Kathy Reichs: Flash and Bones

Slidell was certain Grady Winge had murdered Cale Lovette and Cindi Gamble and buried their bodies in the nature preserve. But what motive did Winge have? And why would he kill Wayne Gamble? To cover up his earlier crime? Gamble hadn’t died from abrin. He might have eventually, but had someone decided his death needed to be immediate?

Winge had the IQ of a brussels sprout. How had he gotten his hands on abrin? And why use it? Cindi and Cale had been shot, not poisoned.

Eli Hand had been poisoned. With ricin. But had that killed him? Larabee’s autopsy had also revealed head trauma.

Did Hand accidentally poison himself while experimenting with ricin? Were he and other crazies planning to use the toxin in some sort of terrorist assault? Was that what Cale Lovette and the old guy were discussing at the Double Shot?

Winge had access to the track, the barrel, the asphalt. Was he also responsible for Hand’s death?

Had Cindi and Cale discovered that Winge killed Hand? Was that why he shot them?

Had Winge truly been born again? If so, did his conversion spring from guilt?

Waterlogged fans crammed every shelter and filled every canopied or awninged foot of dry ground. At least a hundred huddled under the portico at the Media Center. Dozens had crawled under picnic tables outside concession stands.

Seeing a foot of space between a woman in a tissue-thin Danica Patrick tee and a shirtless old geezer in nothing but cutoffs, I darted under the overhang of a cinder-block restroom building. Thunder boomed as I dialed Slidell’s number.

Sweet Mother of God. Didn’t people answer their phones anymore?

Fine.

I punched 411. Made my request.

A robotic voice provided a number. Even dialed it for me.

“Reverend Grace.” The voice sounded a thousand years old.

“Am I speaking with Honor Grace?”

“Yes, ma’am. Are you troubled? Is your soul in need of salvation?”

“No, sir. Are you aware that a member of your congregation has been arrested for murder?”

“Oh, my, my. Oh. Who is this, please?”

I identified myself, then cut off inquiry into the specifics of my authority by asking if a Detective Slidell had called.

“No. But I’ve been ministering to the sick all day and have yet to check my answering machine.”

“Are you familiar with Grady Winge?”

As I spoke, the Danica Patrick girl waved madly and shrieked, “Oh my God! Oh my God! Artie!”

“Are you all right, miss?” Grace sounded worried.

“I’m at the Speedway. Some fans are very energetic. Grady Winge?”

“Of course. Brother Winge has been a member of my church for many years. Is it he who is accused of this sin?”

“Can you comment on Winge’s whereabouts on Tuesday night?”

“Without reservation. Brother Winge was right here with me.”

I felt a chill that didn’t come from the rain.

“You’re certain?”

“Brother Winge comes every Tuesday to help prepare for Wednesday prayer meeting. This week I was taken ill. I don’t know if it was something I ate or a bug—”

“Winge was there for how long?”

“He arrived at six, as is his habit, and stayed all night. It wasn’t necessary. I was well by morning. But I was very thankful for his presence. The Lord does work—”

“Thank you, sir.”

I clicked off and pressed the phone to my chest. Beneath my curled fingers, my heart pounded.

Grady Winge hadn’t murdered Wayne Gamble.

Gamble’s killer was still out there.

I closed my eyes. Breathed deeply.

Did that mean Winge hadn’t shot Cindi and Cale? If not, who had?

Water ran from the eaves and ticked the gravel at my feet. People jostled and joked around me.

Wayne Gamble was killed at Stupak’s garage. Who could get past the barriers surrounding the Sprint Cup garage area?

Suddenly the whole wet world tilted.

Galimore had access to the entire Speedway complex.

Hawkins distrusted Galimore. Slidell hated him. Veteran cops suspected him of impeding the Lovette-Gamble investigation back in ’ninety-eight. But what involvement would Galimore have had with ricin or abrin? Was Galimore in league with others?

Galimore had been missing when I received the threatening call on my mobile at Craig Bogan’s house. He’d been missing when Eugene Fries put a gun to my head.

He was missing now. Had been since yesterday morning.

I remembered Padgett’s comment about Cale Lovette quitting the Patriot Posse. She said she told a cop back then. A big guy with dark hair.

Had that statement made its way into any report?

The chill spread through my body.

ISTOOD PARALYZED WITH INDECISION. IF THE KILLER WAS STILL free, was I in danger? I continued to puzzle over Galimore. Ricinabrin would not be his thing, but had he been protecting others? As a member of a group? As a hired hit man?

That made no sense. Had he simply colluded years earlier to protect the shooter? What was going on today? Was there a new plot in the works that Gamble was going to stumble upon?

Meanwhile, the rain. Where to go?

The security office. Galimore might be there, but so might others. Besides, he knew where to find me. He was not likely to snatch me from his own office.

My sneakers were soaked. My jacket was molded to my torso and head. Though the night was warm, goose bumps puckered my neck and arms.

“Oh, shit.” Slurred, from my right.

The Danica Patrick girl was swaying drunkenly. Dropping her can of Miller High Life, she doubled over and moaned.

I tried shifting left. The shirtless guy was right at my shoulder.

Lightning streaked. Thunder cracked.

Vomit hit the ground at my feet.

Any place was better than here.

Lowering my head against the deluge, I set out for Joey Frank’s hauler.

I was halfway down the Nationwide row when my iPhone vibrated.

Finally. Slidell returning my call.

I stepped between two enormous transporters and dug the phone from my pocket. Tugging my sleeve as low as possible for protection against the rain, I raised the device to my ear.

“Brennan—”

Something ticked my exposed fingertips.

Instinctively, I shook my hand to dislodge the insect.

My thumb accidentally hit the disconnect button, ending the call.

I punched redial. My finger slipped on the wet screen. I noticed that my skin was burning where I’d been stung.

Shoving the phone inside my jacket, I wiped moisture off the screen with my shirt.

I heard movement to my left, glanced sideways. The upraised hood blocked my peripheral vision.

I was dialing again when footsteps squished in the muddy grass. Hurried. Close.

As I raised my head, a viselike arm wrapped my throat.

The phone flew from my hand.

My head was yanked backward. Something snapped in my neck. Rain pummeled my upturned face.

I struggled.

Rapid breathing in my ear blocked all other sounds. A noxious blend of oily hair, wet nylon, and stale cigarette smoke filled my nostrils.

Terrified, I kicked back with one heel. Connected.

The arm tightened, squeezing my trachea and cutting off air.

I gagged. Clawed.

I saw rain slicing diagonally across the sky. An antenna. A light on a pole.

Dark spots.

Lightning sparked.

Then the world went black.

The rain had stopped. Or had it?

Overhead I heard pinging, like nails hitting tin.

My mind groped for meaning.

I was inside. Under a roof.

Where?

How long had I been here?

Who had brought me to this place?

Angry vessels pounded the inside of my skull.