by Kathy Reichs
After a brief pause, I asked, “Was Timmer involved?”
“No.”
“What about Vodyanov?”
“According to Unger, Vodyanov wasn’t looped in on the kiddie-porn op or Jahaan Cole. The guy was just a stooge, chasing down crap for Body’s shows. Then, sometime last fall, he stumbled onto something, Unger wasn’t sure what it was or how he got it. Vodyanov started poking around, confronting people—”
“Vince Aiello.”
“Vodyanov always had Body’s back, never asked questions. But messing with kids crossed some kinda line. Shitting his jockeys with guilt, he decided to bloodhound what he could, unload on you, then off himself.”
“Why’d he give up before talking to me?”
“In the end, maybe he just couldn’t bring himself to burn little brother.”
Unbidden, a phrase winged into my thoughts. Do whatever it takes. How differently that dictum had been interpreted by Tatiana’s two sons. Felix became the compassionate nurturer for his sibling. Nick became the egomaniacal psychopath.
A long, melancholy silence hung between Slidell and me. I suspected Skinny’s thoughts were traveling the same path as mine, imagining the upcoming conversation with Jahaan Cole’s mother. Though heartbreaking, we both knew Skinny’s news would be welcomed. Knowledge concerning the fate of a missing child, no matter how bleak, is always better than the agony of not knowing.
Slidell spoke first. “That’s it. I’m going back at these squirrels, starting with Body. He’s been off the blow long enough now sweat’s pushing out of him like guts from a roach. I’m betting he’ll soon be begging to trade it all.”
“Thanks for keeping me apprised. It means a lot.”
“Eeyuh.”
After disconnecting, I moved to the chair by the window. Sat and closed my eyes. Did some deep breathing to check my roiling emotions. Eventually, my pulse slowed sufficiently to consider retiring.
I knew I wouldn’t sleep as ferociously as I had the day before for a long time to come. That most nights, racing thoughts, fragmented memories, and disjointed scenes would replay in my mind. That I’d again see Heavner, Body, Timmer, and the others. Vodyanov with his mangled face and eviscerated belly. The fenced property, the underground bunker.
I knew the headaches would continue to plague me. Worries about the aneurysm. But I would come out the winner. My doctors would help. Together we’d find the proper combo of meds and lifestyle adjustments.
I knew I’d struggle with my recall of the grotesque characters and events associated with the faceless man. To objectively sort reality from illusion.
What was real? What was not?
My eyes drifted over the things Ryan and I had chosen together. The acrylic bar cart. The chrome lamp curving overhead. The Chihuly lithograph hanging on the wall. I pictured the annex, where repair of the incinerated study was already under way.
Rising, I went to the bedroom, dug an item from my suitcase, and returned to the window. The warm ginger sunset wrapped the little elephant-headed deity lying in my palm. Ganesha, the remover of obstacles. The god of beginnings. Even with one tusk. For a very long moment, I just gazed at him. He gazed back. Challenging me?
OK, old friend. I accept. I will blend my life with Ryan’s and set forth on a new course. Leading to a strengthened bond? To a sad ending? Hard to know.
A horn honked far below on Sherbrooke. Another answered.
My thoughts drifted back to Body. He claimed he was free to spew any cockamamie theories or toxic falsehoods he chose. Sadly, he was right. And the world was worse for it. But he wasn’t free to pander the abuse of children for the sick pleasure of pedophiles. To line his pockets by exploiting the vulnerability of people living in poverty. To harm kids. Happily, Slidell and I had helped shut him down.
Jahaan Cole was dead, the location of her body as yet unknown. Unger or Body was responsible. Perhaps both. I had confidence Slidell would sort that out and that justice would finally be served.
Timothy Horshauser remained missing. Others. Body and his cronies claimed to know nothing about their disappearances. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they did. We might never find out.
So many unknowns. But one thing was certain. Slidell and I wouldn’t stop looking. Despite his bluster and bullying and bad suits, Skinny was one of the good guys.
I’d continue to search for clarity, for answers. For health. For happiness with Ryan.
And, always, I would search for the missing children.
FROM THE FORENSIC FILES OF DR. KATHY REICHS
A Conspiracy of Bones provides a peek into the field of forensic entomology via a fleeting reference to Ophiocordyceps camponoti-balzani. Zombie ants. (Seriously. Check them out.) Why mention ants here? Because I’m a bit like the wee buggers, my feelers always out and sniffing for fresh booty, be it from a case at the lab, a newspaper or journal article, or an incident related to me by a colleague. Anything I do, read, hear, or see can be grist for the next Temperance Brennan novel.
My writing process unfolds in three phases. First comes the ant phase, when my mind collects and stashes tidbits. Some info is so timely and compelling that a book practically writes itself. Other items must germinate a while, intermingling and cross-pollinating until an idea for a plot line arises from the cerebral mix. Then I move to the paper phase, making lists, drawing charts, scribbling outlines, and testing whether the potential story has the muscle to grow into a book. What if this occurs? I ask myself. What if that? What setting? What contemporaneous happenings in our heroine’s life? When all the weaving and twisting and juxtaposing are done, and questions of plausibility have been considered and potential winners selected, it’s on to the computer phase. Bum to the chair, eyes to the screen, fingers to the keyboard.
A Conspiracy of Bones was no exception. The ant gathering began years ago when a friend shared her misgivings concerning the sinking of the ferry Estonia. Too busy with a new job to continue studying the tragedy, she offered me her trove of research materials. Intrigued, but unable to find that all-important engine to drive a plot line, I let the idea lie dormant for almost a decade.
Also sleeping in my gray matter was an article I’d read about Somerton Man, a real-life death investigation and now a very cold case. Somerton Man’s body was discovered on a beach near Adelaide in the winter of 1948, and the case is described as one of Australia’s “most profound mysteries.” All labels had been cut from his clothing. A pants pocket held a scrap bearing a Persian phrase meaning “it is ended.” Investigators tracked the scrap to a book containing indented writing—phone numbers and encrypted script. Theories were wide-ranging. Was Somerton Man a postwar refugee? An assassinated cold war spy? An eccentric local who’d overdosed or taken his own life? To this day the gentleman’s name and cause of death remain unknown.
Great starters. I could imagine sinister links to the Estonia incident. But Somerton Man had a face and teeth and fingers. A corpse arriving in Tempe’s lab could very well lack such identifiers.
A third tidbit slumbering in the old noggin, as Skinny Slidell would say, was a homicide case I worked on in the mid-nineties. The remains, found in a heavily forested area, were badly decomposed and scattered due to scavenging by bears. My skeletal autopsy suggested a white female in her forties. The profile matched that of a local woman missing several months. The victim’s boyfriend, a recently paroled felon, was eventually convicted of her murder.
Though far from my sole case involving animal damage to bone, the circumstances of this woman’s death touched me deeply. Every murder is wrong, but hers seemed doubly so. She’d fought for her killer’s release from prison. He’d thanked her by taking her life.
The bear-scavenged remains offered useful elements for a Temperance Brennan case: no features, no dentals, no prints. But for this novel I wanted our heroine in Dixie, not the northern woods or South Australia. While we have bears, feral hogs are a real nuisance in parts of North Carolina.
I envisioned a tragedy around w
hich swirled theories of treachery. A body bearing ominous clues. A corpse lacking identifiers. This trio could work. But what about context? What is going on with our heroine?
In the novella First Bones, readers learned of the death of Tim Larabee, Mecklenburg County’s longtime medical examiner. Why not follow up on this misfortune and create a story arc in the manner that we relied on in the Bones writers’ room? How has this loss affected Tempe? Is the new boss an ally? Does the new boss appreciate Tempe’s expertise? Or, to the contrary, does this new person wish her ill? Good stuff. Next.
I began the nineteenth Brennan book at a time when bloggers and extremist talk show hosts were polluting the internet and the airways with hateful dialogue, unfounded conspiracy theories, and dangerous misinformation. When mainstream journalists felt compelled to fact-check the utterances of powerful figures. When the terms “fake news” and “alternate facts” had become common lingo. When listeners and readers were constantly forced to question the reliability of both the media and the media critics.
A national atmosphere of suspicion and doubt prevailed. What is real and what is not? It was a timely backdrop. But I also wanted to bring this sense of uncertainty down to a personal level.
That’s when I made a difficult decision. Like Tempe, I am a private person, reluctant to divulge my secrets or express my feelings. I would break that pattern. I would share with my readers a challenge that I recently faced. I would make an aspect of this story my own.
As some of you may know, I didn’t release a book last year. There is a reason I took time off.
Not long ago I was diagnosed with an unruptured cerebral aneurysm. Following its serendipitous discovery, my doctors monitored my brain like NASA tracks asteroids. There have been annual MRAs and the occasional MRI, simple procedures to check for signs of change. For a while all was dandy, everything in place. Then the little bubble decided to do some shape-shifting. I underwent an embolization, a procedure in which miniature metal coils are injected to block blood flow through the arterial wall. Since the surgery, I experience the occasional migraine, but otherwise all is well.
Bottom line. I have a brain oddity and headaches, so our heroine also has the dastardly duo. Do I worry about the aneurysm? Not much. Does Tempe? A bit more. And her fears about the state of her mind parallel the central theme of Conspiracy. What is real and what is not? What happens when the reliability of one’s judgment is questioned?
In Tempe’s case, what ensues when all hard data—her stock and trade—are taken from her? In Chapter 27, she thinks, “I am a scientist. I test hypotheses based on items I can observe, measure, weigh, and photograph. I’d been left with none. Could I rely on my stored perceptions? Could I sort what was real from what was not?”
So. Take a maritime disaster, two separate forensic cases, an atmosphere of hate-mongering propaganda and faux news, a stressful work situation, and a personal medical calamity. Add a computer crash involving a nonfunctioning backup drive and a creepy guy prowling my daughter’s yard at midnight. Mix thoroughly. Ta-da! A Conspiracy of Bones.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
An army of people is involved in the production of any book—and at least a platoon in the creation of the story. As usual, I owe thanks to many for their contributions to A Conspiracy of Bones.
Andra Purkalitis alerted me to controversies surrounding the sinking of the ferry Estonia and graciously bequeathed to me all her research materials on the topic. Credit to Juta Rābe’s Estonia: Kuga nogrimšanas traǵēdija and to Drew Wilson’s The Hole.
Dr. Jennifer Newman was my go-to expert on the topic of steganalysis.
Captain Harold W. Henson and Detective W. C. Hastings, Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department, provided information on Hispanic gangs in Charlotte. Thanks, Two Chucks!
In the U.S., much appreciation to those who work so hard for me at Scribner: Nan Graham, Roz Lippel, Brian Belfiglio, Abigail Novak, Katie Rizzo, Kyle Kabel, and Beckett Rueda. And, above all, to my tireless editor, Rick Horgan.
In Canada, I am indebted to Kevin Hanson, Laurie Grassi, and Felicia Quon.
In the UK, Team Reichs is composed of Ian Chapman, Suzanne Baboneau, Gill Richardson, Polly Osborn, Pip Watkins, Richard Vlietstra, and Harriett Collins.
Gratitude to Dan Ruffino in Australia, and to Rahul Srivastava in India.
I would also like to thank my representatives, Deneen Howell and Robert Barnett, for their wise advice.
Paul Reichs offered valuable suggestions when the manuscript was in its infancy.
Last, but light-years from least, I want to thank my returning readers for their loyalty and patience during my gap year. And a big, warm welcome to any first-timers to Tempe’s lab! I love you all, and hope to see each and every one of you in the very near future.
More from this Series
Deja Dead
Book 1
Death Du Jour
Book 2
Deadly Decisions
Book 3
Fatal Voyage
Book 4
More from the Author
Faking a Murderer
MatchUp
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
© MARIE-REINE MATTERA
KATHY REICHS is the #1 bestselling author of nineteen novels featuring forensic anthropologist Temperance Brennan. Kathy was also a writer-producer of the hit Fox TV series Bones, which was based on her work and her novels. Dr. Reichs is one of very few forensic anthropologists certified by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology. She served on the board of directors and as vice president of both the American Academy of Forensic Sciences and the American Board of Forensic Anthropology, and as a member of the National Police Services Advisory Council in Canada. She divides her time between Charlotte, North Carolina, and Montreal, Quebec.
SimonandSchuster.com
www.SimonandSchuster.com/Authors/Kathy-Reichs
@ScribnerBooks
ALSO BY KATHY REICHS
ADULT FICTION
Déjà Dead
Death du Jour
Deadly Décisions
Fatal Voyage
Grave Secrets
Bare Bones
Monday Mourning
Cross Bones
Break No Bones
Bones to Ashes
Devil Bones
206 Bones
Spider Bones
Flash and Bones
Bones Are Forever
Bones of the Lost
Bones Never Lie
Speaking in Bones
The Bone Collection
Bones Buried Deep (coauthored with Max Allan Collins)
NOVELLAS
Bones in Her Pocket
Swamp Bones
Bones on Ice
YOUNG ADULT FICTION (WITH BRENDAN REICHS)
Virals
Seizure
Code
Exposure
Terminal
NOVELLAS
Shift
Swipe
Shock
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Temperance
Brennan, L.P.
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First Scribner hardcover edition March 2020
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
ISBN 978-1-9821-3888-2
ISBN 978-1-9821-3890-5 (ebook)
