Kathy Reichs - Flash and Bones

“Sorry,” I said.

A drop hit my forehead. Backhanding the moisture, I glanced skyward.

“I wasn’t involved in the Gamble-Lovette inquiry back in ’ninety-eight.” Williams ignored my not so subtle hint. “Those special agents are now gone from North Carolina. But I can assure you, the task force carried out a thorough and comprehensive investigation.”

“I’ve no reason to doubt that, but I understand they didn’t locate either live persons or bodies.”

“Wayne Gamble was a child at the time. He didn’t fully understand the effort that went into searching for his sister. The task force concluded she had gone underground.”

“Is there something specific you wish to discuss?” A steady rain was falling now.

“Task force members canvassed family, friends, teachers, students, coworkers—anyone who’d had even the most casual contact with Gamble or Lovette.”

“Grady Winge?” Winge was the last to see Cindi and Cale alive. His name came out before I even thought about it.

Williams’s lower lids pinched up ever so slightly. “Of course. Everyone searched until the trail went dead. The consensus was that Gamble and Lovette had left the area of their own volition.”

“The parents didn’t think so. Nor did Ethel Bradford.” I tossed out the teacher’s name, implying I knew more about the investigation than I actually did. Which was virtually nothing.

“Mr. Gamble is still upset.” Williams’s tone remained absolutely neutral. “And that is understandable. He lost his sister. The bureau has no problem with his wish to reopen the case.”

If Williams wanted a response, I disappointed him.

“We prefer, of course, that he act with discretion.”

“I can’t stop him from talking to the press, if that’s what you mean.”

“Of course not. But we hope he might be discouraged from making unjustified allegations against the FBI.”

Rain was dropping in earnest. Williams kept talking.

“If the case is reopened, the bureau will cooperate fully. But I’ll be straight with you, Dr. Brennan. We don’t know if Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette are alive or dead.”

“Thank you for your honesty.”

“We know it will be reciprocated.” Again, Williams might have smiled.

“Should the case be reopened, would the medical examiner and the CMPD have access to information gathered by the bureau back in ’ninety-eight?” I asked.

Williams and Randall exchanged glances.

“I don’t want to dishearten you, Dr. Brennan. But I can’t guarantee that the FBI will turn over all its files and internal notes to anyone. Please trust me when I say we have no idea what happened to Gamble and Lovette. They simply vanished.”

I looked Williams straight in the eye. “You’ve spoken with members of that task force. What do you think happened to them?”

“I believe they left to join fellow extremists out West.”

“Why?”

Williams hesitated. Debating whether to pony up some of that reciprocal honesty?

“The sieges at Ruby Ridge in ’ninety-two and Waco in ’ninety-three shot militia outrage sky-high. When Gamble and Lovette disappeared, the airways were full of anti-government chatter.”

Williams referred to incidents in which U.S. agents stormed compounds occupied by fringe groups. In each case, people were killed, and those contesting the legitimacy of government were irate.

“From everything I’ve learned, Lovette was a virulent young man, and Gamble was very young, in love with him, and under his thumb,” Williams said.

“So the two just slipped underground.”

“That’s the only theory that makes sense.”

“Is that really so easy to do?”

“Rural Michigan, Montana, Idaho,” Williams said. “These crackpots go so far off the grid, no one can find them.”

One thing bothered me.

“The investigation lasted only six weeks,” I said.

“Which is why Gamble thinks it was a sham. But his sister and Lovette vanished so completely from the outset, it was thought they’d probably gone underground. When the trail went cold, the FBI decided to disband the task force and rely on intel.”

I remembered Slidell’s comment. “You hoped Lovette might lead you to a bigger catch. Like Eric Rudolph.”

“We considered that.”

I hiked my purse back onto my shoulder. Which was soaked.

“Please go in out of the rain, Dr. Brennan.” Williams flicked the maybe-smile. “And thank you for talking with us. Believe it or not, the bureau is as anxious to find out what happened as you are.”

With that, Williams and Randall hurried to their car and drove off.

The conversation replayed in my mind as I changed clothes and towel-dried my hair. Had the visit been an attempt to dissuade me from helping Wayne Gamble?

I’d just slipped on sandals when the phone rang.

As usual, Slidell skipped the pleasantries.

What he said stunned me.

And tripped an anger switch in my brain.

“GONE?”

“Like a long dog.”

“Gone where?”

“Snatched by the fart barf and itch.” Slidell’s voice was tight with fury.

“The FBI seized the entire Gamble-Lovette file?”

“Right down to the paper clips.”

“At the conclusion of the inquiry?”

“No. Right now. Yesterday. Twelve years after the investigation, they came and grabbed the file.”

“Who authorized that?”

“All I could pry loose was that word came from high up.”

“What about Eddie’s notes?”

“No friggin’ way. They weren’t part of the jacket.” I heard a palm smack something solid. “Got ’em right here.”

A body surfaced at the landfill on Thursday. Wayne Gamble came to see me on Friday. Shortly thereafter, a twelve-year-old file was suddenly confiscated. What the hell?

Silence hummed across the line as Slidell and I considered the implications. He broke it.

“Something stinks.”

“Yes.”

“No one fucks with Erskine Slidell.” I’d seen Skinny angry. Often. But rarely with so much emotion.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“Call you right back.”

Dead air.

Fifteen minutes later the phone rang again.

“You free?” Slidell asked.

“I could be.”

“Pick you up in ten.”

“Where are we going?”

“Kannapolis.”

Ethel Bradford taught junior and senior chemistry at A. L. Brown High School from 1987 until her retirement in 2004. She still lived in the house she’d purchased upon landing that job.

Save for the blasting AC and angry air whistling in and out of Slidell’s nose, the drive from Charlotte to Kannapolis passed in silence. Skinny alternated between drumming agitated fingers and gripping the wheel so tightly I thought he might crush it.

Though the temperature inside the Taurus was subarctic, the space was ripe with odors. Old Whoppers and fries. Cold coffee. The bamboo mat on which Skinny parked his ample backside.

Slidell himself. The man reeked of cigarette smoke, drugstore cologne, and garments long overdue for hamper or dry cleaner.

I was bordering on queasiness and hypothermia when Slidell pulled to the curb in front of a small brick bungalow with green shutters and trim. Hydrangeas bordered the foundation. Potted geraniums lined brick steps leading to the front porch.

“Is she expecting us?” I asked.

“Eeyuh.”

Pushing off the seat back with an elbow, Slidell hauled himself from behind the wheel. I followed him up the walk.

The inner door swung open before Slidell’s thumb hit the bell.

I’d formed a mental image, perhaps based on my own high school chemistry teacher. Ethel Bradford was younger than I expected, probably just a hair north of sixty-five, slim, with boy-cut auburn hair. Her pale blue eyes looked enormous behind thick round glasses.