Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(87)

“Why?”

“Yoder was working on the dates Leal and Donovan went through the ER.”

“What do you think?”

“He’s got nothing else.”

“Gonna be a lot of red faces at the CMPD.”

“A lot,” I agreed.

It was another takeout evening with Birdie.

We were eating Il Nido spaghetti and channel-surfing when my iPhone sang “Frosty the Snowman.”

“Why’d he wash the cup?”

“What?” Slidell’s question threw me. His calling at night threw me.

“Ajax. He’s heading to the garage to off himself. Why bother with the cup?”

“He was a neat freak.”

No reply.

“And he was zoned on chloral hydrate,” I added. “People do funny things.”

“I’m looking at the CSS photos. There’s dirt on the floor inside the back door.”

“A lot?”

“Not the point. Why’s he clean the cup and the coffeemaker and leave the dirt?”

“He cleaned the coffeemaker?”

“And took out the trash. The grounds were in a plastic bag on top in the can outside.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying either a guy’s neat or he ain’t.”

“Maybe he tracked in the dirt when he went to the garbage can, then didn’t see it.”

“Tracked it from where? The thing sits back-ass to the door.”

I heard a series of soft ticks, probably photos hitting a blotter.

“Thread.” Tick. Tick. “Snagged on the backyard hedge.”

“What kind of thread?”

No answer.

Now it was the sound of pages turning.

“Purple.” I wasn’t sure Slidell was talking to me anymore. “Fiber guy says purple wool.”

“Were the coffee grounds analyzed?”

More pages.

“Gotta go.”

Dead air.

I tossed the phone on the couch. Got up. Began pacing in tight circles. Birdie’s head swiveled as he followed my movement.

What was Slidell’s purpose in calling? He was disturbed by some findings at the scene on Sunrise Court. Did he have doubts not only about Ajax’s involvement in the murders but also about Ajax’s own death? Did he suspect it was other than suicide?

Homicide?

We’d probably been wrong about Ajax. Was my crushing sense of guilt about his death unjustified? Had someone killed Ajax and staged it as a suicide?

Who? Why?

Jesus. The same questions I’d been asking myself for weeks.

My phone pinged an incoming text.

Mama.

Did you look at the YouTube video?

Viewing it now.

Right place?

I shifted to the message above. Clicked on the link.

The video was titled: Overland Riders of Northern Essex Community College. Spring Bike Hike 2008(3): Over the Passumpsic. The clip was twelve minutes long and had been viewed 18,927 times. Most liked it.

Interested in why the tape had caught Mama’s attention, not in its content, I hit the little white triangle. Queen began singing “Bicycle Race.” A frozen cyclist started pedaling, not furiously, but with strong, steady thrusts.

A rectangle appeared on the screen, outlined in scrolly white, like a dialogue box in an old silent movie. It framed the words: Spring Bike Hike 2008.

The camera zoomed out to show eight more cyclists, all in helmets, windbreakers, and knee-length black spandex shorts. They were moving single file along a two-lane highway. The action was wobbly, captured by a handlebar-or helmet-mounted camera at the rear of the pack.

Mama had never shown an interest in biking. I couldn’t fathom why this video appealed to her.

The group passed a post office/general store combo: a gray building with an old red auto seat on the porch and a red plastic kayak affixed to the top of the front overhang.

Another text box announced: Barnet, Vermont.

I read the words on the side of the kayak. Suddenly sat straight up.

Pulse humming, I watched the cyclists cross a narrow river on a green metal bridge. Another text box. Passumpsic River.

Two minutes of pedaling through mixed hardwood and pine, then a bit of crude editing caught the group on the shoulder, laughing and pointing to a plank nailed to a tree above their heads. On it were four faded blue letters. ORNE. It was the weathered sign from the Corneau house.

ORNE. They liked the Corneau sign because what was left matched their club’s acronym. Overland Riders of Northern Essex.

As the cause of their amusement registered, a car entered the frame from a driveway to the left of the sign. One silhouette at the wheel, no passenger.

The car lurched to a stop, and a door flew open. A figure shot out and strode toward the cyclists. The camera followed her, now handheld. I couldn’t see a face, but body language said the driver was angry.

Another text box materialized. Hostile Aboriginal!

The figure turned toward the camera. Shouted and waved both arms.

I went cold to the marrow.





CHAPTER 38


I REPLAYED THE scene again and again. Froze the image. Studied the features, the body shape, making sure. Hoping I was wrong.

I wasn’t.

No point showing the video to Slidell. The face would mean nothing to him.