspaper, but they wouldn’t print it. So he sent it on to the local free rag that sits in racks outside of coffee shops.

They printed it. And I read it.

Everybody did.

We all believed it too, to some degree or another. Nothing surprises us around here when it comes to government corruption. Ever since the big Tennessee Waltz bust—when a whole slew of state and local officials were brought up on federal corruption charges—we’ve all figured that the ones who remain in power are just better at being crooked than the ones who got caught. No one thinks for a minute that the city is being planned and operated by honest men and women.

This really begs the question of why they keep getting voted into office. I haven’t got a good answer for it, except for the obvious one: money. The winners all seem to have a lot of it.

But down by the river where the new apartments were going up on the north banks, bad things were happening. The letter sent into the local rag summed it up while missing the point.

I’m just a guy trying to earn a living. That’s why I took the job at the north shore, same as the rest of them down there working. But what I’m seeing is enough to drive you crazy.

Money flows in all the wrong directions, but that’s usual. Do you even know who’s paying for these things? Do you even know who owns the property? Did you know it was Jane Reynolds? It’s her company, anyway. You’ve got to give her credit for thinking ahead. When she was Mayor, the way she fought for the north side development—you didn’t think she was doing that for the north shore economy, did you? No way. She just saw another opportunity to make a killing, that’s all, and that’s why she pushed for the rezoning over there.

And she’s the reason people are getting fired and quitting left and right, too. She doesn’t want people to know what they’re turning up down by the river. Everybody knows the whole city’s sitting on history, but there are laws about what happens when you turn it up. You’re not supposed to bury it again and pour concrete over it. You’re not supposed to pretend you never saw it.

But that’s the policy here when you’re working for Jane. You keep your mouth shut or you get thrown out on your ass. You close your eyes if you see something you shouldn’t.

Those apartments and that little strip mall center they’re trying to put up next to them—none of that should’ve been built. It should’ve been roped off and checked out. There’s weird stuff down there.

And I know at least two guys who left this job, even though it pays well enough to keep most of us quiet. Two of them found something bad down there, and neither one of them would talk about it. One of them went home and went crazy. He wouldn’t come back to the site, anyway. His wife won’t let anyone talk to him.

So it’s up to you people, then, since it doesn’t work when we try it—you’ve got to go to her and demand to know what’s under the concrete they poured yesterday afternoon. Go and ask her, even though she’ll lie to you. I want to know, too. I want to see what’s under there, but I need the money too bad to get myself fired for being curious. But none of this is right. It’s screwed up bad, and even though the housing is on track, I’ve got a bad feeling that it’ll never be finished.

We should’ve called the authorities before any of it ever got started. We should’ve left that spot alone.

I reread his letter a couple of times while sitting in Greyfriar’s, sipping on a cup of coffee and waiting for Harry to call. I had a question for him. It was going to surprise the hell out of him, but I didn’t know who else to direct it to.

The letter in the paper distracted me, though, even if it didn’t really surprise or bother me. It was easy to infer the obvious—that the crew had turned up artifacts, maybe even human remains of some kind, and then built over them. I was curious about it, but not too excited or worried. It’s something you get accustomed to, living in a city like this one. Every place, every spot, every home and every business is sitting on top of somebody’s dead ancestors.

It’s easy to understand why the reconstructed South is so rife with superstition. If you’re uncomfortable living on top of a graveyard, you’ll just have to find another part of the country to squat in. Entire neighborhoods here are built on Civil War battlefields. You can’t go to a McDonald’s without seeing a historical marker recounting all the people who died there a century or two ago.

But it’s funny how many people know about the undocumented stuff, too. The secrets live on in urban legends and in small pockets of family lore. The city remembers, even when it would prefer to forget.

Someone always knows.

I thought of Caroline, and I wondered what she knows.

But I didn’t wonder for long, because my cell phone rang and it was Harry. First, he wanted to know if I was absolutely sure about the upcoming visit and if I had any reservations at all, because I’d have to speak now or forever hold my peace. Malachi was bouncing off the walls, and if I was one hundred percent positive that this was what I wanted, they’d be there on Friday.

Yes, I was sure. Well, I wasn’t really—but I told him otherwise. I’d made up my mind, and that would have to be good enough.

“Listen, I need to talk to you,” I said, not sure of how I meant to phrase what I meant to ask. “I’m having some trouble . . . with my abilities.”

“What kind of trouble? And with what abilities, specifically?”

I tried to clarify. “It’s draining me, Harry. It’s eating me up a bit, every time something happens. It’s wearing me out.”

He paused. “Let’s start with the first thing—it’s draining you, you say. What precisely? Are you seeing things, getting headaches? That sort of thing?”

“Yes. Sort of. All of that, yes. Except when you ask if I’ve been seeing things, it sounds like I’m crazy.”

“Aren’t you, though?” He said it with a smile; I could hear it over the line.

“Sure. But not like this. Not sick. Lately, it’s making me sick. It’s getting me hurt, only the hurt is fixing itself too fast. Jesus.” I rubbed at my eyes for a second, then pulled the phone back up to my mouth. I lowered my volume. “I can’t keep hiding this forever. I thought maybe I could, before. But one of these days, someone’s going to find me out.”

“Find out what?” I glanced around the room, but he spoke again before I could answer. “It’s hard to articulate, isn’t it? It’s hard to say what it is, and what it’s like. I’m not sure there’s any precedent for it, or if there is—”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you about. The only one I can think of to ask is Eliza. I was wondering if you could put me in touch with her. Is she still at that house in Macon?”

“Eden—”

“Harry, she’s the only one who ever drank that stuff of Avery’s. Except for him, I mean, and . . .” I looked around again. “And I happen to know for a pretty good fact that he’s dead. There’s nobody else. I need to know if this is normal, what’s going on with me. Or at least if it’s to be expected.”

He didn’t answer for a few seconds, and he sounded very tired when he did. “She’ll lie to you.”

“Probably,” I agreed. “But it’s better than nothing.”

“Maybe, maybe not. She’ll see it as a victory—you’ll be giving her control over something, and she’ll devour you alive for it. Look, instead . . . instead, why don’t you come down here for a while? Before school starts for you, I mean? Even a week or two would be something. We could run some experiments. Do you remember Marcus? He’d love to sit you down and pick your brain. We could—”

“No. I don’t think so. No.”

“It’d be safe here,” he argued.

“It’s safe here,” I returned. “And ‘safe’ is relative, everywhere.”

He thought on this for a few seconds before changing tactics on me. “There’s something you should know, though. Your cantankerous old aunt is 103 now—and not in the greatest health since her ‘herbal remedy’ supply was cut off. In addition to her usual cryptic, malicious runaround, you might also have dementia to contend with. I honestly don’t think there’s anything she can tell you, or give you.”

“You might be wrong. She might know something, or she might be willing to talk. We’ve got something more than blood in common now. It might mean something to her.”

“You give her more credit than she deserves.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Harry. Is she at the old Macon house or not? Did she wind up in a home or do I already have her address?”

I could almost hear him rubbing at his temples and running one hand through his graying hair. He was probably mouthing something inappropriate, too. I don’t know exactly what all he did before joining the clergy, but whatever it was, it taught him some colorful language. I remembered the downright astonishing garland of words he’d strung together when I called him to tell him I’d found Malachi roaming Moccasin Bend last year.

But he wouldn’t aim it at me. He’d swear to the stars or the ceiling, same as he prayed. “She’s still at the Macon house. Two in-home-care workers basically live there, keeping an eye on her.”

“Bless their hearts.” I wondered how much she was paying them. Whatever it was, it couldn’t possibly be enough.

“You said it. I don’t know them, and I don’t know how protective of her they are—but I’m betting you could negotiate with them. They’d probably be thrilled silly to have a few minutes away from the old battle-ax. Give it a shot, if you’re so determined to do so.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">