Kathy Reichs - Flash and Bones

“He’d never been arrested, served in the military, or held a job that required a security clearance.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “The FBI suspected Hand and the Patriot Posse were planning a bioterrorist attack like the one in Oregon, this time with ricin.”

“Yes.”

“That’s why you were treading eggshells back in 1998.”

“We couldn’t risk setting them off.”

“But it never happened.”

“No.”

“How would Hand get hold of ricin?” Larabee asked.

“We think he may have been producing the toxin himself.”

“ Ricinus communis grows in North Carolina?”

“Easily.”

We all thought about that.

“So how did Hand end up in a barrel of asphalt?” I voiced the question in everyone’s mind.

“Accidentally poisoned himself? Fell on his head? Got taken out by his pals? We honestly don’t know.”

“What happened to Cale Lovette and Cindi Gamble?” I asked.

“Same answer.”

“Was either of them working inside for the bureau?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Uh-huh.”

I held Williams’s eyes with mine. He didn’t blink.

The small office filled with tense silence. When Williams broke it, his voice was elevated a microdecibel. It was as excited as I’d seen him.

“The long shot paid off, Dr. Brennan.”

“Sorry?” The quick segue lost me.

Williams cocked his chin toward his partner.

One word and I knew why Randall spoke so rarely. His voice was high and nasal, more suited to a Hollywood hairdresser than an FBI agent.

“Alda Pickerly Winge has owned a home on Union Cemetery Road in Concord since 1964. The property is less than a quarter mile from the Circle K from which the call was placed to your mobile last night.”

I felt centipedes crawl my arms.

“Alda is related to Grady?” Stupid. I knew the answer to that one, too.

“He is her son.”

“You think Grady Winge called in the tip on Eli Hand?”

“Winge’s truck is currently parked at his mother’s house. We believe it has been there all night.”

“Who’s Grady Winge?” Larabee asked.

“A Speedway maintenance worker who saw Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette argue with a man, then enter a car shortly before they disappeared.”

Again the troublesome tickle in my brainpan.

What?

“A ’sixty-five Mustang,” Williams added.

Suddenly, the tickle exploded into a full-blown thought.

I shot upright in my chair.

“A ’sixty-five Petty-blue Mustang with a lime-green decal on the passenger-side windshield. That’s what Winge told Slidell and me at the Speedway last Monday. Can you check his statement from 1998?”

The specials exchanged one of their meaningful glances. Then Williams lowered his chin almost imperceptibly.

Randall got up and went into the hall. In moments he was back.

“A ’sixty-five Petty-blue Mustang with a lime-green decal on the passenger-side windshield.”

“You’re sure that’s what he said?”

“That was his statement verbatim.”

“What are the chances a witness would use the exact same words and phrasing so many years apart?” I was totally psyched.

Williams appeared to consider that. “You think Winge made up his story? Practiced it to be sure he’d get it right?”

“It would explain why the Mustang could never be traced. Think about it. A car that rare?”

“Why would Winge lie?”

No one had an answer.

“Slidell says Winge is as dumb as a bag of hammers,” Larabee offered.

“He’s not a smart man,” I agreed.

“Why tip you about Eli Hand?” Williams asked.

“Maybe Winge was involved in Hand’s death and is feeling guilty,” Larabee tossed out.

“After more than a decade?” Williams sounded skeptical.

“He claims to have found Jesus,” I said.

“You believe him?”

I shrugged. Who knows?

“Maybe Winge was involved in what happened to Gamble and Lovette.” Larabee was hitting his stride. “Maybe he killed them. Maybe he killed Wayne Gamble because the guy was figuring things out.”

We all went still, realizing the implications of that line of reasoning.

Might Winge think I was figuring things out? Had he left me the threatening voice mail? Might he be planning a similar “accident” for me?

“We’ve got Winge under twenty-four-hour surveillance,” Williams said. “If he changes his socks, we’ll know about it.”

Williams stood.

Randall stood.

“Until this is resolved, I’m going to ask the CMPD to run units by your town house on an hourly basis.”

“Do you really think that’s necessary?”

“Better safe than sorry.”

Williams stuck out a hand. “Nice job on the Mustang catch.”

“Thanks.”

We shook. Randall did not join in.

“Perhaps it’s best if you lay low for a while.”

What the flip? First Galimore, now Williams.

I made a noncommittal sound.

“I’ll phone if anything breaks,” Williams said.

That call came very, very soon.

GALIMORE RANG AT NINE-TWENTY. THE WEEKEND’S RACES were fast approaching, and the media were growing hysterical for information on Wayne Gamble’s death. He couldn’t leave the Speedway for any reason.

Galimore sounded so rushed, I didn’t take time to mention that the landfill John Doe had been identified. Or to explain how that had come about.

Slidell phoned around ten. I filled him in on recent developments. He promised to locate Maddy Padgett once he got done checking documents and a PC confiscated from Wayne Gamble’s trailer.

Williams’s call came at eleven-fifteen. I was in the stinky room gluing cranial fragments. Wayne Gamble’s partially reconstructed skull sat in a bowl of sand at my elbow.

Williams sounded out of breath. “About the time we were leaving the MCME, Winge got into his truck and drove from his mother’s house to the Stephens Road Nature Preserve. You know it?”

“It’s between Mountain Island Lake and Lake Norman, right?”

“Exactly. Stephens Road cuts off Beatties Ford Road, winds past a housing development, then dead-ends in some fairly dense forest.”

A voice called out.

“Hang on.”

The air went thick, as though Williams had pressed the phone to his chest. In seconds, he was back.

“Sorry. Winge parked and walked into the woods. Agents found him about fifty yards north of the road. He was on his knees and appeared to be praying.”

I felt my heart rate kick up a notch.

“The agents called me. They described an area of ground slump at the spot where Winge was kneeling. I instructed them to detain Winge and ordered a cadaver dog to the site.”

My grip tightened on the receiver. I knew what was coming.

“The dog alerted at the depression.”

“What’s happening now?”

“CSU is on the way.”

“So am I.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

The sun was low by the time the bones were fully uncovered. One skeleton lay on top of the other, the arm bones intertwined, as though the victims were embracing in death.

The grave was shallow, dug quickly, filled with haste. Standard. And Winge, or whoever had done the burying, had made the usual mistake of the uninformed. Instead of leaving the fill mounded over the pit, he, she, or they had stomped it flat. With the passage of time, soil compression had led to the telltale slump.

The temperature and humidity had been so high all afternoon, the forest seemed to be rendered lifeless. Trees, birds, and insects held themselves still and silent.