A Conspiracy of Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  I viewed photo displays from conferences denying global warming, affirming extraterrestrial life and UFOs, promoting New Age philosophies, questioning various celebrity deaths. Other reasons to gather and exchange wisdom included government poisoning of baby products and the creation of the H1N1 flu, as well as the existence of slave camps on Mars.

  The convention photos were interchangeable. Speakers at lecterns, diners at tables, people standing or seated, drinks in hand, smiling at the camera. Or not. The occasional subject was identified; most weren’t. Many seemed normal. Some looked totally bonkerballs. I recognized a few faces from my romp through “The Watchdogs.”

  As I was about to log off, mind numb with fatigue, my eyes roved over three images filling the screen.

  One picture showed a middle-aged man behind a podium, wispy white hair poorly concealing a shiny pink scalp, glasses the size of bagels. Above his left shoulder, a portion of a banner. —ference on MKUltra and Mind Control 2010.

  The second was a group shot following what may have been a panel presentation. Three men, one woman, all with plastic-encased badges pinned to their chests. I recognized no one.

  The third was a candid of maybe twenty people, closely packed and oblivious to the camera. The angle wasn’t great, catching mostly profiles and the backs of heads. It looked like an image captured by a mobile phone or camera held high with no attempt at framing.

  The men were in off-the-rack suits, the lone woman in a Walmart Women’s Plus red dress and fake pearls. A party or reception of some sort.

  Farthest from the lens, detached from the crowd, three men stood, visible from the shoulders up. They were deep in conversation, heads tilted, unaware of their part in an iPhone or Kodak moment. Two of the faces were caught full frontal, making me wonder if one of them had been the focus of the photographer’s interest. The third stood obliquely, features hidden.

  The man on the left was the tallest of the three. Probably mid-forties, he wore military-style glasses and had wavy brown hair side-parted and combed back from his face. A text box had been inserted into the picture below his chin. It said Yates Timmer.

  The man turned away was short and stocky, with thick black hair that spilled over his collar. A text box gave his name as Nick Body.

  Holy shit. There he was, looking younger than in any of the more recent photos I’d seen.

  I shifted to the third man in the trio. And lurched forward in my seat.

  It was Felix Vodyanov.

  * * *

  A june bug beat against the screen. I pictured it, small and bronze in the moonlight. I’d listened to it for hours, crawling up, falling away, returning with a buzzing clunk. Trying over and over to do what? Weren’t june bugs supposed to be gone after sunset?

  Had it been a single insect? Or had I heard a succession, struggling, failing, being replaced?

  The digits on the clock said 8:05. The window showed a montage of greens below a hazy sky.

  The beetle was gone.

  Had it been real? Or had I dreamed it as a metaphor for my frustration?

  It’s a sick feeling being an exile, unable to go home.

  But at last, I had a lead. A maybe lead.

  Totally pumped from what I’d seen online, I considered driving to Slidell’s home. It was Sunday morning again. I doubted he’d answer a call from me.

  Instead, I snatched my mobile from the nightstand, went to the privacy settings, and switched off caller ID. Then I dialed Slidell. The ploy worked.

  “I got this number on every Do Not Call list on the planet. You’re now blocked. I’m a cop. I hear from you again, you’re going to the can. Share my sentiments with the skeevy-ass outfit that’s paying you.”

  “It’s me,” I said. “Do not hang up.”

  Slidell sucked a quick breath. I shut him down.

  “Felix Vodyanov knows Nick Body.”

  “What in the name of sweet Christ are you talking about?”

  “I found a picture of them together in 2010.”

  “The internet wingnut and the dead perv?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “At a conference on mind control.”

  “You said Body don’t like paparazzi.” Dubious.

  I told Slidell about the dark web and the DeepUnder site.

  “Apparently, someone spotted Body in the crowd. Maybe an admirer, maybe an opportunist hoping to score with the shot. Who knows? I recognized Vodyanov from the composite sketch.”

  “You’re sure it was him?”

  “Yes. So the two know each other.”

  “The link being this conspiracy shit?”

  “Vodyanov was into it. Conspiracy theories are Body’s lifeblood.”

  Slidell did the thing he does in his throat.

  “They were with a third man identified as Yates Timmer.”

  “What kinda pussy-ass name is Y—”

  “Can you run him? See if anything pops?”

  “I’m just heading out to work something.”

  “A lead on Jahaan Cole?”

  “No. I’m looking into maybe D. B. Cooper’s buried under Panthers Stadium.”

  I said nothing.

  Long-suffering sigh. Then, “An old woman living near the Cole home called the tip line saying a car circled the block twice around two a.m. the night before the kid went missing. Apparently, the old biddy don’t sleep so well. Anyway, her call slipped through the cracks.”

  “Slipped through the cracks?”

  “There’s no ref to a follow-up, no interview report. I did some digging. Turns out Granny was eighty-three back then. Shortly after that, her kids parked her in an old folks’ home.”

  “Assisted living.” With an appropriate note of reproach.

  “Whatever. We’re going to have a little chat.”

  “Have you spoken to her?”

  “No. Could be her circuits are scrambled.”

  Could be hers are sharper than yours. I didn’t say it.

  “You’ll look into Yates Timmer as soon as you’re back?”

  “Sure. In the meantime, I’m certain you’ll have at him on the Weird Wide Web.”

  I did. As soon as I’d brewed coffee and fed the cat.

  I needed no deep-net browser to find Yates Timmer. No password. Links to his website popped up with good old Google.

  Timmer was a Realtor with properties to sell. Not ranch homes in Modesto or condos in Fort Wayne.

  As I clicked through listings, my jaw literally dropped.

  18

  Timmer’s business was called Homes at the End of the World, LLP. The home page was set up much like that of DeepUnder. Tabs across the top offered four options: “About Me,” “Contact Me,” “Properties for Sale,” “Property Video Tours.”

  Below the tabs: “I specialize in the Acquisition & Sale of Missile Bases & Underground Structures.”

  Under that startling statement was a pair of before-and-after aerial shots. On the left, looking militaristically stark, was a Nike missile base built in 1954, decommissioned in 1965. On the right was the same property in 2014, now lushly landscaped with hedge-lined walks, driveway, and pond. A flat, concrete-roofed hill could be seen just breaching the surface at the center of an expanse of unrelentingly green grass.

  Beneath the two pictures, a sales pitch.

  The properties I represent give new meaning to the word hardscape. HARD ESCAPE! Underground bunkers. Hidden missile silos. Buried command centers. These subterranean strongholds provide the ultimate in safety and privacy. They assure solitude and security in violent and troubling times. Once converted, such complexes are ports in any storm, be it actual war or simply the frenzy of 21st century life. Far from the beaten path, and safe from calamity, they are truly Homes at the End of the World.

  Designed by the Department of Defense and constructed with enough reinforced steel and impenetrable concrete to survive a nuclear attack, underground missile bases and silos are some of the strongest buildings in existence. Such
structures redefine the words bomb shelter.

  And what an investment opportunity! Given climate change and today’s highly volatile political situation, both domestically and internationally, these prized and very limited properties are rapidly appreciating in value. Act now, and I can make one yours!

  Selecting the tab labeled “About Me” produced a picture of Yates Timmer. Same military-style glasses. But the wavy hair was thinner, the dress more casual than at the mind-control conference eight years earlier. Wearing jeans, a safari bush jacket, and boots, Timmer stood with arms crossed, legs spread, in a tubular tunnel with walls of corrugated steel. Behind him, rocket-shaped coach lights flanked a studded steel door.

  A brief bio described Timmer as a retired Army engineer specializing in the niche market of underground military structures. His background included the exploration of nearly one hundred sites and the sale of more than forty properties.

  Timmer was described as an expert at converting subterranean complexes into residences, having spent twenty years transforming a missile base into a home he called World’s End House.

  I clicked on the worldsendhouse.com link.

  And found myself looking at the “after” photo featured on the page I’d just left. And an overview of the property’s grim history.

  World’s End House began life in 1954 as part of the Nike Ajax project, a surface-to-air defense system (SAM) developed by the Army Air Defense Command (ARADCOM). Eventually, the Ajax was replaced by the improved Hercules missile, and Nike Ajax bases became Hercules sites. A gradual decrease in Nike deployment began in 1967, and by 1975, with the SALT II Treaty, ARADCOM itself was deactivated.

  World’s End House is now a twenty-seven-acre estate located forty miles south of Manhattan, Kansas. The missiles are long gone, and the structure has been converted into a home in which Yates Timmer has lived since 1998. Tours are available, and World’s End House can be rented for special events.

  I took the video tour.

  Timmer narrated as the camera moved up and down dizzyingly steep steel stairs, across massive open spaces, past rusty metal entities about whose function I hadn’t a clue, eventually into rooms with cheap paintings, factory-made Oriental carpets, and brightly colored Rooms To Go furnishings striving to be cheerful within miles of windowless concrete.

  Living room, bedroom, institutional-sized kitchen. As he passed through, Timmer explained the original function of each. Missile magazine. Personnel safety room. Mechanical room. Storage area.

  After twenty minutes, Timmer reentered the outside world, exiting through a one-foot-thick entry blast door. Behind him, the camera caught the small mountain of earth now concealing the Cold War relic that was his home. The lawns and walkways. The perimeter fence.

  The video shifted to a montage of abandoned bases similar to World’s End House. Nike. Titan I and II. Atlas E and F. Communication bunkers. As the footage moved from one listing to the next, Timmer spooled through a sales pitch, touting the desirability of underground living, discreetly concealing prices and locations.

  Some properties were wooded, some barren. Some had been landscaped; others remained as they’d been when mothballed by the DOD. But a configuration of common features linked them all.

  A synapse fired red-hot in my brain.

  Dots connected. A vision of real estate emerged.

  Not waiting for Timmer’s closing remarks, I dialed the number on the screen.

  A recorded voice confirmed that I’d reached Homes at the End of the World, apologized for being unavailable, and requested that I leave my name and number. I did.

  Throwing on sneakers, jeans, and a tee, I grabbed a long-sleeved shirt and headed out.

  * * *

  Images kaleidoscoped as I made my way back to Cleveland County. The Google Earth bird’s-eye view of the acreage down the road from Duncan Keesing. The mound at its center. The security camera and keypad. The overkill fence.

  Questions rode with the images. Some old, some new.

  Was the site an abandoned military base? The apartment in Ramos’s building appeared to have been used solely for storage. Perhaps as a safehouse. Was a converted silo or bunker Vodyanov’s actual home? Why?

  Keesing said he’d occupied his trailer for twelve years. Was he aware of the history of the neighboring land? If so, why didn’t he tell me?

  Vodyanov knew Yates Timmer. Had Timmer arranged for him to use the property? Who was listed as the owner with the register of deeds?

  Nick Body knew Yates Timmer. Where Body lived and worked were closely guarded secrets. Might the place be Body’s home? His studio? Might he record his outrageous podcasts there?

  Vodyanov had known Body for at least eight years. The MKUltra conference had taken place in 2010. Both knew Timmer. All three were interested in conspiracy theories. Was that their connection? Or did the link go beyond that?

  And. For the zillionth time. How had Felix Vodyanov ended up dead on Buffalo Creek?

  And how the hell was I going to get through the gate?

  * * *

  Arriving at the fenced property, I backed into the drive and parked with the front bumper facing the road. Slipping the shirt on over my tee, I climbed out of the car.

  Undeterred by Friday’s storm, the heat had rolled its sleeves up and committed to a personal best. A record-breaking 105°F was predicted for the afternoon high.

  I stood with arms out, in full view of the camera, sweat glands already clocking in. As before, no one questioned my presence.

  The gate proved easy. It wasn’t fully latched.

  A little pressure with one hand, and it swung inward.

  Careless? Overconfident? Either way, the behavior was consistent. Vodyanov had kept copious notes and carried them on his person and in his car. He’d left the keys to the Hyundai on the front tire. Acts that showed neither a concern with nor an aptitude for tight security or clever concealment.

  Based on the Google Earth capture, I estimated the distance to the clearing at roughly fifty yards, the earthen mound another twenty beyond that.

  Before proceeding, I paused to text Slidell. The message failed to send. Either lack of signal or juice in my phone.

  Turn around?

  Not a chance. My curiosity was like a force field driving me forward.

  Keeping my mobile in hand, I started up the drive.

  The thick mesh of leaves and branches blocked all sunlight, lowering the temperature and creating an atmosphere of perpetual dusk. Though far from cool, my skin prickled.

  Again, the forest seemed ominously still. No locust whined in the foliage. No creature stirred in the underbrush. No bird took flight overhead.

  I spotted no tread mark in the gravel, no rut in the narrow strip of dirt skimming each edge. Nothing to indicate the passage of a vehicle.

  In minutes, the driveway ended in an odd hexagon hosting only some very optimistic grass and brush. Where the brush thinned, I could see gravel, here and there a straight ribbon of gray that was probably an old walkway or drive. Off to the left, the remains of a shed, one wall barely upright and leaning precariously, the other three collapsed into a jumble of rusted tin and weathered boards. At the far end of the hexagon, the strange-looking rise.

  I paused, recalling Affordable Art and his Remington. The clearing offered zero cover. If someone was present and armed, I’d be an easy target.

  I checked my watch. 1:45 p.m.

  “Hello!”

  Nothing.

  “Is anyone there?”

  More nothing.

  I stepped from the trees. The sudden onslaught of sun caused me to squint.

  The closer I got, the more detail I could make out. The mound was shaped like an enormous flat-topped Quonset hut. Though an overlay of soil softened its outer contour, an angular hardscape was evident beneath. My archaeologist’s eye said the thing was definitely not the work of Mother Nature. Additional clues were the steel girders surrounding its perimeter. And the camouflage netting stretched acr
oss them, the type used by the military in woodland settings.

  I had no doubt the mound was man-made. Or the purpose of the camo. Someone wanted the structure and any vehicles parked beside it hidden from aerial view. The ploy had worked. On Google Earth, the setup had appeared as an unremarkable rise in elevation.

  I was struck by the same somber thought I’d had at Ms. Ramos’s building. If this really was Vodyanov’s place of residence, he wouldn’t be here. He was lying on a gurney in the MCME morgue. Heavner’s morgue.

  Blood pumping, I crossed the last few yards and stepped under the netting. The near-blackness forced my constricted pupils into a rapid about-face.

  “Anyone home?”

  No response.

  I crept forward, using the flashlight app on my phone. Stopping every few yards to listen. To shout.

  Slowly, my vision adjusted. I made out a wall some distance ahead. In the wall, a dark rectangular outline, maybe a door.

  As I moved, objects leaped from the gloom in the glow from my screen. A backhoe, a front-loader, other machinery that might have been meant for farming or construction. A bent bicycle wheel. Stacked metal bins. Dumpsters. Each article threw an elongated shadow version of itself before dissolving back into darkness.

  In less than a minute, I reached the wall. The rectangle was a blast door similar to the one in World’s End House.

  I illuminated the concrete in small sections. Saw no handle or latch, no buzzer or bell, no camera. Knocking was futile. I knew from the Timmer video that the door was a freaking foot thick.

  “Crap!” Swallowed by the suffocating heat and darkness trapped under the camo.

  I felt stymied. What had I expected? A little glass box with a cake saying Eat Me spelled out with currants?

  I spent a pointless moment chastising myself for “wild-goosing,” as Slidell would say. Myself took issue, arguing that the trip hadn’t been futile. The nature of the property was now clear.

  Suddenly, I tensed.

  Pressing the phone to my chest, I went totally still.