Flash and Bones

by Kathy Reichs

My eyes were still rolling when Ellen returned. I signed the check, collected my card, and stood.

  Galimore followed me out to the parking lot.

  “You’ll let me know what Fries says?” I asked in parting.

  “Shouldn’t this go two ways?” Slipping on aviator shades, though the day was cloudy. “You must have something on that John Doe by now.”

  Oh yeah. The ricin. The confiscation and destruction of the body. The Rosphalt. No way I could share that information.

  “I’ll talk to Dr. Larabee,” I said.

  “I’m good at this, you know.” The aviators were fixed on my face. “I was a detective for ten years.”

  I was weighing responses when my iPhone overrode the traffic sounds coming from East Boulevard.

  Turning my back to Galimore, I moved a few paces off and clicked on.

  “Yo.” Slidell was, as usual, chewing something. “This will be quick. Got two vics capped, another bleeding bad, probably not gonna make it. Looks like the gang boys are unhappy with each other.”

  “I’m listening.” Sensing Galimore’s interest, I kept my response vague.

  “Owen Poteat.” I waited while Slidell repositioned the foodstuff from his left to his right molars. “Born 1948, Faribault, Minnesota. Married, two daughters. Sold irrigation systems. Canned in ’ninety-five. Two years later the wife divorced him and moved the kids to St. Paul. Dead in 2007.”

  “Why was Poteat at the airport?”

  “Going to see his madre, who was checking out with cancer.”

  “How’d he die?”

  “Same as Mama.”

  Failed job. Lost family. Dead mother. Though far from unique, Poteat’s story depressed the hell out of me.

  “Looks like I’m out on Lovette-Gamble for now. With the bangers on the warpath, the chief’s reined us all in.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’ll jump back aboard when things cool down.”

  “Focus on your investigation. I have another lead.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  Moving farther from Galimore, I told Slidell about Fries.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “Cotton Galimore.”

  “What the fuck?” Slidell exploded.

  “Galimore participated in the original investigation. I thought he might have useful information. Which he did.”

  “What did I tell you about that asswipe?”

  “He claims he was framed.”

  “And Charlie Manson claimed he was just running a day camp.” It was exactly the reaction I’d expected. “I don’t plan to date him,” I snapped.

  “Yeah, well. Word is Galimore wasn’t exactly humping back in ’ninety-eight.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That investigation went bust. Why’s that, I ask myself. I come up with no explanation makes sense. So I float a few questions.”

  “To whom?”

  “Cops been around the block.”

  “They suggested that Galimore obstructed the work of the task force?”

  “They inferred as much.”

  I ignored Slidell’s misuse of the verb. “Why would he do that?”

  “I ain’t his confessor.”

  “Did they cite examples?”

  “All I’m saying. Galimore’s a reptile. You chum with him, I’m out.”

  Dead air.

  “I’m guessing that was Skinny.”

  Furious with Slidell, I hadn’t heard Galimore approach.

  Shifting my face into neutral, I turned.

  “He’s pissed that you’re talking to me.”

  I said nothing.

  “And ordering you to be a good girl and send me on my way.”

  “He was reporting that he’d be tied up for a while.”

  “So we’re on our own.”

  “What?”

  “Just you and me, kid.” Galimore winked. Ineffective, given the unnecessary lenses.

  I dropped my phone into my purse and glanced up at him. As before, my stomach performed a wee flip.

  I looked away. Quickly.

  Two cats were tearing at something in a patch of grass by one corner of the restaurant. One was brown, the other white. Both had sinewy shadows overlying their ribs.

  “I know you’re curious about Fries,” Galimore said.

  I was.

  “And Bogan.” Cale’s father.

  “You’re heading to talk to them now?” I asked, still looking at the cats.

  “I am.”

  A zillion brain cells clamored that it was a bad idea. I waited for opposing views. Heard none.

  “I drive,” I said.

  North Carolina is loaded with little pockets that have managed to remain on the far side of rural. Fries had found one of them. Or someone had found it for him.

  Following Galimore’s directions, I’d taken the outer beltway, then gone east on NC 24/27. Just before Locust, I’d cut north on 601, then made several turns, ending up on a stretch of gravel that hardly qualified as a road.

  For several minutes we both assessed the scene.

  If Galimore’s information was correct, Eugene Fries lived in the seediest trailer I’d ever seen. Its hitch rested on a boulder, keeping the thing more or less horizontal.

  The trailer had no wheels, its flip-open windows were rusted shut, and a mound of debris rose halfway up the side facing us. BOLER was barely legible on its sun-fried aluminum.

  A brand name? The owner’s name? A name given to the trailer itself? Whatever. I suspected Boler had been parked sometime this millennium and never again moved.

  The trailer occupied most of a small clearing surrounded by hardwoods and pines. Along its perimeter I could see more trash heaps.

  Behind and to the trailer’s right stood a shed constructed of haphazardly nailed two-by-fours. A dirt path circled from the trailer’s door around the hitch and boulder toward the shed. Straight shot to the can. Though gray and weathered, the outhouse seemed of more recent vintage than Boler.

  To the trailer’s left loomed an ancient oak whose trunk had to be eight feet in diameter. Its gnarled limbs stretched over both trailer and shed. In its shadow, the earth was dark and bare.

  Four feet up the oak’s trunk, I spotted two bolts. Clipped to each was a chain, now hanging slack. The stainless-steel links looked shiny and new.

  My eyes traced the chains downward, then out across the bare ground. As I feared, each ended in a choke-collar clip.

  “There might be dogs,” I said. “Big ones.”

  “Yeah.” Galimore’s tone suggested he shared my apprehension.

  As one, we lowered our windows.

  And heard nothing. No birdsong. No barking. No WKKT Kat Country music twanging from a radio.

  I sorted smells.

  Damp leaves. Moist earth. An organic pungence that suggested garbage rotting in plastic.

  Galimore spoke first. “You stay here. I’ll see if anyone’s home.”

  Before I could object, he was out of the car. Couldn’t say I was unhappy. My mind was conjuring images of Rottweilers and Dobermans.

  Galimore took two steps, then paused.

  No slathering canines came charging forth.

  Looking left and then right, Galimore headed across the ten feet of open space between the road and the trailer. A backward crooking of his right elbow told me he was armed.

  Striding with purpose, he went directly to the trailer’s only door. His voice broke the stillness. “Mr. Fries. Are you in there?”

  No response.

  Galimore called out again, louder. “Eugene Fries? We’d like to talk to you.”

  Nothing.

  “We’re not going away, Mr. Fries.” Pounding the metal door with the heel of his left hand. “Best you come out.”

  Still, no one answered.

  Galimore stepped back to recheck his surroundings. And made the same observation that I had. The only path in the clearing was the one leading to the outhouse.

  I watched Gal
imore circle the boulder and hitch, then disappear behind the trailer.

  Time passed.

  I checked my watch. Three-twenty-seven.

  How long had Galimore been gone?

  My eyes roved the clearing. The edge of the woods. The trailer.

  Three-thirty-one.

  I drummed anxious fingers on the wheel. Where the hell was he?

  Three-thirty-four.

  A yellow jacket buzzed the windshield, tentative. Landed. Crawled, antennae testing.

  The tiniest breeze rustled the leaves overhead.

  Three-thirty-six.

  Thinking Galimore might have called to tell me to join him, I dug out my mobile. Checked for messages. Found none. Verified that the ringer was turned on. It was.

  Impatient, I leaned toward the passenger-side floor and snatched up my purse.

  When I straightened, the cold steel of a muzzle kissed my left temple.

  ICY FEAR TRAVELED MY SPINE.

  In the corner of my eye, I could see a dark figure standing outside the car. He or she held a shotgun tight to my skull.

  Through the open window, I heard growling and thrashing. Terror froze me in place. I was in the middle of nowhere. Alone. At the wrong end of dogs and a gun.

  Dear God, where was Galimore?

  “State your business.”

  The wheezy voice snapped me back. Low and deep. Male.

  I swallowed. “Mr. Fries?”

  “Who the hell’s asking?”

  “Temperance Brennan.” Keep it simple. “I’m a friend of Wayne Gamble. Cindi’s brother.”

  The growling gave way to snarling and scratching. The Mazda lurched.

  “Down, goddammit!”

  The earsplitting bellow sent a new wave of adrenaline flooding through me.

  “Rocky! Rupert! Asses to the dirt!”

  I heard the dull thud of a boot hitting flesh. A yelp.

  My heart pounded in my chest. I didn’t dare turn my head. Who was this lunatic? Had he killed Galimore?

  The gun muzzle prodded my skull. “You’re going to get out now. Real slow. Keeping your hands so’s I can see ’em.”

  I heard the sound of a latch, then the door swung open.

  Hands high, I thrust out my legs and stood.

  Rocky and Rupert were the size of elk, black, with brown crescents above eyes that were fixed on me. Though a low growl rose from each massive throat, neither dog made a menacing move.

  Their master looked about as old as a human can look. His skin was pale and tissue-paper thin over a prominent forehead, chin, and nose. His gaunt cheeks were covered with prickly white whiskers.

  Though the day was muggy, the man wore wool pants, a long-sleeved flannel shirt, an orange hunting cap, and a windbreaker zipped to midchest.

  His Winchester followed my every move. Its condition suggested an age equaling that of its owner.

  The old man studied me with rheumy blue eyes, his gaze as steady as his grip on the gun.

  “Who sent you here?”

  “No one, sir.”

  “Don’t you lie to me!”

  As before, the vehemence of the outburst caused me to flinch.

  “Move.” The gun barrel arced toward the far side of the clearing.

  I held ground, knowing that entry into the trailer would limit my options.

  “Move!”

  “Mr. Fries, I—”

  The muzzle of the Winchester jammed my sternum, knocking me backward. My spine struck the edge of the open car door. I cried out in pain.

  The dogs shot to their feet.

  The man lowered a hand, palm toward them.

  The dogs sat.

  “I said move.” Cold. Dangerous. “That way.”

  Again he gestured with the gun.

  Seeing no alternative, I began walking, as slowly as I felt my captor would allow. Behind me, I heard panting and the crunch of boots.

  Desperate, I sorted options. I saw no phone or power lines. My mobile was in the car. I’d told no one where I was going.

  My heart thudded faster.

  I was marooned.

  With a madman.

  And Galimore nowhere in sight.

  Outside the trailer, I stopped and tried again. “Mr. Fries. I mean you no harm.”

  “You take one step, you get a load of shot in your head.”

  The man circled me, then snapped his fingers at Rocky and Rupert. “Down!”

  The dogs dropped to their bellies, mouths open, purple tongues dangling over yellowed teeth.

  Keeping the Winchester cradled in one arm and pointed at my chest, the man bent, snatched up one chain, and clipped it to either Rocky or Rupert. He’d just secured the second chain when I noticed a flicker in the shadows beyond him.

  Galimore struck like a ninja.

  Firing around the trailer’s far end, he arm-wrapped the old man’s throat, dragged him clear of the dogs, and yanked the gun from his grasp. The hunting cap went airborne and landed in the dirt.

  The dogs flew into a frenzy.

  Terrified, I backpedaled as fast as I could.

  Confused and enraged, Rocky and Rupert alternated between lunging at Galimore and me, muscles straining, saliva stringing from their gums and jowls.

  “Call them off!” Galimore’s command barely carried over the furious barking.

  A gagging sound rose from the old man’s throat.

  “Sit them down or I shoot them!”

  “Break.” Barely above a whisper.

  Galimore released the old man. He doubled over, coughing and spitting.

  The dogs grew even more frantic.

  The old man straightened and tried again, louder, one trembling hand extended toward his animals. “Break.”

  The dogs dropped to the ground, bodies tense, eyes on their master, clearly dubious about his directive.

  “What’s your name?” Galimore demanded.

  “Eugene Fries.” The old man’s Adam’s apple seemed ready to pop out of his throat. “This is my place. You got no right to bully me.”

  “You were pointing a shotgun at the lady’s heart.”

  “I weren’t gonna shoot no one.”

  “You had me fooled. Her, too.”

  No shit. The lady’s heart was still hammering against her ribs.

  The old man leaned over and hawked an impressive gob.

  Galimore cracked open the Winchester. Seeing it was unloaded, he snatched up the hunting cap and smacked it back and forth against one thigh.

  “Got a couple of questions for you, Mr. Fries.” Galimore parked the cap on the bald old head. “Then we’re on our way.”

  Fries said nothing as Galimore urged him in my direction, staying carefully outside the reach of the dogs.

  Fries’s eyes rolled to me, then refocused on Galimore. Still on edge from the dogs and the gun, I let Galimore do the talking.

  “We’re interested in two kids who went missing from the Charlotte Motor Speedway back in ’ninety-eight. Cale Lovette and Cindi Gamble. You know who I’m talking about?”

  “I know what you’re talking about. Never knew either one of ’em.”

  “You stated that you served Gamble and Lovette at a concession stand around eight p.m. the night they disappeared. Is that correct?”

  Fries nodded.

  “How did you know it was them?”

  “The cops showed me pictures. Lovette was easy to remember because of the tats.”

  “A lot of guys get inked.”

  “OK. I knew of Lovette by reputation.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He was tight with a bunch of militia types. Word was they were real bad actors.”

  Galimore thought about that. Then, “You know Grady Winge?”

  “He’s an idiot.”

  “According to Winge, Gamble and Lovette left the Speedway around six that night.”

  “Like I said, Winge’s an idiot.”

  “How could you be so certain about the time?”

  “I was
checking the clock.”

  “Why was that?”

  “A certain lady was coming to see me at nine.”

  “She show up?”

  “No. Look, I told all this to the cops back then. Nearly got my ass killed.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Means I nearly got my ass killed.”

  Galimore drilled Fries with a look.

  “Right after I talk to the cops, I get a call. Guy says my life turns to shit if I don’t change my story.”

  “Who was it?”

  “If I’d known that, the prick would be fertilizing a patch of forest.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I told him to fuck off. A couple days later, my dog turned up dead on my porch.”

  “Maybe it just died.”

  “She sure as hell did. From a slug in her brain. Two days after that, my house burned down.”

  “You think the caller actually followed through on his threats?” I was shocked.

  “No.” Fries turned to me, contempt drawing his thin, flaky lips into a downward U. “It was Al Qaeda recruiting me to the cause.”

  “Then what did you do?” Galimore asked.

  “What the hell would you do? I quit my job and headed west. Few years back, my brother offered me this trailer. I figured enough time had passed, so I come home.”

  “You’ve had years to think about it,” Galimore said. “You must have your suspicions.”

  Fries didn’t answer for a very long time. When he did, his scraggly white brows were drawn low over his lids. “All’s I’ll say’s this. Word on the street was Lovette and his pals were trouble.”

  “You’re talking about the Patriot Posse?”

  Fries nodded. “Why would they threaten you?” I asked.

  “What?” The brows shot up. “I look like a cop? How the hell would I know?”

  I asked the same question I’d asked of the others.

  “Mr. Fries, what do you think happened to Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette?”

  “I think Lovette and his asshole buddies either killed someone or blew something up. Then he and his girlie split.”

  “Where the hell were you?” Buckling my seat belt, adrenaline still pumping through me.

  “Checking a path behind the trailer. I didn’t want Fries coming up on us from the woods.”

  “Good job.”

  I spent the first few miles concentrating on the road. And my nerves.

  Galimore seemed to understand. Or was focused on thoughts of his own.

  We were on I-485 when I finally felt calm enough for conversation. Exhilarated, almost. Being rescued from a shotgun-toting maniac and his hounds will do that, I guess.