A Conspiracy of Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  “How do you know?”

  “We busted him there last night.”

  “Maybe he wants to pick up his car.” Or maybe we’re wrong, and Unger won’t lead us to Body. I didn’t add that.

  Slidell said nothing.

  The Fiesta made several more turns, weaving through streets lined with frame-and-brick bungalows built a century ago to create Charlotte’s first streetcar burb. Prices are modest, so many university faculty live in the hood. I’d been to the occasional party but hadn’t recognized the address Yuriev provided.

  A quarter hour after leaving the Law Enforcement Center, Olaf pulled in at one of the larger homes on the street, a two-story number with a wide front porch bordered by desperately thirsty azalea bushes. A silver Jaguar XF sat in the gravel drive.

  Slidell stopped twenty yards short of Unger’s house. Torrance and Spano drove past us and eased to the curb far up the block.

  Unger got out of the Fiesta and went inside. Olaf drove off.

  “Goddammit.” Slidell again smacked the wheel.

  “Will you please stop that,” I said, equaling Skinny’s testiness.

  Shortly after entering, Unger reemerged. He’d swapped khakis for the shorts, deck shoes for the flip-flops. His hair was still greasy. I watched him cross to the Jag and, limb by limb, fold himself in. Made me think of a walking stick.

  A quick glance in the rearview mirror, then Unger backed down the drive and vroomed up the street. Slidell threw the 4Runner into gear and gunned off in his wake. I braced against the dash, watching the world come at me way too fast. Hoping no kid or beagle got in our way.

  Unger retraced the path we’d taken from uptown, eventually got onto Freedom Drive, which, with a slight apologetic bend, became Moores Chapel Road. Several miles, then he cut onto Sullins and made another quick right. When Slidell rounded the corner, the Jag was hooking a left.

  Crap! Had he spotted us?

  Slidell made the turn.

  The Jag was halfway up the block, traveling more slowly, not being evasive. Relieved, I leaned back and surveyed my surroundings through the passenger-side window.

  We were weaving through another residential area, this one of more recent vintage than the one we’d just left. The homes were all one-story and variations on a very limited, very artless theme. Siding in dingy pastels. Painted versus stained front doors. Carports to the left or to the right. As developments go, it seemed the bottom of the architectural food chain.

  Unger turned again. As before, Slidell held back, then followed. A hundred yards up, the Jag veered onto a street cutting in from the right, a spur that ended in a cul-de-sac.

  We rolled to a stop just short of the corner and surveyed the scene. Two homes faced off across a concrete circle, each flanked by empty lots. One house was pea-green and had a bay window, detached garage, and small front stoop with a Kmart bench holding a black-and-red racing bike tight to one wall. The other was gray and had none of those niceties.

  The Jag was parked in front of the pea. A curbside mailbox said Schneller. The neighbor’s said Russak. Unger got out of the Jag and strode to Schneller’s front door. A thumb to the bell, it opened, he disappeared inside.

  Slidell punched keys, then spoke into his phone.

  “Pull this up.” He gave the address. 4 Pine Lily Court.

  The response was deadened by Slidell’s head. I heard muted sputtering. More sputtering. The voice again, high, probably Spano, a lengthy report.

  “What’s behind it?”

  I couldn’t make out a word of the reply.

  “No street access?”

  Clipped answer. No, I assumed.

  “Holding position.”

  “What?” I asked when Slidell had disconnected.

  “Title’s been in the name Otto Schneller since the house was built in ’97. No record of any calls to the address. No complaints from the neighbors. Schneller’s got no history, no jacket.”

  Though the day was heavy and humid, Slidell felt the need for outside air. We sat with his window half open, breathing the strong smells of rotting garbage, charcoal briquettes, and chlorine losing out to stagnant pool water. Of Slidell’s failing Right Guard and sweat-soaked shirt.

  Five minutes. Ten.

  As Slidell would say, stakeouts don’t make for heart-pumping action. My eyes roved the property, logging detail.

  Trees muscled up to the edge of the backyard, maybe twenty yards distant from the house. A huge wasp’s nest hung below one eave. A door stood ajar at the rear of the garage. Beside the door, a wheelbarrow held a jumbled green blanket. A garden spade lay crosswise atop the bowl, fresh soil on the blade.

  That seemed wrong.

  I widened my scope.

  Neither the street we were on nor Pine Lily Court was seeing any action. No kids riding bikes or scooters. No neighbors washing cars, pushing mowers, or pulling weeds. The only sounds were Slidell’s thumbs drumming on the wheel and a persistent locust hum.

  Then, over the drumming and humming, a muted purr.

  I was about to comment when Slidell’s mobile buzzed. This time, he didn’t mash the thing so tight to his ear. I caught most of the exchange.

  “Motorcycle approach … oving fast. If … your location, ETA … ess than two minutes.”

  “Copy that.”

  Slidell moved fast. In seconds, the 4Runner was backed into a driveway across from and facing the cul-de-sac.

  The purr sharpened into a whine. The same whine I’d heard at the bunker? Shortly, a motorcycle slalomed up the block, swerved onto Pine Lily, and angled up the walkway leading to number 4. The rider wore faded cutoffs, a yellow tee, cowboy boots, and a shiny blue helmet.

  I watched the rider kill the engine and heel the kickstand into place. My jaw tightened. The boots were tan with a green floral overlay and turquoise studs.

  “It’s Holly Kimrey,” I said.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Kimrey dismounted and removed the helmet. His hair was the color of old beets, spiky on top and slicked back on the sides with some sort of oil. From my vantage point, it was impossible to see his features.

  Moving with a coiled energy I found unsettling, Kimrey balanced the helmet on the seat, then hurried up the walk and let himself into number 4. Staring at the drab suburban ranch, I couldn’t wrap my mind around the thought that this was Nick Body’s home. Could the vainglorious firebrand really live in such a mundane setting?

  And an even more grim possibility. Might April Siler be in that house? Buried in the yard or the woods beyond? Were we about to confront a monster? Or was this all a ghastly mistake?

  Again, Slidell reached for his phone.

  “I’m going in. You and Torrance cover the back in case anyone decides to take a runner.”

  Mumbled whatever.

  “Roger.” To me. “Let’s go squeeze this jackass. I do the talking, got it?”

  “Is it OK if I breathe?”

  While crossing the cul-de-sac, I noticed Slidell reach down to adjust his holster. The precaution suggested a tension level equal to mine.

  Slidell’s knock was answered by a flicking drape in the bay window. No one came to the door. He pounded again, harder, fingers curled into a fist.

  “Beat it.” A warbly voice said, probably Kimrey.

  “Police. Open up.”

  “Go away.”

  “Not happening.”

  “What is this shit?”

  “A little party I call open the fucking door.”

  “Why should I?”

  Slidell lifted his badge and waggled it in front of a tiny window at eye level.

  “How about we talk warrant?” Kimrey said.

  “How about we talk murder?”

  “What the fuck?”

  “I’m not getting any cooler standing out here.”

  The door opened the length of a security chain, enough to allow Kimrey to eyeball Slidell. Apparently, what he saw made an impression. Acting with the enthus
iasm of a dead man walking, he closed and liberated the door, then withdrew, leaving a gap large enough for us to pass through.

  Friends tell me the annex needs a makeover. The decor here was so outdated it should have been wearing vinyl boots and a pillbox. The L-shaped space was small but crammed with an abundance of furniture way past its shelf life. Swag lamps hung from the corners of the ceiling. Olive shag carpet covered the floor.

  Straight ahead, up the back of the L, was a dining alcove containing a sideboard, table, and chairs, all pretending to be maple. Metal shelving ran below a window at the far end. A drone-sized fly was sluggishly buzzing one of the panes. A walking cane leaned in one corner, wood, with a derby handle and leather wrist loop.

  The living room was directly to the right, in the foot of the L. Gold floral paper covered one wall. The others were bare save for warehouse imitations of great works. Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Monet’s Sunrise. Botticelli’s Birth of Venus.

  A flat-screened Sony obscured most of the bay window. Opposite the TV, against the flowery paper, was a grouping upholstered in beige brocade. A matching armchair squatted to either side of a sofa, a faux chrome-and-glass coffee table cowered in front. Identical end tables held identical lamps composed of peony ceramic bases crowned with bubblegum-pink tasseled shades.

  Except for the TV, the whole place looked like it was frozen in time. Being generous, I’d say the sixties.

  A green bakery box gaped open on the coffee table. A crumb and sugar scatter on the glass suggested the recent ingestion of doughnuts.

  Floy Unger was on the sofa, bony knees winging, hands clasped and hanging between them. He looked tired. And something else. Scared?

  Holly Kimrey slouched in the chair facing our way, legs outstretched, ankles crossed. Eyes focused on a remnant of chocolate glazed. A man sat opposite, motionless, his back to us. I saw thick black hair and a sunbaked neck suggesting future melanoma.

  A fist tightened in my belly.

  Was I about to meet the notorious Nick Body?

  35

  “Anyone else attending this little freak show?” Slidell, gaze bouncing the room and the trio in it.

  Unger continued staring at a point in space somewhere beyond his knees. Kimrey remained fixated on the pastry. The black-haired man said nothing.

  “I’m talking here, people.” Almost a snarl.

  Unger flinched. No one else reacted.

  Slidell shot me a stay put look, then, hand hovering at his Glock, moved off to make a sweep of the house. I watched him pass through the dining alcove into what I assumed was a kitchen, then reverse down a hall into what I assumed were bedrooms and baths. In seconds, he was back. A quick nod to me, then he strode across the nasty shag toward the unfortunate brocade, every sense on high alert.

  I joined Slidell and got my first glimpse of the guy whose back had been to us. Despite the added years, leatherized tan, and leaner physique, I recognized him as the third person in the MKUltra conference photo. The man with Felix Vodyanov and Yates Timmer. Nick Body.

  “Holly tells me you’re quite the pair.” Gravelly words escaping from somewhere far back in Body’s throat.

  I glanced sideways toward Kimrey. Up close, he looked older than I’d imagined. I noted broken veins in his cheeks, starbursts around his eyes and at the corners of his lips. A faint stubble shadow.

  “We do what we can.” Sarcasm coating Slidell’s tone.

  “I know you’re a cop.” Body raised his chin in my direction. “Who the hell’s she?”

  “Your worst nightmare.” The taut shoulders and harsh tone told me Slidell had his full Chuck Norris on.

  “Amusing.” Body’s whole affect was arrogance.

  “Why’d you order your flunky to set fire to her townhouse?” Glancing at Kimrey.

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do.”

  “Holly is my assistant, nothing more.”

  “I checked. Your assistant’s got a long, crowded sheet.”

  Body shrugged, an awkward hitch of one beefy shoulder.

  “The dumb shit left prints.”

  “What the fuck?” Apparently, Kimrey wasn’t as fixated on the doughnut as he looked.

  “Cops plant evidence,” Body said. “They’re famous for it.”

  “Hard to plant fingerprints.”

  “Tell that to Johnnie Cochran.” Body draped a casual arm over his chairback, unconcerned.

  The feigned indifference triggered a repugnance so powerful it overrode my resolve to stay silent. “Why have people I questioned about you left town or stopped talking?”

  “You noticed.”

  “I did.”

  “I paid them off.”

  “Why?”

  “To shut down the meddling.”

  “What did you hope to gain?”

  “What do you hope to gain?”

  “The truth.”

  When Body smirked, his lips went tight to his front teeth, down at the far reaches. It was the kind of smirk a viper would make, if a viper could smirk.

  “Did you murder your brother?” I asked.

  Utter silence.

  “These questions too tough for you, Nick? I could use shorter sentences.” Adrenaline had me wired to the far side of the galaxy.

  “I loved my brother.”

  “You love his Huntington’s?”

  “You are thorough.” Icy.

  “I am.” Icier.

  “I begged Felix not to do it. He wouldn’t listen.”

  Beside me, Slidell was radiating agitation from every pore.

  “Still, it must have been a relief.” I pressed on, sensing a weak spot. “His disease could have been embarrassing. Cost you followers. Maybe investors in your missile-silo scam.”

  More silence. No smirk.

  “Hogs ate him, you know.” Cruel, but the adrenaline was in full command.

  “Don’t talk about my brother like that, you bitch.” Body’s jaw tightened all the way down to his throat.

  “Yuriev camouflaged the Huntington’s,” I hammered on. “Is Heavner on board to sugarcoat the death?”

  “Who?”

  “Margot Heavner. Your pal, Dr. Morgue.”

  Unger seemed to return from his point in space. His gaze went to Body, some inner conflict playing out on his face. Body’s eyes narrowed in warning. Unger turned away.

  “Dr. Heavner is an investor in one of my projects,” Body said. “Nothing more.”

  “We know all about DeepHaven,” I said evenly, forcing my face blank to mask my repugnance. And shock.

  Out of patience, Slidell retook control. He moved a step closer to Body. “You use that show of yours to spread lies and sell your worthless safe houses. You spew any horseshit that enters your head.”

  “Yes.” Again the viper smirk. “I do.”

  Slidell was through screwing around. “Where’s the kid, Body?”

  “What kid?”

  “Should I say kids?”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “Jahaan Cole. Timmy Horshauser. You want I should go on?”

  “I’m aware of those children. I’ve discussed their disappearances publicly. Beyond that, I know nothing.”

  “I think you do.”

  “Have you one shred of evidence to support these ridiculous allegations?”

  Slidell glared with such hatred I thought of a gargoyle.

  “No, detective,” Body sang out. “And you never will.”

  “That’s it. You’re stringing me, and it’s wasting my time. I’m booking every one of you dipshits.”

  “For what?” Kimrey asked, equal parts indignation and outrage.

  Slidell yanked a plush pink unicorn from his pocket and tossed it at Body. The sight sent Freon out through my veins.

  “You get your rocks off on kiddie toys, Nicky boy?” Not bothering to tamp down the savage edge of revulsion. “You like stroking your willy on fuzzy stuffed animals?”

  “How dare you!”
Cheeks flaming.

  “You been doing some grave digging lately? We gonna find some kid in your garden?”

  “What the fuck!” Apparently, Kimrey’s vocabulary was less than expansive.

  “You’re all going down.” Slidell glowered from one to the next. “Drugs. Fraud. Breaking and entering. Arson. Kidnapping. How does attempted murder sound?”

  That’s when things went sideways.

  Kimrey shot from his chair and bolted across the room. Being directly in his path, I took the hit. An elbow to the ribs knocked me into the Sony. The screen shattered. Numbed by the blow, I stood gasping, lungs knotted in spasm. In my peripheral vision, Unger sat frozen, paralyzed by indecision.

  Not so Body. In the same instant, he pushed to his feet and began skirting the coffee table to slip past Slidell.

  “I’m on him!” I croaked, stumble-charging after Kimrey.

  Behind me, I heard Slidell lunge. An expulsion of breath as Body was rammed in the chest. Flesh slamming brocade. Bone striking plaster. Splintering ceramics.

  Kimrey raced to the entrance and yanked the door wide. It banged the wall hard and ricocheted inward.

  At my back, an animal grunt, a wheezing whimper, the snick of handcuffs locking into place. Startled movement, a barked command from Slidell. A high-pitched squeal from Unger. A crash, probably the second lamp joining its colleague.

  Reopening the door cost Kimrey precious time. As I dashed outside, he was just reaching his cycle. I closed in and struck, leading with my hips and following through with my shoulders, all my weight and fury behind the attack.

  The helmet flew, and the bike toppled. Kimrey face-dived onto the lawn, my body wrapping his like a leech on a frog. Going down, I caught a flash of Spano’s cruiser at the curb. Empty.

  Scrabbling to break free, Kimrey elbow-clawed forward while twisting and kicking backward with his fancy boots. I gripped so tightly I felt the strain of his sinewy muscles, the hardness of his bones beneath. Inch by inch, he dragged us across the grass. Arms burning with the effort, I held on, face pressed to his back.

  One foot. Two. Kimrey outweighed me by a little, but his desperation was fueling murderous strength. Slowly, my arms slipped downward along the bony spine.

  The blistering sunlight, the sweltering humidity, the bucking ride across the scorched grass. The torturous funhouse seemed to go on forever. Then Kimrey’s right shoulder dropped as his arm stretched out. I heard a scrape, his throat sucking air as his upper body twisted.