by Kathy Reichs
After fifteen minutes, I gave up. Told myself to relax. He’d done this before. He’d come home when hungry.
The bath was a bust. I lay in bubbles up to my chin, sadness and worry foreclosing any relaxation.
Lily, dying before her twentieth birthday.
Ryan, excluding me in his time of sorrow. Forever?
Katy, fighting in Afghanistan.
Pete, marrying a bimbo with a boob size exceeding her IQ.
D’Ostillo, trying to do right, getting murdered and mutilated.
Candy, perishing on a two-lane, alone and terrified.
How had Candy ended up on that dark stretch of road? Was she trafficked? Lured by someone she trusted? Stolen and caged like stock?
What fate awaited her had she lived? To be brutalized, her body a commodity exploited until its value was gone? What then?
Were others out there suffering the same hell?
My mind was in overdrive. I had to do something to squelch the terrible thoughts and images ping-ponging in my skull.
I got out, dried off, and pulled on sweats. Yanked my hair into a pony and headed downstairs.
I shouted through both the front and kitchen doors. Shook a bag of his favorite treats. Still no Birdie. My annoyance was joined by a tickle of apprehension. Why?
Ping.
Blanton had mentioned my cat. He’d been waiting just a block from the annex.
Paranoia, Brennan.
I brewed coffee, went to the study closet, and pulled out a large erasable board I use for structuring lectures. Then I got Scotch tape and a marker from the desk.
After propping the board on the mantel in the parlor, I collected every picture I’d accumulated over the past two and a half weeks. Snapshots, crime-scene photos, Polaroids, printouts, mug shots.
I started by taping up a picture of Candy, the hit-and-run victim whose real name we still didn’t know. Beside it I placed one of the snapshots I’d liberated from John-Henry’s Tavern. Pictured was John-Henry Story, the man whose US Airways club card Candy had inside her purse lining.
Using the marker, I drew a line between Candy and John-Henry.
Next I posted the second “borrowed” snapshot, Dominick Rockett at the tavern with John-Henry Story. Rockett, the smuggler who traveled to South America and made mysterious trips to Texas. Rockett, customer or maybe more than a customer at the Passion Fruit Club, owned by John-Henry and his brother, Archer, via SayDo. And employer of Candy.
I drew lines connecting Candy and Rockett, Rockett and John-Henry Story.
After jotting the name Passion Fruit on the right side of the board, I drew lines connecting the massage parlor to Candy, Rockett, and John-Henry.
Next in the lineup went the mug shot of CC Creach. Creach’s semen was found on Candy. Creach was a patron of the Passion Fruit, and said Candy and the other girls were afraid of Rockett. And of Ray Majerick, who was often there.
I added Majerick to the row. Majerick’s semen was also found on Candy. Majerick had a history as a sexual predator.
I drew lines between Candy and Creach, Candy and Majerick, Majerick and Creach, Majerick and Rockett, Majerick and John-Henry Story. Then between both Creach and Majerick and the words “Passion Fruit.”
I paused to consider.
Majerick had been seen at the Passion Fruit and had sex with Candy. Did that mean he knew John-Henry Story? I erased parts of that line, converting it to a dotted connector.
The last photo to go up was Rosalie D’Ostillo. My stomach still tightened on seeing the hideous mutilation.
D’Ostillo saw Candy at the Mixcoatl. The taquería was located close to the Passion Fruit. Like Creach, D’Ostillo thought Candy and the other girls spoke Spanish. D’Ostillo was murdered within hours of talking to me. Her tongue was left on my doorstep.
I drew a line from D’Ostillo to Candy, a dotted link to the words “Passion Fruit.”
Then I stepped back and surveyed my work.
The board showed a maze of interconnections. Which ones were meaningful? Which were spurious? Was Candy’s killer one of the men whose pictures I’d posted? Was I staring at his face right now?
How did the lines link up?
I moved my eyes from photo to photo.
Candy, lying on her morgue gurney. How did John-Henry Story’s US Airways club card end up in her purse? How did semen from Creach and Majerick end up on her skin? Turning tricks? Voluntary sex? Rape?
Dom Rockett and John-Henry Story sharing a beer. The two were partners in S&S. How had Rockett acquired the money to invest? Aware of his illegal trafficking in antiquities, did Story approach Rockett about doing the same with humans? Rockett was a smuggler, knew the routes, the cops and agents who could be bribed, the border-crossing points most easily breached.
Or had it gone the other way? Had Rockett proposed a moneymaking scheme to John-Henry, knowing Story had the infrastructure to make it work?
I thought of something. Jotted the identifier citizenjustice on the left side of the board.
The bearer of that name had sent threatening e-mails to me. Had that same person murdered D’Ostillo and delivered her tongue as a warning?
I stared at D’Ostillo’s ravaged face. Wondered. Who was the man in the hat and upturned collar she’d served in the taquería? Rockett was only a best guess.
Ray Majerick? Someone of whom we were unaware? A male counterpart to Mrs. Tarzec?
I jotted Mrs. Tarzec’s name and drew lines to Candy, John-Henry, and the words “Passion Fruit.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. Pinched the bridge of my nose.
A tiny itch in my brain kept pestering. Asking to be scratched.
What was I missing?
The lines were crisscrossing like an Etch A Sketch pattern gone wrong. What threads were important? What intersections?
Clearly the Passion Fruit. A lot of lines converged there. Candy. Creach. Majerick. Story. Rockett. D’Ostillo. Tarzec.
Ditto for Candy. Every line led to her.
Still the itch.
What was the subliminal memory I couldn’t call up? What hidden data byte dozed in my id?
I stared at the crazy quilt of photos, names, and lines, willing the answer to make itself known. Stared at Candy’s bloodless face, frustrated, desperate to fulfill my promise to her.
What was eluding me?
Rockett. Why did he make trips to Texas and come back empty? Or did he?
John-Henry Story. Why was his lounge card in Candy’s purse? Was Story really dead?
Discouraged, I got a hand lens from the study and started moving from picture to picture.
Candy, face bruised and fractured. Blond hair bound by the little-girl barrette.
No. No tears.
I sipped some coffee, now tepid, checked on Charlie, then turned back to the photos.
Story and Rockett at John-Henry’s Tavern, neither man smiling. Story rodent-lean. Rockett’s mangled features shadowed by a hat pulled down to his brows.
I moved the lens across the snapshot, taking in details.
A brass rail paralleled the right edge of the bar, a strip of brightness lighting the curvature of its surface.
“Camera flash,” I muttered to no one.
Beyond the table, a jukebox. On the wall above, three or four decals, none larger than a man’s palm.
No, not decals. Military patches. I hadn’t noticed them on my visit with Slidell. The patches were similar to the ones I’d seen at the Green Bean at Bagram.
Was that the heads-up my hindbrain was offering?
I raised and lowered the lens, trying to make out unit totems or names. The image quality was too poor. Tomorrow I’d take the photo to the MCME and view it under higher power with the dissecting scope.
My eyes continued tracking across the magnified image.
Suddenly stopped.
I nearly dropped the glass.
The photo’s upper left corner caught a section of the old mirror in the main eating area. The glass was angl
ed, not flush with the wall. I guessed it hung by a horizontal wire placed a bit too low.
The mirror reflected a ten-foot bubble of space in front of the table at which Rockett and Story were seated. In it stood a man, arms raised, elbows flexed, face largely obscured by a small box camera and the sunburst of its flash.
The man’s body was visible from the neck down. He was in jeans and a dark T-shirt. And had a tattoo I’d seen before.
I felt adrenaline start to seep into my blood.
All my theories skidded sideways.
IMPOSSIBLE.
Yet there he was.
Coincidence?
I don’t believe in coincidence.
But how did he work it?
Didn’t matter.
I retrieved a brown corrugated file from the study, emptied the contents onto the dining room table, and began reading every page.
It didn’t take long.
How had I missed it?
Oblivious to the possibility.
Careless?
Sudden realization. Another possibility overlooked?
I went to the parlor, took Candy’s photo from the lineup, and studied it again under magnification.
The dusky skin. The dark-rooted blond hair.
Rosalie D’Ostillo spoke Spanish to the girls but got no response. Fear of their handler? Or another explanation?
My mind was on fire now, spitting data forgotten since the time it was stored.
I raced upstairs and snatched a photo from the bureau. Sat on the bed. Placed the bureau photo on my knees beside the morgue shot of Candy. Looked from one to the other, forcing the lens steady in my hand.
Holy shit.
I flipped the bureau photo. Read the handwritten list on the back.
Holy free-flying shit.
I grabbed the phone and dialed.
Got Slidell’s voicemail.
“Jesus H. Christ!”
My eyes flew to the clock. 10:40. Slidell was probably at the massage parlor in NoDa.
I left a message. Call me ASAP. It’s urgent.
I disconnected. Tossed the handset onto the bed. Got up and paced.
Everyone carries a mobile. Why couldn’t Slidell keep his turned on?
10:45.
Come on. Come on.
More pacing.
10:50.
Keep busy.
I double-stepped down the stairs and made myself more coffee, knowing caffeine was the last thing I needed. To keep my mind occupied, I returned to the papers covering the dining room table.
Verified.
Thought about the implications.
Of course. That had to be it.
11:05.
Where the hell was Slidell?
I ran to the study. Punched speed dial on that handset.
“ ’Lo.” Pete sounded groggy.
“It’s Tempe.”
“Yes.” Pete yawned. “I know that.”
“I need a favor.”
A woman spoke in the background, words also sleepy thick.
“You’re up late. Partying?”
“Does it sound like there’s a party here?” I snapped.
“Whoa. Bad day?”
“I have a question for you.”
“Bring it on.”
I asked.
“Maria . . . no, Marianna. Mariette? No, definitely Marianna.”
“What was her maiden name?”
“Is it important to know this now?”
“Yes.”
“Hold on.”
I heard bed linens swish. A whiny protest from Summer. Then the ambient sound changed, as though Pete had moved to another room.
In moments I had my answer.
“Thanks, Pete. I have to . . .”
“You okay? You sound strange.”
“I’m fine. I’ve got to go. Thanks.”
11:10.
I disconnected and called Slidell again. Left the same message.
It all made sense. Terrible, improbable sense.
I returned to the lineup on the mantel. Stared at the photo from John-Henry’s Tavern. At the man hidden by the camera flash.
“You vile sonofabitch,” I whispered under my breath.
But now what? It was nearing midnight.
Wait to hear from Slidell? Wait until morning?
Other girls were in danger. I knew it in my gut. If they weren’t dead already. Like Candy.
Or had they been taken to another town, another state? To disappear forever into the pipeline.
No. They were still in Charlotte. I was certain.
A million places to hold girls prisoner.
Two million to bury their bodies.
Slidell had talked to Rockett, to Tarzec. These animals knew the knot was tightening. And had zero respect for human life.
If alive, would the girls survive to see daylight?
Where the hell was Slidell?
Where the hell was Birdie?
I dashed outside for another look. Another round of shouting. No cat.
I pictured e-mails. Citizenjustice. A tongue in a box.
An icy hand clutched my chest.
Had these bastards taken my cat?
I slammed inside. Paced the parlor, frantic what to do.
Breathe.
Breathe.
To keep from going crazy, I opened the bright yellow file lying on the desk in the study.
I began with the crime-scene shots. A lonely road. A vinyl boot. A pathetic little mound under a red wool blanket.
I moved to the autopsy photos. X-rays showing a fractured chin and crushed hand. White cotton panties with pale blue dots. A shoulder, bruised in a pattern of dashes.
The last half dozen photos were new to me. Larabee or Hawkins had taken the close-ups from different angles. They showed a skull peeled bare of its face and hair. A blood-coated object shaped like a long, slender triangle.
I stared at the sliver Larabee had removed from Candy’s scalp.
Ivory, not bone.
How had Candy ended up with ivory in her head?
I’d seen a carved tusk in Dominick Rockett’s home. Did ivory often pass through his hands?
I got my laptop and Googled the phrase “ivory uses.”
Statuary, carvings, decorative embellishments, billiard balls, bathroom handles, piano keys, signature seals, radar and airplane guidance components.
Useless.
I decided to try another tack.
Where had Candy been seen? The Taquería Mixcoatl. The Passion Fruit Club. The Yum-Tum convenience store. They all clustered in a fairly tight radius not far from the Rountree–Old Pineville intersection where her body had been found.
Were the missing girls being held in that area?
I clicked over to Google Maps and zoomed in on the Passion Fruit. Around it spread a warren of roofs and empty lots.
The roofs varied in size and shape but revealed nothing of what lay below them. Most properties were fenced. Some fences were topped with razor wire.
Pausing the cursor generated labels on a few of the buildings. A storage facility. A warehouse. The Bronco Club.
It was the kind of district that exists in most cities. A place where things are manufactured, stashed, or left to rust.
Had the girls been taken to a location somewhere in that maze?
Frustrated, I returned to the file.
Gran’s clock ticked softly as I worked through the pages.
Ten minutes later, I heard a soft noise, like scratching. Elated, I flew to the front door. No feline sat on the porch.
I tried the kitchen door. Empty stoop.
I was on the patio, calling Bird’s name, when headlights swept the drive. Seconds later, a cruiser passed. I waved. The cop waved. Dejected, and frightened for my cat, I went back inside.
The amber light on the landline was flashing.
Sonofabitch!
Slidell’s message was short. The massage parlor in NoDa was closed and padlocked. That was it. Nothing else.
I hit redial. Got his goddamn voicemail.
Dismayed and exhausted, I forced myself to read the last printout in the yellow file. An FBI report.
I was skimming through jargon about solvents and binders and pigments and additives when I remembered something Slidell had said.
Methyl this and hydrofluoro that.
Hydrofluorocarbons?
I took a closer look at the list of components found in the smear on Candy’s purse.
Difluoroethane.
The dispatcher in my subconscious sat up and took notice.
Sudden flash. Pete on the phone in his Beemer. Summer, fixing up antique bottles for the tables at her wedding.
Difluoroethane.
In vehicular paint?
I Googled the term. Pulled out the relevant and dismissed the background noise.
. . . propellant necessary . . . initially chlorofluorocarbons, banned in 1978 . . . propane and butane abandoned in the ’80s . . . since 2011, hydrofluorocarbons such as difluoroethane and tetrafluororethane . . .
My pulse kicked up a notch.
I closed my eyes. Saw a building. A NO TRESPASSING sign in the rain.
Facts toggled.
Images cascaded.
My lids flew open.
I shot to my feet. Raced for the phone.
Again, my call rolled to Slidell’s voicemail.
Mother of God!
“I know where the trafficked girls have been taken. I’m going there.” I left the address and disconnected.
Adrenaline pounding, I grabbed a jacket, shoved a flashlight into one pocket, snatched up keys, and bolted for my car.
I PEERED THROUGH RUSTY CHAIN linking. A fingernail moon crisscrossed by pewter tendrils revealed the scene beyond the fence in charcoal and black.
The warehouse loomed dark and menacing. Though shadowed, I recognized the loading dock and its motley collection of rusty kegs, rickety table, and defaced piano.
A truck was parked at the base of the dock.
At my back, across the street, the small bungalow brooded silent and empty.
Stepping gingerly, I worked my way around the perimeter of the property, searching for an opening in the fence. It didn’t take long. Opposite the building’s south side, the chain linking had been cut and bent inward.
Thanking the vagrants so disparaged by Slidell, I slipped through the breach. Six feet inside, a rusted sign kinked up from the ground on bent metal legs. Carefully shielding the bulb with my palm, I thumbed on my flashlight.
