Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

To the right of the house, beside the driveway access point at which I’d stopped, stood a small shed. A muted droning suggested it housed a generator. A black Chevrolet Silverado was parked outside, rear bumper tight to the east-facing wall. The truck, old and dinged, fitted well with its shabby surroundings.

The plastic bottle popped loudly in my hand. Startled, I released the grip I wasn’t aware I’d tightened.

Why such apprehension? The place was depressing, sure, but menacing?

Feeling a bit foolish, I turned off the engine.

But was it foolish? What did I know about Asia Barrow? I’d been directed to her by a stranger who didn’t seem overly bright.

According to E. Desai, Barrow had been the life coach assigned to the faceless man, Felix Vodyanov. His treatment by Yuriev, combined with the thumb-drive list of meds, suggested Vodyanov had a condition requiring mood regulators, antidepressants, and antipsychotics. Barrow had left Sparkling Waters for reasons E. Desai chose not to disclose.

Not exactly a road map to the Zodiac killer.

After texting Slidell, I got out and quietly closed the car door. My footsteps chafed across dusty soil that, following a rain, would surely be a sea of mud. Above the whir of the generator, I heard a wind chime, not the usual melodic tinkle, more a metallic clanking, like engine parts begging for oil.

As I approached the house, a red-tailed hawk swooped up and looped low in the sky, framed by a cloud whose belly was the color of a bruise. The avian air show did nothing to calm my nerves.

At the base of the stairs, I called out.

No voice. No movement. No barking dog.

Five treads up to the porch. Seeing no doorbell, I opened the screen and knocked.

Nothing.

I knocked again.

Still no response.

The air was so hot I felt I was standing in a kiln. Wiping sweat from my face, I stepped to the right, around the air conditioner and the TV. Eyes shaded with both hands, I leaned close and peered through the screen.

In a sliver of space between the curtain and the window frame, I could see a multicolor flicker reflected in a wall mirror. The mirror was centered in a pig’s belly. The pig was laughing and dancing.

A television was on. Someone was in there with Porky.

Crossing back to the door, I knocked again, harder.

“Who the hell are you?”

I whipped around.

A woman stood halfway between the shed and the house, arms cocked at her sides. Her hair was short and, given the deep brown shade of her skin, bleached several shades lighter than desirable. Her shorts were baggy, her Judas Priest tee several sizes smaller than desirable. A cigarette pack bulged in one rolled sleeve. White cotton socks hung loosely around the tops of her boots.

“I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for Asia Barrow.”

The woman eyed me suspiciously. “What do you want with her?”

“I’d like to ask her a few questions.”

“About what?” I put the woman’s age at mid-forties, her muscle tone somewhere in the Rambo range.

“A visitor to Sparkling Waters.”

“Well, that takes major-league balls.” Glaring hard.

“Are you Asia Barrow?”

“Who gave you this address?” Slight accent but with a Southern overlay. Georgia?

“Ms. Desai.”

“That moron.” Exasperated head shake.

“She claimed to know you.”

“She’s my goddamn cousin.” Beat. “This about that lying wankass says I broke his arm?”

“No. I—”

“I ain’t saying nothing to no one. Now, I think you’d best get back in your car and drive on off my property.”

“I’d like to talk to you about—”

“You representing Sparkling Waters?”

“I’m not an attorney.”

“You don’t look like a cop.”

No way I’d explain my actual profession or tell her I worked with the ME. Word could get back to Heavner.

“You were employed at the ashram?” I asked.

“Until the cocksuckers fired me.”

“May I ask why?”

“You may ask, but that don’t mean I’ll tell you.” Barrow hooked her thumbs in her belt loops. Which dragged her waistband low enough to show serious abs.

“Do you know a man named Felix Vodyanov?”

No response.

I pulled the composite from my shoulder bag and held it up. “Is this Mr. Vodyanov?”

Nothing.

“I believe he was under Dr. Yuriev’s care?”

“Do I need to haul out my shotgun?”

“Your cousin said Mr. Vodyanov was someone you counseled.”

“That the term she used?” Scornful headshake.

“Close enough.”

“My cousin has goat shit for brains.” Cocking her chin at the sketch. “He in some kind of trouble?”

“A body was found last week in Cleveland County. ID hasn’t been confirmed, but we believe the deceased is this man.”

A moment of silence, followed by a long exhalation. “How’d he die?”

“Cause of death remains uncertain.” Hoping she wouldn’t follow up on the who the hell are you? line of inquiry.

“I figured the dude would end badly.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The crap he was into.”

“Can you elaborate?”

“You really think he’s dead?”

“Is this Felix Vodyanov?” Raising the sketch.

“My guy registered under the name F. Vance. But yeah, that’s him.”

“I do,” I said.

Barrow’s shoulders slumped slightly. Then she straightened and began striding in my direction. “This sun’s frying my brain.”

I stepped sideways, allowing Barrow room to pass. She opened both doors and held the screen wide. I followed her into the house.

The interior was as hot and cramped as expected. But the air smelled clean and slightly exotic, like Pine-Sol and spices and sandalwood incense.

“Lemonade?”

“That would be nice,” I said.

Two doorways faced the front room. Through the right one, I could see a small galley kitchen. Through the left, a tall wooden dresser and part of a bed.

The flooring was linoleum throughout, gray and blue. Maybe chosen to match the curtains. More likely due to a Home Depot sale.

Barrow gestured toward an upholstered grouping far too large for the small space in which we stood. Then she crossed to the kitchen.

Avoiding a quilt featuring a rather angry-looking parrot, I sat on the sofa and scanned my surroundings. The curtains needed attention; otherwise, the place was spotless.

My knees were jammed tight to a steamer trunk serving as a coffee table. From the kitchen came the sound of a faucet squeaking on, then off, the whoosh of a refrigerator door, the clink of ice hitting glass.

Behind me were bookshelves holding everything but books. Statues of horses, dogs, elephants. Three or four manifestations of Ganesha. Magazines. Framed photos, most featuring the same two little girls at varying ages. A collection of what appeared to be journals or logbooks, dated by year.

Opposite the couch and the trunk between which I was wedged were a round metal table and two rattan chairs. On the table was a potted geranium whose DOD must have been years in the past. Its black, leafless stems reached out like spidery claws. Irrationally, I felt a new wave of foreboding.

Barrow reappeared, set two glasses on the trunk, then crossed to the shelving. Pulling one of the dated journals, she returned and dropped into the larger of the oversized chairs.

“Thank you,” I said. “Your home is very cozy.”

“It’s a rental, and it’s shit. I don’t like tethers.”

I had no response to that.

We both drank. Several moments passed. Barrow ran a thumb across the condensation on her glass. The nail was naked, the cuticle red and ragged. I waited, allowing her to set the pace.