by Kathy Reichs
“I have no obligation to disclose this to you. I do so to demonstrate the inappropriateness of your behavior.” Meaningful pause. “There is no record of a Felix Vodyanov ever having been a guest at Sparkling Waters Ashram. There is no record of Dr. Yuriev treating such a person.”
“He probably registered under the name F. Vance.” Devoid of chirp. “More than once.”
Glacial silence.
“Ask Yuriev. Give him a call.”
“Do not tell me how to do my job.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t—”
“Dr. Brennan, your actions amount to more than simple interference. What you are doing may rise to the level of obstruction. I am seeking advice concerning legal action against you. In the meantime, I am lodging ethics complaints with both the American Academy of Forensic Sciences and the American Board of Forensic Anthropology.”
“Because I’ve made the only breakthrough in your case?”
“Your actions were unauthorized and may have compromised an official death investigation.”
“My input was sought by a member of the CMPD cold-case unit.” Not exactly.
“Really?” Disdainful snort. “The only thing cold in this case is the stiff.”
“That stiff, as you so crudely refer to a human being, may be linked to a number of child disappearances.”
“And to the rabbit assassinated at the Circle K?”
Ignoring Heavner’s sarcasm, “How did Vodyanov die?”
Silly question. Even if she knew, she wasn’t going to tell me.
“That does not concern you.”
“Did you run a full tox screen?” Further questioning was certain to annoy her more, but I couldn’t help myself.
“That information is confidential.”
“Are you engaging a board-certified anthropologist other than myself?”
“Not needed.”
A moment of chilly nothing filled the line. No clanking or buzzing, none of the familiar autopsy-room sounds. I pictured Heavner in Larabee’s office. He’d hung a Peter Max poster behind the desk. I wondered what she had gracing the wall.
When angered, one’s heart rate, arterial tension, and testosterone production increase, the stress hormone cortisol decreases, and the left-brain hemisphere goes all twitchy. The thought of Dr. Morgue in Larabee’s space triggered the whole raucous circus.
“It’s been ten days,” I snapped. “If you had cause of death, you’d have staged another of your alpha-dog performances. That’s your specialty, right? Playing the media for personal glorification?”
“How dare y—”
“You better believe I dare.” Blood was exploding into the tiny vessels in my cheeks. “I dare to get this man identified. I dare to pursue even the faintest glimmer of a lead concerning the fate of these missing kids.”
Heavner shifted the phone and spoke to someone. A male voice responded. When her mouth returned to the receiver, “There is no point in further discussion.”
I drew a hot breath to respond. Heavner cut me off.
“But bear in mind one truth, Dr. Brennan. I am the alpha dog.”
Abrupt disconnect.
I sat quite a while, face flaming, trying to recover the decades of professionalism I’d mislaid during that brief conversation.
The torture continued all day.
At noon, it was Pete. He was back in Charlotte and had news that could only be relayed in person. He was solemn and engaged in none of his usual banter or teasing. His tone frightened me. Beyond saying that the topic had nothing to do with Katy, no amount of wheedling could get him to expand. I agreed to dinner the following night.
Then it was Mama. She and Sinitch had booked a trip to Bhutan to work on their spirituality and wellness and to reconsider the concept of weddings. When pressed for specifics, she said they’d be visiting Buddhist meditation centers and undergoing hot-springs therapy. When I asked if these centers could accommodate her chemo regime, she assured me all would be fine. Far from reassured, I phoned her doctor’s office. The switchboard directory made me certain my brain was dribbling right out of my ear. I left a message with a bot in a basement cubbyhole entered through a secret door in an abandoned cutlery closet.
Disconnecting, I wondered. Was it my fault? Had I mentioned the ashram to her? Thought not, but couldn’t be sure.
I checked my email, hoping for a consult request, which would mean a bit of additional income. Found none. At one point, I considered a trip to the Apple Store but couldn’t muster the energy. Another truth about me. I hate malls. And waiting in lines. And there was the budgetary issue. After phoning the painter and the electrician again, I spent time catching up on neglected paperwork.
As the afternoon wore on, a troubling question percolated up through my agitation. Given Heavner’s obvious hostility, why had she shared any information at all? Was her uncharacteristic collegiality spurred by an ulterior motive? Dribble Brennan a few crumbs, let her crack the case, then Dr. Morgue can swoop in and grab credit for the solve?
Around five, after placing duct tape over my laptop’s camera lens, I logged onto WebMD and typed in the term taphophobia. Consistent with Asia Barrow’s characterization, the condition was defined as the irrational fear of being buried alive, sometimes the fear of interment resulting from a false pronouncement of death. The site also offered these tidbits.
Taphophobia can originate from childhood experiences involving actual entrapment or from viewing depictions of such situations. Sufferers may avoid enclosed buildings, fearing collapse. Some refuse anesthesia, fearing they’ll be wrongly declared dead and buried. Exacerbating factors include other mental disorders and substance abuse.
Felix Vodyanov was being treated for taphophobia? Then why live underground?
After a Foodie Call dinner of lamb korma, much appreciated by Birdie, I tried reading. My theory was solid: escape into a world I could leave whenever I chose. My carry-through was lacking. Anger and frustration had me jittery and unable to focus.
Just past six, Marley announced yet another caller. Blocked number. Thinking my anxiety couldn’t possibly increase, maybe hoping to unload on some unsuspecting telemarketer, I answered.
“I’m trying to reach Dr. Temperance Brennan.” Male. Unfamiliar.
“This is she.”
“I work for the Charlotte Observer.”
“I already have a subscription.”
“I’m sorry. I should have made myself clear. I’m a reporter.”
“What’s your name?” Wary. I knew most of those on the crime beat.
“Gerald Breugger.”
Gerry. The lizard asking questions at Heavner’s press conference.
“You’re a freelancer,” I said. “You’re not actually employed by the Observer.”
“Yes, but they often publish my pieces.”
“How did you get this number?”
“I have my ways.”
I said nothing.
“I’ve just had a long conversation with Dr. Margot Heavner.”
“Bully for you. Have a good life.”
“Please don’t hang up.”
For some reason, I didn’t. An instinct for self-preservation?
“I’m doing a story on the state of forensic science in North Carolina,” Breugger said. “My lead-in will be the case of the corpse eaten by hogs out in Cleveland County. I’m wondering if you’d like to make a statement.”
“Rethink your use of the term eaten.”
“Go on.”
“I’m done.”
“Is it true the body is still unidentified?”
“No comment.”
“That cause of death is unknown?”
“No comment.”
“That the ME refuses to bring you in on the case?”
“No comment.”
“Is it true that Dr. Heavner is filing complaints against you?”
“Who told you that?”
“You know I can’t reveal my sources.”
“You and
your sources can take a flying fuck off my backyard fence.”
“I regularly do stories for the New York Times, the Washington Post, and the Daily Beast. I have those numbers right here in my contacts.”
The implied threat sent the three-ring emotional circus into hyperdrive. My thumb mashed so hard to disconnect I nearly dropped the phone.
Sitting there, coaxing my pulse back down into the normal range, I was hit by a sudden recollection from Heavner’s presser. She’d addressed only one journalist by name. Gerry Breugger.
I was considering the significance of that when Marley sang again. This time, I checked.
Area code 514. I pictured a different desk, a different office, Dr. Pierre LaManche, Directeur on a plaque by the door.
“Bonjour. Comment ça va?” I answered.
“Très bien, merci.” LaManche switched to English as precise as his French. “I apologize for contacting you so late.”
“It’s good to hear your voice.”
“You are unwell?” My boss for decades at the Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires et de médecine légale, LaManche was uncanny at interpreting the subtlest of nuances in my mood.
“I’m fine.”
“Ah, Temperance. You sound peiné.” Pained? Distressed? Either way, he’d nailed it.
“I have a lot on my mind.”
“Such a vale of woes in which we ply our trade. But I am an old wagon, all rusty metal and squeaky wheels. You are young. You should be happy.”
The sad metaphor did little to raise my spirits. “What’s up?”
“A subpoena has arrived for you. Do you recall the Pasquerault case?”
“Of course.” Dorothée Pasquerault vanished while walking home from an outdoor performance of the Montreal Symphony Orchestra. Eight days later, her decomposed body was found in a hockey bag tossed up on the shore of the Saint Lawrence River. The concert had been organized to honor the city’s three hundred seventy-fifth birthday. Dorothée hadn’t lived to see her seventeenth. The investigation resulted in the arrest of her ex-fiancé.
“The trial is scheduled to begin next week. Jury selection is expected to conclude on Tuesday at the latest. Your availability is ordered beginning on Wednesday.”
“OK.” It was so far from OK I couldn’t fathom a device capable of doing the math.
“I have placed the subpoena on your desk.”
“Thanks.”
“There are several demande d’expertise forms there with it. Pas d’urgence on those cases.”
“I’ll reserve a flight.”
“À bientôt.”
“Oui. See you soon.”
I returned to the book, again planning to lose myself in 1930s New Guinea. Again failing. The subpoena imposed a new urgency. I had to leave for Montreal no later than Tuesday. Yet Felix Vodyanov remained on his gurney.
The same old questions spun in my off-kilter brain. Had Vodyanov been stalking me shortly before his death? If so, why? How had he found me? What had he wanted to tell me?
An image of the severed goose head congealed on the unread page. I thought of the flock struggling to cling to its turf. A metaphor more apt than LaManche’s wagon. Like the geese, I was fighting to save my career. To return from exile.
Was that it? Was my motive purely self-interest? Or did I truly care about justice for Felix Vodyanov? For the kids he may have harmed? Was Vodyanov a victim or an offender?
On and on. Round and round. Slidell’s failure to obtain a warrant. Heavner’s determination to ruin me professionally. Mama’s cavalier, perhaps lethal, attitude toward her chemo. Gerry Breugger’s knowledge of Heavner’s crusade against me and possible intent to assist in that campaign.
How much did Breugger know? His call, more than anything, had driven home the precariousness of my situation. Should Heavner’s charges actually stick, Breugger would be on the story like jackals on a carcass. While dodging his questions, I’d visualized a predator.
What the hell was up with Pete?
And always, when would the next migraine slam me to the boards? Or worse, a vascular assault? If the tiny bubble did burst, how bad would it be?
A stray thought caused a sharp intake of breath. Slidell was right. I was acting much more rashly of late, taking far more risks. Tailing the trench-coated prowler at Sharon Hall. Sneaking illicit photos and samples from the faceless man at the MCME. Interviewing Barrow, Ramos, and Keesing alone. Exploring the Cleveland County property solo. Did this recent recklessness arise from a newborn sense of my own mortality? One day, the aneurysm may burst, so what the hell?
I rolled the idea around, testing to see if the epiphany had legs. Could my “rogue-ass cowboying” be a subliminal reaction to the prospect of my own death? Or was my furious intensity on this case just a variation on my usual commitment to anonymous victims? To the possibility of wronged children or children in danger?
Why all the goddamn introspection? Self-analysis is not a game I enjoy or one at which I excel.
Tossing the book across the room, I got up to pace. Sat down. Got up again to retrieve the book and flatten the pages. I felt useless but too restless to stay still.
By eight, I was absolutely wild with nerves. Slidell hadn’t phoned. There were no new leads. Those that we had were going nowhere. The clock was ticking. I imagined I was trapped in a pressure cooker with no steam vent.
Vowing to take no action without consulting Slidell, I got online and entered Timmer’s GPS coordinates. A red flag appeared on a hair-thin road near Lake Wylie, South Carolina, just south of Charlotte. My friend Anne had been listing and selling properties in the area for decades, mostly high-end homes in and around a golf course development called River Hills. Still, she knew the turf.
I hit speed dial.
“I can hardly hear you, Tempe.” Hollow air with lots of background noise. “I’m at a Knights game.”
“Quick question?”
“Shoot.”
“Do you know Lone Eagle Lane? Near Lake Wylie?”
“Donegal Lane?” Shouted.
“Lone. Eagle.”
As Anne searched terrain in her mind, an amplified voice gave a stroke-worthy whoop. The crowd noise swelled, receded.
“Yeah. Lone Eagle runs along behind the nature preserve. Accesses some old-style cottages dating back to the postwar years. You pick the war.”
“Waterfront?”
“Yes.” The din was receding. Anne was moving to a quieter location.
“I’m surprised some builder hasn’t slapped condos on the property.”
“Developers contact me all the time. The homeowners say they’ve been going to ‘the river’ all their lives and have no interest in selling.”
“What else is back there?”
“To my knowledge, fuck-all.”
“Ever hear of a real estate company called DeepHaven?”
“Dipshit name from a marketing perspective. But no.”
“Any chance a Realtor could have opened an office on Lone Eagle?”
“Anything’s possible since those neutron stars collided.”
“What?”
“The gravitational waves?”
“Enjoy the game.”
“We’re losing by four runs. But the peanuts rock. Why the interest in Lone Eagle Lane?”
“No reason.”
“Uh-huh. If the old coots have decided to sell, I want in.”
I returned to Google Earth and shifted to aerial view. My eyes confirmed what the map, and Anne, had said. Lots of shoreline. Lots of fuck-all.
Knowing the idea was pure insanity, I decided on a drive-by. What could it hurt?
Another courtesy call to Slidell, then, phone and flash at the ready, I set out.
22
Wylie, one of eleven man-made reservoirs strung like clots along the Catawba River, has 352 miles of shoreline meandering through both Carolinas. The Allen Steam Station is located at the lake’s northern end, near Charlotte. The Catawba Nuclear Generating Station dominates a penins
ula in its southwestern part. I once read an NRC disaster emergency plan that defined plume exposure and ingestion pathway zones. Needless to say, fish from these waters don’t figure into my diet.
Despite the presence of gorilla reactors, the lake is a popular residential and recreational area, a schizoid mix of nouveau-riche McMansion and golf course communities, retirement condos, and Dukes of Hazzard–type trailers and shacks. Lots of barbecue and boat-supply stores.
Thirty minutes after we left the annex, Slidell turned right from Shopton Road. Yeah, I was shocked, too. He’d phoned back within minutes. Insisted on a tag-team approach. I had no choice. Though, truth be told, I was glad not to be tackling this one solo.
Dusk was yielding to night, and everything around us was monochrome gray. I’d never ventured into the area but knew that the McDowell Nature Preserve and Copperhead Island Park were somewhere to the south, the Daniel Stowe Botanical Garden off to the west, across the water.
A left, then another right. The streets were poorly lit, the homes modest ranches and bungalows. No gates, no guards demanding ID. Driveways ended under carports, or just ended. Bikes lay on lawns that were mowed, not professionally landscaped. Porch lights were coming on. Two boys kicked a soccer ball far down the block. A dog of indeterminate breed yapped and dashed from kid to kid.
A short distance, then my Google Maps app said to go right. Slidell did, at a nonthreatening green street sign: Lone Eagle Lane. Below that, a not-so-welcoming declaration: Dead End.
Lone Eagle was as empty and still as an abandoned movie set. Slidell eased to a stop. When we lowered our windows, hot air engulfed us like steam off soup. I smelled water, gasoline, algae, and mud. A hint of pine.
On my side loomed a wall of old-growth cypress interrupted here and there by a hut or shed. On Slidell’s side, across the narrow pavement, cottages crouched dark and sullen along the shore.
Quick glance over my shoulder. Twenty yards back, an empty lot separated two lakeside homes. Paralleling the lot’s right boundary, a concrete slab sloped gently into the water. Waves lapped sluggishly at the slab’s far end, audible but invisible in the thickening dark.
“Boat ramp,” I said.
Slidell said nothing.
