Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(9)

The voice blindsided my overwrought, overmedicated brain.





CHAPTER 4


I LOVE THE Carolina mountains. Love driving the narrow two lanes that worm like twisty black ribbons through the humpty-back giants.

That morning the beauty was wasted on me. I hadn’t the time. Or the mindset for a Blue Ridge outing.

The dashboard clock said 7:44 A.M. I’d been up two hours, on the road ninety minutes. Surprisingly, I felt good. Or at least better. God bless chemistry.

Just before Marion, I turned east off Highway 226. The sun floated above the horizon, a yellow-orange ball winking on and off as I rounded curve after curve. Long slanted rays sparked mist still lingering in low spots between the ridges.

I passed a field with a chocolate mare grazing side by side with her colt. Both raised their heads and ears, mildly curious, then resumed eating.

Within minutes a sign peeked from the foliage on my right. Wrought-iron script announced the entrance to Heatherhill Farm. Discreetly. If you don’t know we’re here, just keep on motoring.

I turned onto an unmarked strip of asphalt arrowing through enormous azaleas and rhododendron. When I cracked the window, a post-dawn mix scented the car’s interior. Pine, wet leaves, damp earth.

Soon I passed buildings, some small, some large, each looking like a set straight out of Christmas in Connecticut. Ivy-covered chimneys, long porches, white siding, black shutters.

I knew Heatherhill’s forty acres contained multiple structures. A chronic-pain center. A gym. A library. A computer lab. Amenities for the well heeled with issues.

Knew only too well.

Beyond the four-story main hospital, I split off onto a tributary road, passed a low-rise building housing business and admissions offices, and made another left. The tiny lane ended fifty yards later in a rectangle of gravel enclosed by a white picket fence.

I parked, grabbed my jacket and purse, and got out.

Through a gate in the fence, a flagstone path led to a small bungalow. Above its door, a sign said River House. One calming breath, then I started toward it.

On the inside, River House could have been anyone’s mountain cottage. Anyone with a predilection for antique reproductions and a whole lot of bucks.

The floors were wide plank and covered with Oushaks and Sarouks that cost more than my house. The upholstery involved shades a decorator probably called mushroom and moss. The wooden pieces were stained and distressed to look old.

I wound through the living room, past gas-fed flames dancing in a stacked stone fireplace, and exited double glass doors at the back of the house. The deck held a teak table and matching chairs, several tubs planted with pansies and marigolds, and four chaise lounges with bright melon cushions.

The farthest chaise had been displaced several feet and angled away from the others. On it was a woman with white hair cut pixie-short. Before her, on the porch rail, sat a thick ceramic mug. The woman wore khaki slacks and an Irish sweater that hung to the middle of her thighs. On her feet were ballet flats, two-tone, the leather on the toes a perfect match for the pants.

I watched a moment. The woman sat motionless, hands clasped, eyes fixed on a forest thick with morning shadows.

I approached, my bootfalls loud in the stillness.

The woman didn’t turn.

“Sorry I couldn’t make it last night.” Cheerful as Mickey’s Marching Band.

No response.

I dragged a chaise close and positioned it parallel. Sat sideways, oriented toward the woman. “I like your new haircut.”

Nothing.

“The drive was good. I made it in under two hours.”

Still no acknowledgment of my presence.

“You sounded upset last night. Are you feeling better?”

A bird landed on the rail. A nuthatch, maybe a waxwing.

“Are you angry with me?”

The bird cocked its head and regarded me with one shiny black eye. The woman crossed her ankles. The bird startled and took flight.

“I was planning to come for Thanksgiving.” Still speaking to her profile. “That’s next Thursday.”

“I’m aware of the date. I’m not an idiot.”

“Of course you’re not.”

A fly dropped onto the rim of the mug. I watched it test its way around the perimeter, feelers and front legs working the substrate. Tentative. Unsure what to expect. I felt total empathy.

“Did you know that Carrauntoohil is Ireland’s highest mountain?” The woman unclasped her hands and laid them on the armrests. The skin was liver-spotted, the nails perfect ovals painted dusty rose.

“I didn’t.”

“It’s in County Kerry. Rises thirty-four hundred feet above sea level. Not much of a mountain, if you ask me.”

I reached out and placed my hand on hers. The bones felt fragile beneath my palm. “How are you?” I asked.

One cable-knit shoulder lifted ever so slightly.

“You said you have something you want to share.”

The woman’s free hand floated up, held, as though unsure of its purpose in rising. Dropped.

“Are you unwell?”

Again the shoulder.

“Mama?”

Deep gusty sigh.

They say a daughter becomes some variation of her mother. A different reading of an old script. A new interpretation of an existing character.

I studied the face so vigilantly preserved by creams and lifts and injections. By wide-brimmed hats in summer and long cashmere scarves in winter. The flesh was looser, the wrinkles deeper, the lids a bit droopy. Otherwise, it was the mirrored reflection I’d seen at the CMPD. The green eyes, the set jaw.