Devil Bones Read Free Page B

entered a tunnel of wilow oaks. Straight ahead lay an expanse of openness I knew to be Frazier Park.

    A bimodal assortment of homes lined both sides of the street. Many had been purchased by yuppies desiring proximity to uptown, modernized, painted colors like Queen Anne Lilac or Smythe Tavern Blue. Others remained with their original African-American owners, some looking weathered and worn among their gentrified neighbors, the deed holders awaiting the next tax reevaluation with trepidation.
    Despite the contrast between the born-agains and the yet-to-be-re-created, the work of caring hands was evident up and down the block. Walks were swept. Lawns were mowed. Window boxes overflowed with marigolds or mums.
    Larabee’s address belonged to one of the few exceptions, a seedy little number with patched siding, sagging trim, and peeling paint. The yard was mostly dirt, and the front porch featured a truckload of nondegradable trash. Puling to the curb behind a Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD cruiser, I wondered how many wannabe purchasers had knocked on the bungalow’s faded green door.
    Alighting, I locked the Mazda and took my field kit from the trunk. Two houses down, a boy of about twelve shot a basketbal into a garage-mounted hoop. His radio pounded out rap as his bal thupped softly on the gravel drive.
    The walkway was humped where bulging tree roots snaked beneath. I kept my eyes down as I mounted warped wooden steps to the porch.
    “You the one I gotta talk to so’s I can go home?”
    My gaze moved up.
    A man occupied a rusted and precariously angled swing. He was tal and thin, with hair the color of apricot jam. Embroidered above his shirt pocket were the name Arlo and a stylized wrench.
    Arlo had been seated with knees wide, elbows on thighs, face planted on upturned palms. Hearing footsteps, he’d raised his head to speak.
    Before I could respond, Arlo posed a second question.
    “How long I gotta stay here?”
    “You’re the gentleman who caled in the nine-one-one?”
    Arlo grimaced, revealing a rotten tooth among the lower rights.
    I stepped onto the porch. “Can you describe what you saw?”
    “I done that.” Arlo clasped dirty hands. His gray pants were ripped at the left knee.
    “You’ve given a statement?” Gently. The man’s body language suggested genuine distress.
    Arlo nodded, head moving crosswise to a torso canted at the same slope as the swing.
    “Can you summarize what you saw?”
    Now the head wagged from side to side. “The devil’s work.”
    OK.
    “You are Arlo…?”
    “Welton.”
    “The plumber.”
    Arlo gave another bobble-head nod. “Been banging pipes for thirty years. Never come across nothing like this.”
    “Tel me what happened.”
    Arlo swalowed. Swalowed again.
    “I’m changing out fittings. The new owner’s missus is planning to put in some newfangled washer setup, some kinda green thing saves the environment. It’l need different pipe fittings. Lord knows why she wants to start with that, place needing al it does. But that’s not my business. Anyways, I start in on the wal and drop a piece of brick that takes a bite outa the flooring. I think to myself, Arlo, you cut that flooring, they’re gonna take the cost of repairs outa your wages. So I rol back the flooring, and what do I find but a big ole wood plank.”
    Arlo stopped.
    I waited.
    “Don’t know why, but I give the thing a nudge with my toe, and the end raised up in the air.”
    Again Arlo paused, recaling, I suspected, a bit more than a nudge.
    “This plank was part of a hatch that opened?”
    “Thing was covering some kinda hidey-hole. I’l admit, curiosity got the better of me. I took my flashlight and shined it on down.”
    “Into a subcelar.”
    Arlo shrugged. I alowed him time to continue. He didn’t.
    “And?” I prompted again.
    “I’m a churchgoing man. Every Sunday and Wednesday. Never seen the devil, but I believe in him. Believe he’s in the world, working his evil amongst us.”
    Arlo