Kathy Reichs - Flash and Bones

Nothing.

“We’re not going away, Mr. Fries.” Pounding the metal door with the heel of his left hand. “Best you come out.”

Still, no one answered.

Galimore stepped back to recheck his surroundings. And made the same observation that I had. The only path in the clearing was the one leading to the outhouse.

I watched Galimore circle the boulder and hitch, then disappear behind the trailer.

Time passed.

I checked my watch. Three-twenty-seven.

How long had Galimore been gone?

My eyes roved the clearing. The edge of the woods. The trailer.

Three-thirty-one.

I drummed anxious fingers on the wheel. Where the hell was he?

Three-thirty-four.

A yellow jacket buzzed the windshield, tentative. Landed. Crawled, antennae testing.

The tiniest breeze rustled the leaves overhead.

Three-thirty-six.

Thinking Galimore might have called to tell me to join him, I dug out my mobile. Checked for messages. Found none. Verified that the ringer was turned on. It was.

Impatient, I leaned toward the passenger-side floor and snatched up my purse.

When I straightened, the cold steel of a muzzle kissed my left temple.

ICY FEAR TRAVELED MY SPINE.

In the corner of my eye, I could see a dark figure standing outside the car. He or she held a shotgun tight to my skull.

Through the open window, I heard growling and thrashing. Terror froze me in place. I was in the middle of nowhere. Alone. At the wrong end of dogs and a gun.

Dear God, where was Galimore?

“State your business.”

The wheezy voice snapped me back. Low and deep. Male.

I swallowed. “Mr. Fries?”

“Who the hell’s asking?”

“Temperance Brennan.” Keep it simple. “I’m a friend of Wayne Gamble. Cindi’s brother.”

The growling gave way to snarling and scratching. The Mazda lurched.

“Down, goddammit!”

The earsplitting bellow sent a new wave of adrenaline flooding through me.

“Rocky! Rupert! Asses to the dirt!”

I heard the dull thud of a boot hitting flesh. A yelp.

My heart pounded in my chest. I didn’t dare turn my head. Who was this lunatic? Had he killed Galimore?

The gun muzzle prodded my skull. “You’re going to get out now. Real slow. Keeping your hands so’s I can see ’em.”

I heard the sound of a latch, then the door swung open.

Hands high, I thrust out my legs and stood.

Rocky and Rupert were the size of elk, black, with brown crescents above eyes that were fixed on me. Though a low growl rose from each massive throat, neither dog made a menacing move.

Their master looked about as old as a human can look. His skin was pale and tissue-paper thin over a prominent forehead, chin, and nose. His gaunt cheeks were covered with prickly white whiskers.

Though the day was muggy, the man wore wool pants, a long-sleeved flannel shirt, an orange hunting cap, and a windbreaker zipped to midchest.

His Winchester followed my every move. Its condition suggested an age equaling that of its owner.

The old man studied me with rheumy blue eyes, his gaze as steady as his grip on the gun.

“Who sent you here?”

“No one, sir.”

“Don’t you lie to me!”

As before, the vehemence of the outburst caused me to flinch.

“Move.” The gun barrel arced toward the far side of the clearing.

I held ground, knowing that entry into the trailer would limit my options.

“Move!”

“Mr. Fries, I—”

The muzzle of the Winchester jammed my sternum, knocking me backward. My spine struck the edge of the open car door. I cried out in pain.

The dogs shot to their feet.

The man lowered a hand, palm toward them.

The dogs sat.

“I said move.” Cold. Dangerous. “That way.”

Again he gestured with the gun.

Seeing no alternative, I began walking, as slowly as I felt my captor would allow. Behind me, I heard panting and the crunch of boots.

Desperate, I sorted options. I saw no phone or power lines. My mobile was in the car. I’d told no one where I was going.

My heart thudded faster.

I was marooned.

With a madman.

And Galimore nowhere in sight.

Outside the trailer, I stopped and tried again. “Mr. Fries. I mean you no harm.”

“You take one step, you get a load of shot in your head.”

The man circled me, then snapped his fingers at Rocky and Rupert. “Down!”

The dogs dropped to their bellies, mouths open, purple tongues dangling over yellowed teeth.

Keeping the Winchester cradled in one arm and pointed at my chest, the man bent, snatched up one chain, and clipped it to either Rocky or Rupert. He’d just secured the second chain when I noticed a flicker in the shadows beyond him.

Galimore struck like a ninja.

Firing around the trailer’s far end, he arm-wrapped the old man’s throat, dragged him clear of the dogs, and yanked the gun from his grasp. The hunting cap went airborne and landed in the dirt.

The dogs flew into a frenzy.

Terrified, I backpedaled as fast as I could.

Confused and enraged, Rocky and Rupert alternated between lunging at Galimore and me, muscles straining, saliva stringing from their gums and jowls.

“Call them off!” Galimore’s command barely carried over the furious barking.

A gagging sound rose from the old man’s throat.

“Sit them down or I shoot them!”

“Break.” Barely above a whisper.

Galimore released the old man. He doubled over, coughing and spitting.

The dogs grew even more frantic.

The old man straightened and tried again, louder, one trembling hand extended toward his animals. “Break.”

The dogs dropped to the ground, bodies tense, eyes on their master, clearly dubious about his directive.

“What’s your name?” Galimore demanded.

“Eugene Fries.” The old man’s Adam’s apple seemed ready to pop out of his throat. “This is my place. You got no right to bully me.”

“You were pointing a shotgun at the lady’s heart.”

“I weren’t gonna shoot no one.”

“You had me fooled. Her, too.”

No shit. The lady’s heart was still hammering against her ribs.

The old man leaned over and hawked an impressive gob.

Galimore cracked open the Winchester. Seeing it was unloaded, he snatched up the hunting cap and smacked it back and forth against one thigh.

“Got a couple of questions for you, Mr. Fries.” Galimore parked the cap on the bald old head. “Then we’re on our way.”

Fries said nothing as Galimore urged him in my direction, staying carefully outside the reach of the dogs.

Fries’s eyes rolled to me, then refocused on Galimore. Still on edge from the dogs and the gun, I let Galimore do the talking.

“We’re interested in two kids who went missing from the Charlotte Motor Speedway back in ’ninety-eight. Cale Lovette and Cindi Gamble. You know who I’m talking about?”

“I know what you’re talking about. Never knew either one of ’em.”

“You stated that you served Gamble and Lovette at a concession stand around eight p.m. the night they disappeared. Is that correct?”

Fries nodded.

“How did you know it was them?”

“The cops showed me pictures. Lovette was easy to remember because of the tats.”

“A lot of guys get inked.”

“OK. I knew of Lovette by reputation.”

“How’s that?”

“He was tight with a bunch of militia types. Word was they were real bad actors.”

Galimore thought about that. Then, “You know Grady Winge?”