Bones of the Lost

smiley guy.
    Poland hadn’t a clue who’d started the photo gallery. Or maintained it. Said the collection traced to well before his tenure.
    “Apparently Story and Rockett weren’t all that concerned with discretion.” Throughout the trip, I’d been wondering what that implied.
    Slidell turned to me, a Chiclet halfway from his palm to his mouth.
    “Meaning?”
    “Why allow their picture to be posted on that board?”
    “Dumb shits probably didn’t know.”
    Maybe.
    Thirty minutes after leaving South End, Slidell hooked a left past a sign announcing LES FLEURS . Pretentious, I know. But Charlotteans like their neighborhoods christened.
    Houses in Les Fleurs were mostly ranches and split-levels dating to the sixties and seventies. Most had meager square footage, detached garages, and some variation on the theme of pastel siding.
    The streets were curving, tree-lined, and named after flowers. As Slidell wound from Marigold to Poppy to Rockett’s address on Azalea Court, I noted that every backyard was fenced, every front lawn mowed and edged. Here and there a bike or scooter lay abandoned on a walkway or propped against a staircase, porch, or foundation.
    It was a hood that made you think of kids, dogs, and retirees. What did Harry call houses like these? Starter-ender homes.
    Slidell pulled to the curb in a cul-de-sac shaded by two magnolias and a towering pine. Behind each magnolia was a ranch, one salmon, one green. Below and behind the pine was a brown two-story that New Englanders would call a saltbox.
    “Anything strike you weird about this place?” Slidell had looped the court to park facing out, and was scanning the street we’d just driven down. His jaw was working double time. The gum was making wet popping sounds.
    I followed Slidell’s sight line. Saw nothing but closed doors, blank windows, and a lot of azalea bushes, none in bloom.
    “Looks pretty quiet.”
    “Damn quiet.”
    “We’re on a cul-de-sac in the burbs on a rainy Thursday afternoon.”
    “La-dee-da. Cool-day-sac.” Slidell freed his belt. “Guy lives on a freakin’ dead end.”
    Flashbulb image. The face in my purse.
    I felt a wave of pity, followed by unease. Would Rockett be as disfigured as the snapshot suggested? Was that why he lived on a “freakin’ dead end”?
    “Rockett’s place isn’t flashy.”
    “Squirrel’s either a piss-poor smuggler or one cagey sonofabitch.”
    “Did you check how long he’s lived here?”
    “Deed’s been registered in his name since 1991.”
    “So he bought the property shortly after his retirement from the military. Mortgage?”
    “No.”
    “He could have saved up. Or inherited money.”
    Slidell worked a molar with a thumbnail, then resumed chewing. “Wonder what the neighbors think of his gardening skills.”
    He was right. Maybe it was the perpetual shadow cast by the pine. Maybe lack of interest. The emphatically green lawns to either side ended abruptly at the boundaries of Rockett’s patchwork of dirt and grass.
    “Let’s roll.”
    “Remember,” I warned. “Dew will be pissed if we goad Rockett into hiring an attorney.”
    “Ee-yuh.”
    I climbed from the Taurus and headed toward the house, raindrops gently cooling my face. I focused on the sensation to clear my head.
    Of pity for Rockett.
    Of thoughts of Katy and IEDs.
    The door, painted brown to match the siding, had a black wrought-iron knocker in the shape of a cannon. Slidell banged it. Banged again.
    In the distance, traffic hummed on Highway 51. No sound came from inside.
    Slidell was about to whack away a third time when a lock rattled. His body tensed as the door swung in.
    So did mine.
    It had not been a trick of unkind light. And the scarred flesh had experienced no rebirth or restoration since the photo had been taken.
    Though the day wasn’t cold, Rockett wore a black knit hat pulled low to the level his brows should have been. The fingers wrapping the doorjamb were waxy and pale and had no nails. Above the hand, the edge of a tattoo winked from the cuff of his long-sleeved tee.
    Rockett looked at Slidell, then at me, the left side of his face frozen, the right side crimped in a scowl.
    I forced my expression neutral.
    Slidell held up his badge. “Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD.”
    Rockett’s good eye flicked to the shield, returned to us.
    “What do you want?” Gravelly, but deep.
    Slidell hit him with the old saw about asking a few questions.
    “About what?”
    “You want we should do this in