Chapters (50)
- Cover
- Roc Books by Jacqueline Carey
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Forty-one
- Forty-two
- Forty-three
- Forty-four
- Forty-five
- Forty-six
- Forty-seven
- Forty-eight
“Grandpa Morgan was an obeah man,” I informed him. “It’s possible his spirit could have convinced someone to steal the Tall Man’s remains for unknown nefarious purposes, and it’s possible that if we locate said remains, we may find Grandpa Morgan. Otherwise, no.”
Cody raised his eyebrows. “Nefarious?”
“Uh-huh. What next?”
He put the truck in gear. “Well, I guess we’d better inform the Tall Man’s nearest living kin.”
Thirty-eight
The flagstone walk leading to Clancy Brannigan’s, aka Boo Radley’s, rambling old Tudor house showed years of neglect. The moss-covered stones were cracked and crumbling, weeds growing between them. Warped shutters covered the windows of the gazebo where he got his groceries delivered and the breezeway that connected it to the house was boarded over with gray plywood. Behind a film of dirt on the garage window there was the vague silhouette of an antique truck that looked like it dated back to the 1960s and probably hadn’t been driven since. On the old Tudor house itself, a tide of green mold was creeping up the white stucco walls.
All of which made it rather surprising that the place had a state-of-the-art two-way video monitor for a doorbell.
There was a long wait after Cody rang the buzzer, and I was starting to think maybe Boo Radley was an urban myth after all when a voice came over the intercom. “Yes?” It was a man’s voice, wary, but not as old and feeble as I would have imagined. “What is it, Officer?”
“Clancy Brannigan?” Cody inquired.
“Yes.”
“Can we come inside and have a word with you?”
A screen on the monitor blinked to life to reveal one owlish eye, magnified behind a thick lens. “Do you need to come inside?”
“Um . . . no, I suppose not. Would you prefer to step outside?”
“I’d prefer neither.”
Cody glanced at me. I shrugged. I had no idea what the departmental protocol was for notifying crazy shut-ins that their ancestor’s corpse had been stolen. “That’s fine, sir. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. It seems that Talman Brannigan’s tomb has been vandalized.”
“Again?” He had a point. If you were talking about a little graffiti, that was something that happened on a regular basis.
“This time it’s serious, sir,” Cody said politely. “I’m afraid the mausoleum was broken into and the remains are missing. I want you to know that we’re making every effort to find the perpetrators and restore the remains.”
The screen went dark, although we could hear faint scuffling sounds inside.
“Sir?” Cody called. “Mr. Brannigan?”