Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

After a glass of sun tea, which I’d brought in from outside and placed in the fridge, I opened the Pasquerault file and sorted the components into stacks at the kitchen table.

I was reviewing my skeletal autopsy report when Dorothée Pasquerault opened the back door.

26

THURSDAY, JULY 12

Sounds eddied around me, a cacophony of beeping and clanking and humming and ringing.

And voices, most hushed, one forceful, frenzied almost.

I smelled climatized air and disinfectant.

My head pounded. My chest burned. My forearm prickled.

I tried to sit up. Felt pressure on my shoulders, gentle but firm. I lay back.

“She’s awake.”

Footsteps clicked, hard and fast.

I opened my eyes.

Light scorched my optic nerves like a jolt from a Taser.

A face hovered above me, a landscape of foggy valleys and peaks. Slowly, the geography crystallized into a recognizable pattern.

“You’re going to be just dandy, doc.” Forced calm belying tension.

I could only stare at Slidell, unable to speak.

“I rang for the nurse.” Then, bellowed over one shoulder, “Where’s the goddamn nurse?”

“Drink?” My mouth was as dry as an unwatered lawn in August.

Slidell conferred with someone. Got clearance. A plastic tumbler was produced. I sucked on the straw like I’d never drunk liquid before.

Flash synapses. Dorothée Pasquerault backlit in my doorway. Standing at my car, flies buzzing and dive-bombing the fenders and hood.

“Wha … time?”

“Almost four.”

Jesus Christ. Could that be?

When I tried rewinding a mental tape of the afternoon, my brain unspooled a mash-up of visual, tactile, and olfactory impressions. Images of a jarringly blue path winding through psychedelically green vegetation toward an open blast door leading to a pitch-black void. A tiny green beacon beckoning me through an endless warren of ebony darkness. My fingers brailling over concrete furry with moss, convoluted piping, metal fittings vomiting rust. My nose sorting primordial smells—moldy earth, rotting fabric, and creatures long dead.

Had I gone to Cleveland County? Had I descended into Vodyanov’s bunker?

Slidell read my confusion. “It’s four a.m., Thursday morning. You were AWOL for almost ten hours.”

Was that possible?

“What happened?” I croaked.

“A guy walking his poodle found you outside by the back wall at Sharon Hall. Harcourt, that’s the guy, claims Larry, that’s the poodle, was sniffing for a leak, nosed you out under a hedge. Thinking you were either drunk or dead, Harcourt called 911. That was around two a.m. Don’t ask me why the dog needed to piss at that hour of the morning.” Nervous run-on. Slidell was clearly wired. “Harcourt says he’s willing to do interviews. Not sure about Larry.”

Had I spent that long wandering the grounds or curled up outside? Had I driven to Cleveland County, eventually returned, and passed out by the wall? Had someone taken me there, then brought me back home? Was it all the result of a cataclysmic headache? Meds? I didn’t remember taking anything. A sign of deterioration? Of escalating symptoms? A stroke?

I hadn’t a clue. My memories were like flakes in a blizzard, battered and spun by the wind, then left to melt in my head. Vivid, detailed, yet surreal. A Hiroshima of garish chaos.

“How did you know?”

“I swung by your place around eight last night to brief you on some news. Found your door wide open, your purse on the counter, your wheels in the drive. I waited a bit, thinking maybe you was out jogging, but that seemed off, even with the lone-gunslinger act you been peddling lately. I called in a BOLO, eventually got word the EMTs had brought you here.”

“My cat?”

“Already pissed when I showed up. I fed him.”

The curtain whrrped on its little metal rings. A nurse strode into the bay. Her name was Georgia. She looked like El Chapo having a bad day.

Georgia checked a printout, a drip bottle, the beeping machines. Crossed to me.

“ER?” Stupid question.

“That’s right, honey. We’re bringing you down easy.”

“I have an embolized aneurysm and I suffer from migraines. I might have taken something if I felt a headache coming on.”

Georgia took my pulse. Her fingers felt strong and cool. “Whatever you knocked back left no trace.”

My last conscious memories were fragmentary. The fire. The Aiello interrogation. The Pasquerault file. The heat. The sun tea.

Crap! Might that be it? The jar had remained outside far too long. Might something have contaminated the tea? Might someone have tampered with it? The burglar/arsonist?

“I don’t do drugs.” Absurd, but I felt an overpowering need to convince Georgia of my innocent role in the overdose.

“Whatever. You’re going to live.”

Georgia plumped my pillow and straightened my sheet, then hurried off to spread joy elsewhere.

I lay still, every cranial vessel throbbing. It had all seemed so real. So vibrant. How much was true? How much a wild opera scripted by the wayward little bubble in my brain? By chemicals roaring through my veins?

“Feeling better?” Slidell was again looming, but with a fraction less drama.

I gulped the rest of the water. Put the cup on the table they’d wheeled to my bedside. Sat up and almost gagged. Swallowed.

“I called Ryan. He’s—”

“You didn’t!”

“Relax. He wanted to fly straight home, but I talked him down. Assured him you’re OK.”

“I need my clothes,” I said.

“You gotta stay the night. There’s a nasty lump on your noggin. Docs think you might have whacked your head and got a concussion.”

“I’ll recover faster at home.”

“They say at least twenty-four—”

“I prefer my own bed.”

“I scored some new intel.”

“Seriously? What?”

“You gotta promise to chill till morning. Otherwise, the added stimulation might refry your wiring.”

“Don’t do this, detective.”

“They’re finishing the paperwork to admit you. You’ll get oatmeal for breakfast. Maybe Jell-O. I think you always get Jell-O.”

I glared as hard as I could. Slidell glared back.

Since my head was exploding, I cracked first. Besides, I had to admit, checking the state of my lumpy noggin was probably advisable.

“What’s this big breakthrough?” Petulant.

“Two breakthroughs.”

I lifted an impatient palm. Noticed my nails were crusted with dirt.

“Heavner ran a second, broader tox screen.”

“And shared results with you?”

“With some persuasion.” Slidell rubbed his jaw. Thumb-hooked his pants. “Vodyanov had enough China Girl on board to kill half of New Hampshire.”

Skinny used one of the many street names for fentanyl, heroin’s synthetic cousin and the gold medalist in the current opioid crisis.

A little background. The medical community originally employed fentanyl as an anesthetic but quickly realized its effectiveness as a painkiller. Always open to innovation, the drug-dealer community sat up and took notice. Since fentanyl is one hundred times more potent than morphine, many times more so than heroin, why not use the stuff to lower the cost of doing business? Both drugs exist as white powders. Mix in the cheaper, more powerful fentanyl to cut your product and increase supply.

Tragically, this entrepreneurial vision proved deadly. Hard fact: thirty milligrams of smack can kill you; with China Girl, it takes only three.

Why the difference? Basic chemistry. Both compounds bind to the mu-opioid receptor in the brain. But fentanyl is better at passing through fat, a substance surprisingly plentiful in the head. It arrives faster and, once landed, hugs the receptor so tightly that a minuscule amount triggers the chain of effects so pleasing to the body. End result: Fentanyl is now a ruthless predator roaming the streets of America.