Кэти Райх - A Conspiracy of Bones

Slidell also ordered an investigation into Body Language. Although the site generated some revenue via advertising, he was curious about how Body earned sufficient income to maintain his lifestyle. As expected, records were convoluted and far from transparent.

By Monday night, neither the tossing nor the grilling nor the financial digging had produced evidence of any criminal activity. Rising up like a small swarm of angry wasps, the lawyers demanded that Slidell release their clients.

My fingers curled into fists as I watched the smarmy trio walk free. The little voice in my hindbrain bellowed hopeless opposition.

Holly Kimrey wasn’t so lucky. The tail bag on his bike had yielded a full catalog of pharmaceuticals, so Body’s dealer would continue as a guest of Mecklenburg County. In addition, the district attorney was preparing charges related to the B&E and fire at my townhouse. A search of Kimrey’s apartment had produced items suggestive of arson, not sure what that means. And my phone. No confusion there. Enough to convict, but the DA hoped Kimrey would flip and finger Body as the person behind the plot.

At seven thirty, tired and discouraged, I headed home.

A few hours with the Pasquerault file, then I fell into bed. Of course, I didn’t sleep.

The faceless man refused to let go of my mind.

Why had Felix Vodyanov sought me out? Phoned my mobile? He’d seen the interview, knew my role in the Jahaan Cole case, but how had he learned where I live? Found my number? What was it he’d wanted to say or ask before dying?

He’d written Jahaan Cole’s name in his notebook. Maybe posed as a cop to talk to Cootie Clanahan. Clipped and saved articles on Cole and Timothy Horshauser. Did he have information on one or both? Had he been involved in harming them?

Why had Vodyanov written that one Russian word?

Finished Ended . To what was he referring? The Latvian book from which the scrap had been torn? His complicity in trafficking his brother’s hateful vitriol? In harming kids? His life?

Pete had skimmed the volume, reported that it was published in 2003 to promote the theory that the Estonia was purposefully sunk.

Felix Vodyanov. A spy? An assassin’s target? Crazy as a bag of rats?

A child molester? A killer?

What was real? What was not?

In 1983, the mutation for Huntington’s was mapped to a location on chromosome 4. Diagnosis is now possible via submission of a small blood sample. Body refuses to be tested.

Nick Body. A blowhard and scammer? An HD sufferer? A man needlessly living with dread?

A child molester? A killer?

What was real? What was not?

Had I really made a trip to that underground bunker? Or was the experience simply a migraine-induced hallucination? Had my own three-pound arrangement of electricity, chemicals, circuitry, and cells conspired to take me down? Had my unruly arteries sent my own blood thundering against me?

Had I been drugged? Had Kimrey laced my tea with Molly or LSD?

What was real? What was not?

Had Kimrey torched my home? He denied any involvement. Was the fire simply the result of a faulty wire delivering just enough spark to a chemical-soaked rag? If so, why the print by my window?

What was real? What was not?

I slept badly all night. Repeatedly woke, checked the clock. I tried deep-breathing exercises, inhaling slowly, then spreading the warm harmony into my fingers and toes. Nothing worked. I really suck at letting the peace in.

When I was awake, a movie titled Vodyanov and Body played in my head. Or on the ceiling. Or in the darkness between. Again and again, the scenes led me back to the same conclusion. Body had to be dirty. Otherwise, why such security? Why order the fire at the annex? If it had been arson. Why discourage witnesses from talking to me? If not child abduction, what was his sin? I was convinced Body was into something far more sinister than simply gaslighting the public.

Body’s podcasts also looped in my brain, increasing my agitation. My anger at seeing the bastard walk free, the viper smile on his face.

By dawn, I was convinced there had to be some clue buried somewhere in all of those histrionics. Vowing to find it before leaving town, I got up and headed downstairs.

A mug of coffee and a bowl of Raisin Bran later, I booted my laptop. Once online, I went directly to Body Language and, as before, paid the required fee, this time with an untraceable prepaid card purchased in a Spy vs. Spy moment with cash at a Walmart. Then I answered the nonoptional profile questions, presenting not as myself but as a forty-two-year-old white male. Not sure why. To assure myself I could be cyber-sneaky, too?

The page opened. There were the tabs offering links to podcasts, blogs, the general store. All as I remembered. I decided to go with the archived audio files. Started plowing through, beginning with the most recent and working my way back in time.

By ten, my head was ready to explode. Much as I wanted to nail the oily prick, I needed a break. A fill-up on coffee, then I returned to Body’s home page and, lacking a better idea, linked over to check out the merchandise for sale.

Stared.

Blinked.

Blinked again.

The page looked, what? Off?

I felt the familiar adrenaline-fueled dread. Were the irksome cranial vessels conspiring for action? Was a headache barreling in?

Take the meds?

No. Not yet.

I closed my eyes. Waited. Opened them. Focused on the screen.

This wasn’t the usual aura—the flashing-fizzing-black-hole optical display heralding an upcoming migraine. My vision was fine. The page was sharp and clear. It just looked wrong.

I clicked on the “aisle” offering podcasts for sale. Noted nothing different from my last visit. I was thinking about that when frenzied knocking managed to seep into my concentration.

Mama was peering through the back door, face anxious, nose pressed to the glass. I got up to let her in.

“What’s wrong, sweet pea? I can tell by those lines creasing your lovely brows that something’s amiss. Are you having a spell?” she asked, parking a covered casserole dish on the counter and reaching a hand to my forehead in one deft move.

“I’m fine, Mama. Really. Where’s Sinitch?”

“Doing some serious introspection.”

“You’ve quarreled?”

Sniff. “The gentleman has lost all playground privileges for a while, let’s just leave it at that.”

Totally in agreement.

“I brought you my spinach and Gruyère quiche. Given your condition, it’s imperative that you eat properly.” Noting the laptop. “What are you working on? Does it have to do with that poor man got gnawed by the hogs?”

“Indirectly.” Then, wanting to divert from the topic of my “condition,” “Let me ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“What might cause a website to look slightly off?”

“That question is about as clear as mushroom soup. Be more specific.”

“I’ve visited the site recently. Now when I go back, it doesn’t appear the page has been updated or redesigned. It just doesn’t look right.”

“Show me.” Setting her Louis Vuitton tote on the table and repositioning a chair beside mine.

I did. And described the connection between Vodyanov and Nick Body. Kept it vague. Like the soup.

“How’d you log in each time?”

I told her.

Pulling a MacAir from her bag, she brought up Body’s site and, fingers flying as fast as any teen hacker on the planet, explained what she was doing.

“I’m profiling myself as a seventy-seven-year-old female.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what I am, sweet pea. But more important, if your perception is accurate and my hunch is correct, I’ll explain the relevance.”