A Conspiracy of Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  We both logged its position, then the 4Runner crept forward.

  I soon realized the street was far from deserted. Conservation, tradition, whatever the reason, lights were shunned on Lone Eagle on hot summer nights. Maybe always.

  Despite the self-imposed gloom, perhaps because of it, people were out on their porches and stoops, rocking, talking, smoking cigarettes that sparked like tiny orange fireflies. Anne’s old coots. I sensed displeasure at our intrusion.

  As we proceeded, the road rose in elevation. I felt hostile eyes tracking our uphill climb. Five houses, eight, twelve. Suddenly, loud as gunfire, my iPhone proclaimed our arrival.

  “Jesus H. Christ. They probably heard that in the next county.”

  I muted the sound and raised my window. Slidell slowed but didn’t stop. We both glanced left.

  The cottage didn’t stand out structurally. One-story frame, window AC units, veranda in front, carport on the near side, chain-link fence enclosing the rear. The first difference involved cars. Unlike the others we’d passed, this driveway hosted a small fleet. The second involved illumination. Behind shuttered windows, every room appeared to be lit. The third involved neighbors. Being last before the promised dead end, there was nothing on the far side but a hill covered with holly and other inhospitable vegetation.

  Slidell cruised past, looped around the cul-de-sac, and retraced our path. Pulling onto a narrow dirt strip fronting the cypresses, we observed. Saw no human form at a car, in the yard, or on the porch. But a prism of rainbow colors flickered around the edges and through the closed slats of shutters covering windows facing the dead end.

  “Someone’s home,” I said.

  Wordlessly, we got out, crossed the street and the lawn, and climbed the steps. A sign on the door said: No admittance after presentation begins.

  Seeing no bell, I knocked. Zero response.

  I tried the knob. The door was locked. I checked the fence. The sole gate was secured by a very large padlock.

  “That’s it,” Slidell said. “We’re outta here.”

  “I want to know what’s going on in there.”

  “The homeowner ain’t exactly inviting us in. And I got no jurisdiction and no cause—”

  “This is our only lead to Vodyanov. Maybe to those kids. Let’s try a different tack.”

  One long-suffering look, then Slidell pivoted and headed for the car. I followed, certain he intended to leadfoot it back to Charlotte. Instead, he drove downhill, passed our entrance point, pulled in at the boat ramp, and cut the engine.

  “They don’t open up willingly, we’re done.”

  “Roger that.” I shoved my phone into a pocket, the flash into my waistband, and got out.

  It was full night now. No moon. No streetlamp. Around us, only darkness and hot, stagnant air.

  A small colony of neurons urged retreat.

  Ignoring the warning, I stepped onto the concrete. The surface was slick with algae, forcing me to move gingerly. At my back, Slidell slip-slid and cursed indignantly.

  To either side, the land dropped without drama to a narrow ribbon of rock and sand. To call it a beach would be unfair to beaches. Wooden piers ran from the edge of the ribbon out over the water. Most had a rowboat or canoe tied to an upright.

  We maneuvered to the side of the concrete, worked our way downward, and, using our flashes sparingly to avoid drawing attention, set off along the shore. Far distant, across the water, lights twinkled with multicolored cheer. Now and then, the muggy air stirred on a rare breeze, carrying the murmur of waves listlessly brushing pilings, the muted hum of a distant outboard motor.

  As my eyes adjusted, I could see that the ground was littered with debris. When lit, my beam crawled over dead fish, empty sunblock tubes, the long tentacles of twisted plastic grocery bags.

  Ten minutes beyond the ramp, a rocky breakwater jutted toward the shore like a long, arthritic digit. In my scramble across, generations of algae transferred to my person. If Slidell and I did encounter Yates Timmer, we were going to look like creatures from some dark lagoon.

  Paralleling the gradient on Lone Eagle Lane, the beach angled upward. Panting and perspiring, we forged on. Though less enthused now, I was determined to see the escapade through to its conclusion.

  “This is the goddamn stupidest thing you’ve ever dragged my ass into.” Slidell was breathing hard. I hoped I wasn’t dragging his ass into a cardiac event.

  The straps of my sandals, grown soggy and gritty, sawed channels into my heels and the tops of my feet. My clothing molded to me like a second skin. How had the distance seemed so much shorter in the 4Runner?

  Behind me, I could hear Slidell crunching and wheezing. At any second, I was certain he’d order retreat. Then, without warning, the shoreline cut in, and the bank to our right rose sharply. Google Maps flashed bright and mutely announced we were at the programmed GPS coordinates.

  I thumbed on my flash and pointed it toward the water. The pier was bigger than most and had a pontoon boat moored beside it.

  As Slidell’s beam fell on the pontoon, I aimed mine right. It landed on a narrow flight of wooden stairs. I ran the light up the steps. Could see nothing beyond the top one.

  As one, we killed our lights and listened for movement above us. I caught only Slidell’s breathing and the blood pulsing in my ears.

  Jesus, Brennan. The guy’s a Realtor, not Polyphemus. He owns a party boat.

  One fiercely unfriendly glance, then Slidell began climbing, cautiously testing before putting his full weight onto each tread. White-knuckling the rail, I followed.

  Topside, a zillion tree frogs chirped amphibian gossip. Maybe crickets. I risked a nanosecond of flash. So did Slidell.

  A path led from the stairs to a gate, then across a small yard to the cottage. Surprisingly, the back door was ajar. A violet-blue slash cut through the gap, lighting a deck holding a Weber grill and angular shapes that looked like rockers and patio chairs.

  The gate was unlocked. Slidell disengaged the lever and strode to the deck.

  “Yo!”

  Same result as out front. Silence. He shouted again. Still no response.

  Slidell palmed the door open. We both stepped inside.

  We were in a kitchen lit by overhead recessed cans. Faux-brick tile floor, farm-style sink, stainless-steel appliances. The refrigerator was just to our right. Through a glass panel, I could see containers of Osetra and Beluga caviar, smoked duck, foie gras, and lump crab meat. Enough cheeses to feed all of Wisconsin.

  At the room’s center was a plank pine table. Eight bamboo place mats, eight chairs, one askew, as though hastily vacated. At the table’s center, a ceramic vase with a pink calla lily in its prime.

  A clipboard lay on the mat in front of the off-angle chair. I walked over, glanced down, and noted a list of names, all but two checked. Beside the clipboard, a crystal tumbler holding an inch of amber liquid.

  Slidell joined me and picked up the glass. Sniffed. “Hell-o.”

  He extended his arm. I inhaled. ID’d cognac or brandy.

  Straight ahead, opposite the back entrance and beside a Wolf range, was a closed door. From beyond it came what sounded like a recorded voice, the cadence suggesting TV or film dialogue.

  To the right of the closed door, an open one allowed a view into a pantry. We crossed to it. On the floor were cases of liquor and wine. Macallan. Patrón. Tito’s. Rémy Martin. The wines were mostly domestic pinot noirs and French burgundies. Good ones. I knew. Light reds had been my poison of choice.

  Godiva chocolates and other delicacies filled the shelves. Walker’s shortbread cookies. Jars of olives and tiny cornichon pickles. Boxes of cigars displaying the word Habana.

  “Looks like someone’s planning a party,” Slidell said, voice muted.

  “That someone’s a mighty big spender.”

  Then a high-voltage shot of adrenaline. In one corner, a stack of cocktail napkins with the word DeepHaven in royal blue script.

  “Holy shit.”<
br />
  “What?”

  “I’ll explain later.” As I captured the napkins with my phone.

  Beyond the closed door, the cinematic voice droned on. As Slidell moved into the pantry to inventory the shelves, I scurried over and put my ear to the wood. Made out a few words. Maybe safety? Maybe threat? I was repositioning for better acoustics when a hinge squeaked at my back. I whirled.

  A man stood in the doorway, feet spread, fingers fumbling with his fly. A plastic badge on his shirt introduced him as Bing. A rainbow tattoo on one forearm showed a snarling reptile and said Florida Gators.

  A tug, another, then Bing gave up and braced with a hand to the frame. He was large, in a linebacker-gone-to-fat way. A slack jawline and blond fringe struggling to form brows and cover his scalp said Bing’s gridiron days were far in the past.

  My gaze found Slidell’s. His eyes narrowed as he indicated his badge and shook his head. I dipped my chin in acknowledgment of his desire to conceal that he was a cop.

  “The door was open.” As Slidell listened from the pantry, I spoke up, not wanting to startle.

  If my presence unnerved Bing, he gave no indication. Taking me in with bloodshot eyes, he said, “Had to piss.”

  “Understandable.”

  The scraggly brows dipped as my algae-stained state penetrated to Bing’s brain.

  “Walked over along the beach.” To distract, I wiggled a finger at Bing’s unzipped pants. “You want to … ?”

  “Sorry.” After clumsily achieving success, “I need to verify you’re invited.”

  “Sure.”

  Bing walked to the table, not stumbling but clearly unsteady. “Name?”

  “Flora.” One of the unchecked pair on the list.

  “You’re not …”

  “I’m a friend of Flora’s. She said it would be all right if I came in her place.”

  A beat, then, “You got ID?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to haul my purse. It’s really big. You know how women are.” Silly woman grin. “I left everything behind in my car. I suppose I could go all the way back to get it …”

  More puzzled brows. Then a steroidal arm arced. “You can’t go in until they’re finished.”

  “So I get to hang with you?” Accompanied by a flirtatious smile.

  Blushing, which did not improve his appearance, Bing reoriented the arm, still upraised, in the general direction of the table. I sat.

  “They’ll be tied up an hour, maybe longer.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “Buy a lady a drink?” The dolt actually said that.

  “Please, sir.” I actually said that.

  Bing walked to a cabinet, returned with a second tumbler and an open bottle of Courvoisier. Dropping beside me with a whoosh of cheap cologne and an alarming creaking of wood, he poured us each three inches of cognac.

  “I’ll bet you played football,” I said, eyes roving, discreetly seeking options for an exit plan.

  “Defensive tackle.” Bing knocked back two of his three inches.

  “Wow.” Beaming feigned admiration, I pretended to drink.

  “I can still bench-press three fifty.”

  “That’s awesome.” I had no idea.

  Bing tried to rest his chin on his palm. It slipped off. “Oops,” he said, grinning.

  “Oops,” I said, grinning.

  Bing drained then refilled his tumbler, leaned close, and placed the gator hand on my arm. “I gotta lock up here tonight. But you want to wait, I’ll drive you to your car. Or wherever.” The rheumy leer made me want an immediate shower.

  “That’s so kind.” Taking another sham sip. “Your boss must be a really good guy, sharing such expensive cognac.”

  Bing winked. “It’s our little secret.”

  “I’ll bet your job allows you to meet loads of interesting people.”

  Humble hitch of one shoulder.

  “Have you met Felix Vodyanov?” Casual as hell.

  The leer cooled. I’d said something wrong.

  “I only asked bec—”

  “You want more brandy?” Withdrawing his hand.

  “This is lovely. But I’m actually more of a scotch drinker.”

  “Hold on.”

  As Bing lurched off, I poured my cognac into the lily. A glance at the list revealed my mistake.

  “I’m so sorry. I know I shouldn’t have used a last name,” I said when my glass held Glenfiddich and the bottle sat beside it.

  Bing repeated the one-shoulder shrug.

  “Flora explained.” Contrite. “I forgot.”

  “It’s not a big deal with me. Just, you know, house rules.”

  “Won’t happen again.” Mimicking a key turning over my lips.

  For several seconds, the only sound was the muffled narration beyond the door.

  “Has Felix been here recently?”

  “Not lately.” Then a comment Bing’s brain hadn’t fully vetted. “Haven’t seen little brother in a while, either.”

  “Little brother?” Hoping Slidell was getting all this.

  “Nick.”

  Holy hopping shit!

  “Of course.” Forcing my voice neutral. “Nick’s so much fun.”

  The bleary eyes bugged, and the bull neck turtled out. “Are you fuckin’ serious? The guy’s an asshole.”

  “You think so?”

  “Fuuuck.”

  Speaking in a coquettish whisper, I encouraged, “Are we talking about the same Nick?”

  “The guy’s a tool.” The booze was now dulling Bing’s mind and slurring his speech. “A fuckin’ Russian tool.”

  Don’t overplay.

  “What’s that old story about Nick and Felix?”

  “Yeah.” Bing snorted wetly. “They both start out Vodyanov, right? But Nick don’t want to sound foreign, so he changes the V to B, since that’s how it’s written in whatever the hell alphabet Russkis use, and he chops off the end. Vodyanov becomes goddamn Body.”

  Bing again drained his glass, smacked down the tumbler.

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “That’s the one.”

  “He probably quit coming because of the fight.”

  “Body?” Forming the name with my lips but not speaking it aloud.

  Bing shook his head no. “Big brother.”

  “Felix.”

  “Felix the fall guy.” Mocking. “Klutzoid.”

  “Who did he fight with?”

  “Dude named Twist. I wasn’t here that night, but things get around.”

  “When was this?”

  “I’m thinking maybe three, four weeks back.” Bing’s brows dipped again. “Yeah. The twentieth. I wasn’t working that Wednesday. Don’t get that many days off.”

  June 20. Two days before Vodyanov’s late-night prowl at Sharon Hall.

  Another snort. “I heard Felix jumped Twist’s ass. Quite a move for the little wimp. Can’t say I blame him. Twist’s another real sleaze.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The dickhead’s into kiddie porn. In my book, anyone messes with …”

  Over Bing’s shoulder, I saw the closed door swing in toward the stove. Yates Timmer stood with one hand on the knob, military glasses pointed squarely at me.

  “Who is this?”

  Bing fired up so fast his chair crashed to the floor. “A friend of Flora’s.”

  “I see.” Unruffled. “Her name?”

  Realizing he’d never asked, Bing tried to segue. “I was showing cordiality. Like you coach us.”

  “Did you request ID?” Gaze still on me.

  Bing stood mute, mouth agape.

  I rose.

  Timmer eyed me a few seconds longer. Then, “Have we met?”

  “No.”

  Bing shot me a furious look, or tried to. The sudden movement forced him to step sideways to regain his balance.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I’m interested in DeepHaven.”

  “What do you know about DeepHaven?”

  “
I’m hoping you’ll inform me.”

  “You are an acquaintance of Flora’s?”

  I nodded.

  “Her surname, please?”

  I had no answer.

  “She knows Felix and Nick.” Bing, desperate to justify his actions.

  “Detain her,” Timmer said.

  An entire nation of neurons bellowed retreat.

  Slidell stepped from the pantry.

  23

  MONDAY, JULY 9–TUESDAY, JULY 10

  “No one’s detaining no one.” Slidell’s tone was even but glacial.

  Timmer’s eyes hardened behind their Army-style lenses. He turned them on Skinny but spoke to Bing.

  “Why are these people in my kitchen?”

  Not unexpectedly, Bing was slow to react. “I was watching her. She wasn’t going nowhere.”

  “And the gentleman?”

  “I—I didn’t know he was here.” Sloppy shrug. “He slipped by me.”

  “Slipped by you.” Anger swelled in his voice, threatening to surface.

  “I had to take a leak, all right? You told me never to interrupt the pitch. Since I couldn’t cut through the living room to the crapper, I went outside.”

  Timmer looked at me across the bright pink calla lily. At the cognac and scotch sitting on the table.

  “I will ask you again, miss. What do you want?”

  “I will answer you again, sir. Info on DeepHaven.”

  “How did you learn of this place?”

  “Your catchy logo.”

  “We don’t advertise.”

  “I viewed your website. Took the tour of World’s End House.”

  “You are interested in underground living?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Visits to this location are by invitation only. You should contact my office during regular business hours.”

  “I did.”

  A sliver of a pause, then, “You fraudulently claim to know one of my clients. You enter my property under false pretenses. Somehow I doubt your veracity, Miss—?”

  “We’re done here.” Slidell jumped in before I could answer.

  “I could have you both arrested.” A hint of aggression in Timmer’s voice.

  “That would be a very bad idea.” To me. “Let’s go.”

  Without warning, Bing launched himself at Slidell in a disorganized, sloppy-jointed, slo-mo lunge. Skinny reacted with more agility than I’d have thought him capable of. In one lightning move, he sidestepped, grabbed Bing’s leading shoulder, and, using the forward motion to his advantage, spun and slammed the big man into the wall.