Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

“I’m sorry. I should have made myself clear. I’m a reporter.”

“What’s your name?” Wary. I knew most of those on the crime beat.

“Gerald Breugger.”

Gerry. The lizard asking questions at Heavner’s press conference.

“You’re a freelancer,” I said. “You’re not actually employed by the Observer .”

“Yes, but they often publish my pieces.”

“How did you get this number?”

“I have my ways.”

I said nothing.

“I’ve just had a long conversation with Dr. Margot Heavner.”

“Bully for you. Have a good life.”

“Please don’t hang up.”

For some reason, I didn’t. An instinct for self-preservation?

“I’m doing a story on the state of forensic science in North Carolina,” Breugger said. “My lead-in will be the case of the corpse eaten by hogs out in Cleveland County. I’m wondering if you’d like to make a statement.”

“Rethink your use of the term eaten .”

“Go on.”

“I’m done.”

“Is it true the body is still unidentified?”

“No comment.”

“That cause of death is unknown?”

“No comment.”

“That the ME refuses to bring you in on the case?”

“No comment.”

“Is it true that Dr. Heavner is filing complaints against you?”

“Who told you that?”

“You know I can’t reveal my sources.”

“You and your sources can take a flying fuck off my backyard fence.”

“I regularly do stories for the New York Times , the Washington Post , and the Daily Beast . I have those numbers right here in my contacts.”

The implied threat sent the three-ring emotional circus into hyperdrive. My thumb mashed so hard to disconnect I nearly dropped the phone.

Sitting there, coaxing my pulse back down into the normal range, I was hit by a sudden recollection from Heavner’s presser. She’d addressed only one journalist by name. Gerry Breugger.

I was considering the significance of that when Marley sang again. This time, I checked.

Area code 514. I pictured a different desk, a different office, Dr. Pierre LaManche, Directeur on a plaque by the door.

“ Bonjour. Comment ça va ?” I answered.

“Très bien, merci .” LaManche switched to English as precise as his French. “I apologize for contacting you so late.”

“It’s good to hear your voice.”

“You are unwell?” My boss for decades at the Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires et de médecine légale, LaManche was uncanny at interpreting the subtlest of nuances in my mood.

“I’m fine.”

“Ah, Temperance. You sound peiné .” Pained? Distressed? Either way, he’d nailed it.

“I have a lot on my mind.”

“Such a vale of woes in which we ply our trade. But I am an old wagon, all rusty metal and squeaky wheels. You are young. You should be happy.”

The sad metaphor did little to raise my spirits. “What’s up?”

“A subpoena has arrived for you. Do you recall the Pasquerault case?”

“Of course.” Dorothée Pasquerault vanished while walking home from an outdoor performance of the Montreal Symphony Orchestra. Eight days later, her decomposed body was found in a hockey bag tossed up on the shore of the Saint Lawrence River. The concert had been organized to honor the city’s three hundred seventy-fifth birthday. Dorothée hadn’t lived to see her seventeenth. The investigation resulted in the arrest of her ex-fiancé.

“The trial is scheduled to begin next week. Jury selection is expected to conclude on Tuesday at the latest. Your availability is ordered beginning on Wednesday.”

“OK.” It was so far from OK I couldn’t fathom a device capable of doing the math.

“I have placed the subpoena on your desk.”

“Thanks.”

“There are several demande d’expertise forms there with it. Pas d’urgence on those cases.”

“I’ll reserve a flight.”

“ À bientôt .”

“ Oui . See you soon.”

I returned to the book, again planning to lose myself in 1930s New Guinea. Again failing. The subpoena imposed a new urgency. I had to leave for Montreal no later than Tuesday. Yet Felix Vodyanov remained on his gurney.

The same old questions spun in my off-kilter brain. Had Vodyanov been stalking me shortly before his death? If so, why? How had he found me? What had he wanted to tell me?

An image of the severed goose head congealed on the unread page. I thought of the flock struggling to cling to its turf. A metaphor more apt than LaManche’s wagon. Like the geese, I was fighting to save my career. To return from exile.

Was that it? Was my motive purely self-interest? Or did I truly care about justice for Felix Vodyanov? For the kids he may have harmed? Was Vodyanov a victim or an offender?

On and on. Round and round. Slidell’s failure to obtain a warrant. Heavner’s determination to ruin me professionally. Mama’s cavalier, perhaps lethal, attitude toward her chemo. Gerry Breugger’s knowledge of Heavner’s crusade against me and possible intent to assist in that campaign.

How much did Breugger know? His call, more than anything, had driven home the precariousness of my situation. Should Heavner’s charges actually stick, Breugger would be on the story like jackals on a carcass. While dodging his questions, I’d visualized a predator.

What the hell was up with Pete?

And always, when would the next migraine slam me to the boards? Or worse, a vascular assault? If the tiny bubble did burst, how bad would it be?

A stray thought caused a sharp intake of breath. Slidell was right. I was acting much more rashly of late, taking far more risks. Tailing the trench-coated prowler at Sharon Hall. Sneaking illicit photos and samples from the faceless man at the MCME. Interviewing Barrow, Ramos, and Keesing alone. Exploring the Cleveland County property solo. Did this recent recklessness arise from a newborn sense of my own mortality? One day, the aneurysm may burst, so what the hell?

I rolled the idea around, testing to see if the epiphany had legs. Could my “rogue-ass cowboying” be a subliminal reaction to the prospect of my own death? Or was my furious intensity on this case just a variation on my usual commitment to anonymous victims? To the possibility of wronged children or children in danger?

Why all the goddamn introspection? Self-analysis is not a game I enjoy or one at which I excel.

Tossing the book across the room, I got up to pace. Sat down. Got up again to retrieve the book and flatten the pages. I felt useless but too restless to stay still.

By eight, I was absolutely wild with nerves. Slidell hadn’t phoned. There were no new leads. Those that we had were going nowhere. The clock was ticking. I imagined I was trapped in a pressure cooker with no steam vent.

Vowing to take no action without consulting Slidell, I got online and entered Timmer’s GPS coordinates. A red flag appeared on a hair-thin road near Lake Wylie, South Carolina, just south of Charlotte. My friend Anne had been listing and selling properties in the area for decades, mostly high-end homes in and around a golf course development called River Hills. Still, she knew the turf.

I hit speed dial.

“I can hardly hear you, Tempe.” Hollow air with lots of background noise. “I’m at a Knights game.”

“Quick question?”

“Shoot.”

“Do you know Lone Eagle Lane? Near Lake Wylie?”

“Donegal Lane?” Shouted.

“Lone. Eagle.”

As Anne searched terrain in her mind, an amplified voice gave a stroke-worthy whoop. The crowd noise swelled, receded.

“Yeah. Lone Eagle runs along behind the nature preserve. Accesses some old-style cottages dating back to the postwar years. You pick the war.”