Page 32 of Cold, Cold Bones

I rode in the transport van with Hawkins. A CSU team followed in their vehicle.

During the hour-long drive, Hawkins and I mostly discussed baseball. He’s a fan, has kept a signed photo of DiMaggio on his desk for as long as I’ve known him. When the MCME moved to our new digs, the pic of Joltin’ Joe was the only personal item Hawkins brought along.

In the early part of the last century, to create hydroelectric power, Duke Energy began damming the Catawba River from just above Morganton, North Carolina, down to where the river joins the Santee-Cooper in South Carolina. Norman was the final and largest of seven lakes created. Its massive shoreline now touches four counties—Mecklenburg, Iredell, Catawba, and Lincoln.

Locals still talk about what lies under Norman’s waters. A textile mill. A housing community. A two-hundred-year-old estate called Elm Wood. Part of US Highway 21, which connected Charlotte and Statesville.

To appease those who lost property, and anyone else irate about the power plants, or not, some of the newly created reservoirs and their surroundings were turned into recreational areas for all to enjoy. Our destination was one of these playgrounds.

Lake Norman State Park is a nineteen-hundred-acre hunk of land at the mouth of Hicks Creek on the lake’s northern shore. The amenities include the usual boat ramps, swimming beaches, picnic shelters, campgrounds, and hiking trails.

A ranger was waiting for us at the main headquarters building when Hawkins and I entered. His name tag saidT. Edy.

T. Edy was dressed all in green. Made me think of the old nursery rhyme and its similarly attired anti-hero, Hector Protector.

“Ranger Edy.” Hector proffered a hand.

I introduced myself, then stepped back slightly as Hawkins reached in and shook Edy’s hand.

“I was afraid it might be you,” Edy said to me.

Oh?

“I’m sure you don’t remember me.”

He was right. I didn’t.

“Terrence Edy. Back at the gray dawn of history, I took one of your classes at UNCC.”

“I’m sorry.” Not appreciating how old Edy was making me feel. “I’ve had so many students over the years.”

“Not surprised. Frankly, you screwed me on my grade.”

“It’s nice to see you.” A vague image was rising from the gray dawn mist. A tall gangly kid trying but failing to grow facial hair. Last row in the lecture hall, dirty sneakers propped on the chairback in front of him.

“Background?” Hawkins asked in his typical terse manner.

“This park allows dogs,” Edy said. “A hiker was walking his beagle when it started barking and acting goofy. The dog’s name is Ruggles. The man’s name is Clayton Carter. Those are Carter’s words, not mine. Anyway, when Carter let Ruggles run, the dog veered off into the trees and started yowling by a big oak. Carter spotted the body, hustled here, and led me to it.”

“Any health or safety hazards we need to know about?” I asked.

“Beast of a wind in that area. That’s why no one goes up there. Which is why Carter did. He said Ruggles had grown bored with the more popular trails, wanted to see new territory. Ask me, Ruggles was hoping Carter would freeze his nads off and they could both go home.”

“Anything else?”

Edy shrugged. “Best you see the scene for yourself. I touched nothing, won’t vouch for the wildlife.”

“Can we get a vehicle in there?” Hawkins asked.

“Part way. The dead dude’s just off the Lake Shore Trail.”

“Let’s do this,” Hawkins said.

Edy retrieved a broad-brimmed gray hat and positioned it carefully on his head. Donned a green parka. Made me think of George, the young security guard back at the MiraVia privy.

Flakes had begun testing the air as we’d entered the building, diaphanous crystals seemingly ambivalent about whether to linger. That changed quickly and, by the time we climbed up to Ruggles’s oak, the snow was fully committed. It coated the branches above us and whitened the ground in patches at our feet.

For a moment we all stood staring, snowflakes stinging our cheeks and layering the brim of Edy’s hat.