A Conspiracy of Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  Timmer retreated behind the door.

  Slidell held Bing a long, painful moment, crooking one arm high behind his back. Then, “As I said, we’re going now.”

  Bing grunted and nodded, one beefy cheek tight to the plaster. A few beats, then Slidell released his grip. Bing slid to the floor, a glistening trail of drool and snot marking his descent.

  With one glare in my direction, Slidell strode past me toward the door.

  * * *

  The return trip along the beach was not an experience I want to repeat. Slidell was furious. At me. At Timmer. At being in a situation not fully under his control. Mostly at me.

  “That was one stupid goddamn waste of time.”

  “It wasn’t. We learned several things.”

  “Yeah? Like I shouldn’t listen to any more of your harebrained ideas.”

  “We learned that Felix Vodyanov and Nick Body are brothers. That Vodyanov got into a fight with a guy named Twist.”

  Slidell tripped and stumbled forward. I waited as he regained his balance.

  “We learned that the fight took place two days before I spotted Vodyanov prowling my front yard.”

  “If the guy in the trench coat was Vodyanov.”

  “A week after the fight with Twist, Vodyanov turned up dead.”

  “Eeyuh.”

  We continued past yards and cottages still as crypts. Through mud-crusted litter. My breathing was good, my legs strong from the hours of jogging. And the downhill gradient didn’t hurt. Beside me, Slidell was struggling.

  Then, above Slidell’s panting and slogging, I heard a sound. Footsteps? Were Timmer and Bing following us? Others? Cops? Had Timmer called 911?

  “What was that?”

  We both froze, vigilant for movement ahead, above, or out over the water. I heard a swish of fabric. Knew Slidell’s hand had cocked toward his gun.

  All was muggy stillness around us.

  As we clambered over the algae-slimed outcrop, I worried. Had Timmer deployed his henchmen to discover where we’d parked? Did he have henchmen? Was he planning an ambush at the 4Runner? Or had he simply returned to his movie? Was my paranoia playing more games with my sanity?

  Minutes, maybe eons, then we finally reached the boat ramp. The 4Runner sat alone in the dark. No Bing. No Timmer. No henchmen.

  Thank Christ.

  A surprising puff of hot air brushed my skin as we both scrambled up the incline and across the concrete. When Slidell wasn’t venting his indignation over one thing or another, we rode to Charlotte in silence. Which provided far too much time for reflection.

  Had Timmer ordered a covert investigation? Surely he wanted to know who we were. It was obvious he hadn’t called 911. Was he afraid of a police presence in the cottage? Of an inquiry into the nature of the event and those who were present?

  Had we blundered into something more sinister than a pitch for the delights of a subterranean abode?

  * * *

  Slidell phoned early the next morning. Spent time reemphasizing themes he’d highlighted during the previous night’s trudge down the beach and the endless drive home. Finally got to the point.

  “Vice boys knew the name right off. Vincent Aiello. Online, goes by Twist.”

  “Good work.”

  “You know that dark web thing you been talking up?”

  “I wouldn’t say I’ve bee—”

  “There was a kiddie porn site down there called PlaySchool. Users went in through some sick-as-shit browser—”

  “TOR?”

  “Sounds right. Keeps your cyber-prowling secret, so word on the street had PlaySchool as a nice, safe hidey-hole for viewing and trading kiddie porn. Vice guys say there were over a hundred thousand users and tens of thousands of posts involving sexual abuse and exploitation of minors.”

  “You’re using the past tense.” Hiding my revulsion.

  “Two years ago, the feds shut the fucker down. They arrested the creator and head administrator, a douchebag in Philadelphia name of Sammy Lowenstein, a busload of child porn producers, and a couple hundred U.S.-based users.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Messed up, eh? On the plus side, they also rescued thirty-two kids.”

  “How does Vincent Aiello figure in?”

  “Your boy Twist was a frequent flier.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He regularly posted content in the forums.”

  “The FBI snagged Aiello in their net?”

  “Yep. Prosecuted him on a number of counts of engaging in a child-exploitation enterprise.”

  “I hope he stays behind bars till his dick falls off.” Repugnance now curdling my tone.

  “Unfortunately, all charges had to be dropped.”

  “Seriously?”

  “To crack into TOR, special agents used what the DOJ described as—I’m quoting here—a network investigative technique approved by a federal court. Later, a different judge ruled that the FBI had to reveal the nature of said technique in order to move forward with prosecuting Aiello. The Bureau said kiss my sweet cheeks. The turd walked.”

  “Bigger fish?”

  “Apparently, the DOJ has related probes that are still ongoing.”

  “Aiello lives local?”

  “Dilworth.”

  “What’s he do?”

  “You ready for this? The guy’s a lawyer.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Solo practitioner, does something with patents, works out of his home.”

  “Any previous arrests?”

  “In 2010, he was charged with one count of possessing and three counts of transporting child pornography. That’s how he came to the notice of CMPD vice.”

  “Let me guess. He skated.”

  “Got everything thrown out because of a technicality. Apparently, they found the stuff in his car without probable cause to search the vehicle.”

  “Bing said Vodyanov fought with Aiello. Attacked him, actually. That the incident got him kicked out of DeepHaven.”

  “What’d they fight about?”

  “You know what I know.”

  “What the hell is DeepHaven?”

  “I thought it might be a real estate office. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “Because?”

  “Why such an odd location? Why no commercial signage? Why so much security? Why use only the first names of clients?”

  There was a pause over the line. Heavy. Then Slidell summarized aloud what we were both thinking.

  “Aiello’s a pedophile. He’s living in Charlotte when Jahaan Cole goes missing. The kid’s name is in Vodyanov’s notebook. Vodyanov gets into a throwdown with Aiello and shortly thereafter turns up dead.”

  I picked up the thread. “Aiello’s into kiddie porn but managed to stay under the radar until 2010, then again for the next six years. He’s a lawyer, he’s careful, undoubtedly more so since the FBI bust. We need to question him before he gets wind of our interest.”

  “We don’t need to do nothing. Just because I agreed to your little sortie last night don’t mean we’re now Starsky and Hutch.”

  Expected. I pressed on anyway.

  “Can you pull Aiello’s file? Talk to the feds? To the vice detective and prosecutor from 2010?”

  “Sit tight until you hear from me.”

  “I—”

  “No promises. Just be ready when I call.”

  After disconnecting, the revulsion hung on. I was fixed in place, wallowing in it, when a knock sounded on the door. I looked up. Through the window above the sink I could see a panel truck, through the one in the door a stoop-shouldered silhouette wearing a broad-billed white cap. I recognized the long-lost painter. Fred? Frank?

  I let Fred/Frank in. He was in his mid-fifties, with sullen eyes and pockmarked skin that looked like it had spent its whole life in a cellar. As on our earlier encounters, I suspected that neither Fred/Frank’s cap nor his matching coveralls had enjoyed the company of detergent in the recent past.

  Fred/Frank and
I discussed the errant shade of paint. After he showed me the new color and I approved, he trudged upstairs. Several return trips for a ladder, more cans, brushes, drop cloths, and other paraphernalia, and Fred/Frank disappeared into the new study.

  Recalling Fred/Frank’s fondness for sun tea, I filled my large glass jar with distilled water, threw in a mix of green, hibiscus, and peach tea bags, capped it, and set the jar out on the porch. God forbid I should fall short should Fred/Frank grow thirsty.

  By ten, the place smelled like the inside of a chimney at a chemical plant. Unsure if that was normal, or healthy, I decided to vacate.

  Throughout the morning, I ran errands. After lunch, I began work on an article for the Journal of Forensic Sciences. In the downstairs guest room/study. With the door closed to head off the fumes.

  Around two, heavy clomping on the staircase caught my attention. I peeked out in time to see Fred/Frank hurrying down the hall.

  “All finished?” To his retreating back.

  “Got a phone call. Gotta go.”

  “But—”

  I heard the kitchen door open, click shut. Exasperated, I rolled a towel and jammed it along the crack below the door in the upstairs study. The hasty departure felt worryingly familiar. Why, I wondered, had I stuck with this guy?

  At six, I left to meet Pete for dinner.

  His news made thoughts of fickle painters, missing kids, pedophiles, faceless corpses, and strange bunkers dissolve like fog on a hot summer dawn.

  * * *

  Pete and I tied the knot young, kept it tied for two decades. Then came the nurse, the Realtor, the law-firm colleague. Unable to ignore the affairs, I left. For years, my simmering anger and his guilt kept us apart. The resentment and self-blame are gone now. We both agree. We’re better friends single than we ever were married.

  Despite the temperature, Pete was on the patio at Toscana, our favorite restaurant since back in the day. He was wearing khaki shorts, a cotton polo, boat shoes, no socks. Standard dress.

  Pete smiled on seeing me. Rose as I crossed to the table.

  “Tempe.” He’d been out of town, and we hadn’t spoken in a month. As usual, hearing Pete’s voice stirred memories long dormant. Snuggling in a carrel in the law-school library, his worn leather jacket soft against my cheek. His hair glinting white-gold under a full Barbados moon. His eyes beaming joy, infant Katy raised two-handed high above his head. His eyes wide in horror, like those of the lady beside him in our bed.

  “Hey, Pete.” Kicking the memories aside.

  “You look terrific.”

  I didn’t. I’d thrown on a sundress, my sole inspiration for coping with the merciless heat.

  Pete’s arms went around me. My cheek brushed his shirt, and my nose took in his Aramis cologne, a scent he refused to supplant with any other. I relaxed into his chest. For a moment, all was as it once was.

  Sweet Jesus! My overloaded stress-strain curve was turning me into a mooning adolescent. The treasonous glitch in my arterial wiring?

  Right, Brennan. Blame everything on the aneurysm.

  I stepped back. The moment ended. We both sat.

  Through long-standing and hard-won mutual agreement, my ex and I strive to keep all conversations neutral. That night, we discussed Katy. Mama. The Hornets’ prospects for the upcoming season. When Pete queried my work, I shook my head no. When I asked about his travels, he said they’d involved a Winnebago and parklands. Alrighty.

  As we ate, I tried not to glance at my watch. To wonder what was occupying Slidell. Behind Pete’s head, a faulty carriage-lantern bulb winked on and off. I absently tracked its sputtering decline. Thought again about the AWOL electrician. Resolved to keep nagging until he finished the job in the new study.

  We were sipping decaf espressos when I said, “OK, big guy. What’s this news that must only be shared in person?”

  Pete’s face went all tight angles and bones. A beat, then he set his tiny china cup on its tiny china saucer. It made a soft chinking sound. Long after, I recalled that odd little detail.

  “My trip was for Boyd.”

  Pete’s strange response. His somber tone and obvious tension. I felt a tickle of unease.

  “For the dog,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  When anxious, I often joke. I did so then. “The chow’s worried about the rising cost of admission to national parks?”

  Unsmiling, Pete took my hand. The gesture, meant to comfort, had the opposite effect.

  “Boyd has a brain tumor, Tempe. I took him to a specialist in Raleigh.”

  “A tumor.” The bulb was dead, the lantern across the terrace now a hazy Cyclops eye.

  “It’s frontal. He’s losing vision on the right.”

  I swallowed. “How will they treat it?”

  Pete squeezed my hand harder.

  The cold hollowness spread outward. I said nothing.

  “He loved being out on the trails,” Pete said. “I think Acadia was his favorite.”

  I nodded.

  “Boyd’s had a good life.”

  I’m lousy at expressing emotion. At offering condolence. I spoke the first words to come into my head.

  “It’ll be fine.”

  My artless response hung between us on the hot summer air. We both knew it wouldn’t be fine. It would be agonizing. Heart-wrenching. Achingly sad.

  “I want to see him.”

  “Of course. We’ll—”

  “Now.”

  “Sure.”

  Pete signaled for the check. Paid. I was too devastated to argue.

  I followed Pete to the house we’d shared for almost twenty years. His now. I waited while he used his key to let us in.

  We’d barely cleared the door when Boyd came strolling into the foyer, ears at half mast, tongue dangling purple. Seeing me, the dog went into his usual routine, not full-out berserk but pretty excited, circling me and nudging both my hands with his snout. I petted his head and ruffled the fur on his neck. Which did nothing to calm the display.

  At Pete’s suggestion, we all moved into the family room. I accepted his offer of coffee, too focused on Boyd to consider the consequences of late-night caffeine. As Pete disappeared into the kitchen, I dropped onto the sofa, leaned forward, and opened my arms.

  Boyd put his head on my knee, looked up, and rotated his eyebrow whiskers. I gazed into the doleful brown eyes, a million memories colliding in my mind. Fighting tears, I wondered. Did the dog know something was amiss in his head? Did he sense his upcoming decline? His death?

  Was I projecting my own angst onto the chow? My newborn sense of my own mortality?

  Pete and I took Boyd for a very long walk. I stayed far later than I should have. While starting the car, I noticed the time on the dashboard clock. 11:37.

  I wept all the way to the annex.

  Another shock awaited me there.

  24

  The porch light was on, but the usual squadron of moths wasn’t fluttering in the nimbus around it. My ears registered no soft ticking of wings against bulbs. The air smelled of petunias and marigolds and freshly mowed lawn. And something else. An acrid tinge overriding the floral mix.

  A ghostlike shadow materialized from the darkness at the corner of the house. To either side of it, the ground looked oddly rippled, as though the soil had been gouged, the grass trampled and flattened.

  My mind logged all the incongruous cues. Offered no explanation.

  “Bird?”

  As the cat padded toward me, I checked my surroundings. Still no alarm bells. My gaze fell on the door leading into the kitchen. Dark slashes ran along the edges where the wood should have met the frame.

  Had the wind knocked it ajar? For those in my line of work, security is second nature. Like washing your hands with soap. Or breathing. Plus, there had been break-ins in the past. No way I’d ever forget to lock up.

  Seriously, Brennan? Lately you’ve been acting like a sparrow caged with a Maine Coon.

  Pete was with me during dinn
er and later at his house. Katy wasn’t in Charlotte. Mama didn’t drive after dark. No one else in town had a key. Who?

  I jumped at the brush of fur on my ankles. Squatted and scooped Birdie into my arms.

  “Good boy for hanging close to home.”

  The cat purred and raised his head. I buried my nose behind his right ear.

  My pulse quickened.

  He smelled like cinders.

  Flash image of the incinerator at the fenced bunker.

  Alert Slidell?

  Detective Delightful would either go radioactive at being phoned so late or set a land record rushing over to protect my ass. Before dialing, I had to know what the hell was going on. If anything.

  Another quick glance around, then I eased the door inward and stepped inside. No ski-masked figure lurched from the gloom. Every familiar shape was in its normal position. The sink, the appliances, the table and chairs.

  But the smell of smoke was unmistakable.

  Nervous energy must have goosed me into squeezing harder than I realized. Birdie yrrrped and twisted. With a four-paw brace, he launched from my chest and shot from the room.

  Lights?

  I knew the layout. An intruder, if there was one, would not. Advantage to me.

  Feeling half foolish, half frightened, I crept forward in the dark. The dining room was undisturbed. Ditto the living room, the only movement the gentle swaying of the pendulum on the mantel clock. The only sound its low metronome.

  But why so black? Usually, I leave the hall table lamp burning. I’d also forgotten that?

  As I inched toward the guest room/study, the air felt wrong. Too heavy, too warm. Had the hot mugginess seeped in through the open back door? And why the smell of burning?

  One peek gave rise to alarm.

  The room sparkled with a million points of iridescence.

  A moment of confusion, then comprehension.

  Light from a streetlamp was filtering through a shattered window behind the sofa, sparking shards of glass blanketing the furniture and rug.