Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

When Gursahani had gone, I glanced over at Ryan, defiant.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said, confiscating the bag and dropping into the room’s only chair.

Arms crossed, I slumped back on my pillows.

“Want to talk about what happened?” Ryan asked after several moments of silence.

“I don’t know what happened,” I said, too snappishly. I wasn’t in a chatty mood.

“Fair enough. How about this?” Gesturing at my eyes. “Lids down.”

“Why?”

“So you can tell me what you remember. It will pass the time while we wait.”

After rolling them, I closed my eyes. Given a little encouragement, a bedlam of disconnected scenes fired like tracer rounds in my head. Fragmented. Disorganized. I sorted briefly, hoping for some semblance of chronology.

“I was reviewing the Pasquerault file when Dorothée appeared and told me I’d made an error.”

“That must have been unsettling.”

“You think?” Eyes still closed. “Dorothée and I drove to the bunker in Cleveland County. Everything was the same, yet exaggerated—the colors too bright, the vegetation too thick and tangled, the heat too oppressive, the shadows too dizzying. It was like picking my way through the frames of an overcolorized film cranking in slo-mo.”

“I get it.”

“Dorothée disappeared through the blast door. Though afraid, I followed. It’s hard to explain why. Somehow, I couldn’t turn back. It was like I was driven by a need to right my mistake.”

I paused. Ryan waited.

“Underground, the darkness was so absolute I had to feel my way by touch. Then, in the distance, I saw this tiny green dot. It seemed to be beckoning. But the more I moved toward it, the farther away it seemed. This is making no sense.”

“It is.” Again wiggling a finger at my now-open eyes. I complied.

“I felt my way through inky-black tunnels into open chasms filled with swirling neon light, pulsating walls, and heaving floors and ceilings.”

I swallowed, nauseated by the recalled tumult.

“At one point, I was in a passageway, at first doubled over, then crawling on all fours, then curled fetal. The space was shrinking, and I knew I had to get out. Or wake up. But I couldn’t do either.”

My lids flew open. I looked at Ryan. “I remember thinking it was like being trapped in an upturned tin of snus. Strange thought.”

Ryan repeated the finger command.

“At one point, I saw Jahaan Cole.” Eyes shut. “She was talking about her bones. Begging me to do something.”

My gut tightened.

“That’s enough,” I said, weary of spelunking through the nightmare.

“OK,” he said.

Twenty minutes later, Bernard came smiling in, all morning cheer and bubbly good spirits.

“How is our patient this morning?”

“Ready to split.”

“And split you shall. All your results look excellent. The aneurysm is not misbehaving. There is no evidence of a TIA or mini-stroke. Nothing unusual turned up in your blood or urine.”

“What does that mean?”

“Not much. The symptoms you described—hallucinations, a seemingly ‘out-of-body experience’—are consistent with the effects of LSD, but acid wouldn’t have been detected by any mainstream drug test. Which is all they did in the ER.”

I started to interrupt. Bernard ignored me.

“And had you ingested LSD, fifty percent of the drug would have cleared your body within five hours, the remainder within as little as fifteen.”

“I don’t do drugs.”

“I understand. Not my skill set.” Meaningful lifting of brows to me, then to Ryan. “Poisoning?”

“Forget the concussion. And the lump. Might the whole thing have been a gorilla of a migraine?” I asked.

“Unusual, but anything’s possible. Did you feel a headache coming on? Had you just taken your current prescription?”

“I don’t recall either.”

“If it was a migraine, what might have triggered it?” Ryan asked.

Bernard shrugged. “It’s hard to isolate one factor.”

This was getting us nowhere. I was anxious to leave.

“So.” Swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “I’m good to go, right?”

Bernard provided discharge advice similar to Gursahani’s and took his leave. He’d barely cleared the door when I snatched the bag from Ryan and darted into the bathroom.

My clothes hadn’t improved during the hours they’d spent bunched like linguini. Scraping off soil and debris as best I could, I dressed. Then I washed my face and scrubbed my nails. My hands tingled. My vision seemed strange as I watched the final remnants of soil swirl down the drain as muddy runoff.

While rebinding my hair, I caught sight of myself in the mirror.

I couldn’t recall ever looking so haggard. My cheeks were hollow, my lower lids baggy, my skin ashen. My hair was a greasy brown coil wrapping my skull. The combination made me look older by at least ten years.

I stared at my face. It stared back. Me, a decade in the future.

Did I have a decade? If so, what did it hold?

To Ryan’s credit, he’d given no indication that I looked so awful. If he did so now, I swore I’d level him. At least metaphorically.

Ryan made no comment. Wordlessly, he arm-wrapped my shoulders, collected the bovine flora, and walked me out into the corridor.

I declined the mandatory wheelchair ride to the main entrance, a wildly unpopular move. An argument ensued. Catching the orderly’s eye, Ryan shook his head subtly while pushing for an elevator. The man backed off.

At ground level, Ryan called an Uber. Ten minutes later, I let us into the annex. The Pasquerault file was gone from the kitchen table, my shoulder bag from the counter. I found both in the pantry. Another wily effort by Skinny.

To my horror, my iPhone was not in my purse. Red rocket flare in my chest! I’d never had a chance to forward the pics to Slidell. Not quite accurate. I just hadn’t done it. Panicky, I searched everywhere, knowing the reaming I’d endure. Finally gave up, certain it was futile.

Ryan had left three messages on my landline, the final one at six a.m. Thursday morning. Slidell had obviously kept him looped in concerning my disappearance and reemergence. While I listened and deleted, he climbed to assess the damage upstairs.

Birdie was as peeved as expected. And ravenous. After issuing double cat rations, I enjoyed a very long, very hot shower. I was taking a lot of those lately. One difference: Ryan slipped in to join me for this one. Helped with the soaping and spraying. Then, thoroughly clean, we retreated to my bed to assess my injuries and remedy my pain. No mixed feelings about that enterprise.

Following our thoroughly satisfying romp in the sheets, Ryan napped, exhausted from the long overnight flight. I dug out a mask and gloves and resumed my excavation in the upstairs office.

Ninety minutes later, I’d confirmed my worst fears. I had nothing to show for all my investigative efforts. A destroyed-beyond-hope laptop, no mobile, no file, no photos, no notes. Nothing concrete linking Vodyanov or anyone in his circle to Jahaan Cole. To any missing child.

All I retained were the memories assembled in my head. But how reliable were those? Would they filter back warped and twisted through a migraine or drug lens?

I am a scientist. I test hypotheses based on items I can observe, measure, weigh, and photograph. I’d been left with none.

Could I rely on my stored perceptions? Could I sort what was real from what was not?

Test run.

I closed my eyes. Experienced another flash flood of psychedelic images.

A resurrected murder victim.

An azure path.

A tiny emerald orb.

Rainbow madness.

Airless captivity.

A pleading child.