Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(12)

“I’m very sorry,” she said.

Outside, the mist had burned off. High above, a white vapor trail streaked a cloudless blue sky.

Mama couldn’t be dying.

Yet Luna Finch said it was so.





CHAPTER 5


I DON’T SLEEP well on planes. Believe me, I try.

It was midafternoon by the time I got back to Charlotte. Eight when I finished a prelim on Larabee’s car trunk case. Ten when I finally found and booked a flight and room.

After arranging for cat care with my neighbor, I packed a carry-on, took a shower, and fell into bed.

My mind kept churning, offering up outtakes, unedited, lacking chronology.

Childhood memories of my mother.

Happy times. Reading to Harry and me on the garden swing. Quoting Shakespeare, Milton, other long-dead strangers we didn’t understand. Driving the Buick on illicit après-bedtime ice cream sorties.

Sad times. Listening outside Mama’s bedroom door. Confused by the tears, the breaking glass. Terrified she’d come out. Terrified she wouldn’t.

Memories of Andrew Ryan. Happy times. Skiing at Mont Tremblant in the Laurentian Mountains. Celebrating successes at Hurley’s Irish pub. Laughing at our shared cockatiel Charlie’s bawdy quips.

Sad times. The day Ryan was shot. The plane crash that took the life of his partner. The night we ended our relationship.

Doubts about my upcoming excursion. Was it futile? Ryan’s email was almost a month old. Had he moved on?

No. Barrow had nailed it when he’d asked if I could think of a spot Ryan had mentioned. I remembered comments. Ryan loved the place. It was where he’d go to hide out. To drop out.

Doubts about my decision not to tell my daughter about Mama. No. That decision was sound. Katy was serving in Afghanistan. She had enough on her mind.

All night I tossed and turned, questions skittering up and down my neural pathways. Doubts. Uncertainties.

Certainties. Luna Finch. Rogue cells multiplying out of control.

The last time check occurred at 2:54. The alarm screamed at five.

The flight to Atlanta was short, the layover just a little over an hour. Not bad. But this leg was torture.

I tried reading. Life. Maybe Keith Richards’s problems could make mine seem small. No go.

I closed the book and my eyes.

Something brushed my arm. I raised my lids. My chin from my shoulder.

The passenger beside me was steadying the plastic cup holding the remains of my cranberry juice. He was tall, with faded red hair and eyes the color of smoked glass.

“We are about to land.” They were the first words he’d spoken since takeoff, four hours earlier.

“Sorry.” I took the cup and returned my tray to its upright position. My seat.

“You are on vacation?” the man asked in softly accented English.

What the hell. The guy had prevented a spill. “I’m trying to find someone.”

“In Liberia?”

“Playa Samara.”

“Ah. My destination also.”

“Mmm.”

“I own property there.”

The man withdrew a card from his wallet and handed it to me. His name was Nils Vanderleer. He sold irrigation systems for a company headquartered in Atlanta. Or so his card claimed.

I managed a smile. I thought.

“Perhaps I could be of assistance?” Vanderleer asked.

“I’m good. Thanks.”

“Yes, you are.”

The plane banked and we both glanced toward the window. Vanderleer could see out. I could not.

Moments later, the wheels engaged. Vanderleer turned back to me. “Might I buy you dinner one evening?”

“I’m hoping to be in Samara only one night.”

“That’s a shame. Costa Rica is a magical place.”

The line at passport control took thirty minutes. I exited the terminal perspiring, headachey, and cranky as hell.

Vanderleer was on the sidewalk, frowning and pacing. I had no choice but to pass him. When he saw me, he put up his hands in a “What can you do?” gesture.

“I booked a car, but of course it has not arrived on time. The driver is now ten minutes out. If you don’t mind a short wait, I am happy to take you to Samara.”

“Thanks for the offer. My hotel has ordered a taxi.”

Three hours after wheels down, I finally passed under a white stone arch rising from a wall thick with some sort of flowering vine. A wooden sign announced my arrival at Villas Katerina.

The place looked as advertised online. Palm trees. Woven hammocks. Villas with yellow stucco walls, white trim, and red tile roofs circling an amoeba-shaped pool.

The woman at reception was small and bubbly and had a bad case of acne. She took my credit card, all smiles, then led me to a villa set apart from the others. Smaller. Overlooking a garden lush with tropical vegetation.

I entered, wheeled my bag to a carved wooden chair beside one window, opened the drapes, and looked out. Nothing but foliage.

I turned and surveyed my surroundings—buttery walls, orange trim, orange bedspread and drapes. Native art, crude, probably local. Tiny kitchenette. Tiled bath, jarringly blue coming off the carroty bedroom.

Suddenly, I felt exhausted. Kicking off my shoes, I stretched out on the bed to consider options. Nap? No way. The sooner I found Ryan, the sooner I could leave.