A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(109)
Again, the screen morphed. A video began to play. No, not a video. A livestreamed image, broadcast in real time.
I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t blink.
Adrenaline surged through every vessel in my body.
38
WEDNESDAY, JULY 18–THURSDAY, JULY 19
I never took the stand. As I was climbing the steps of the Palais de Justice, Dorothée Pasquerault’s killer pleaded guilty to manslaughter, and the trial was adjourned. I would later learn that the scumbag got fifteen years. A shorter time than Dorothée was allowed to breathe air on the planet.
I was out of the courthouse by ten, rode the Métro to Papineau, then walked the remaining half mile to the édifice Wilfrid-Derome. The weather was cool and rainy. A pleasant change from the hothouse I’d left behind in Charlotte.
My intent was to erase the stress of the past two weeks by diving straight into my Quebec life. Into whatever awaited me at the Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires et de médecine légale. That didn’t go well.
My Quebec life was there and happy to welcome me back. My desk with its squeaky file drawer and gouged wood. My view of rue Parthenais and the Fleuve Saint-Laurent twelve stories below. Cases as familiar as the back of my hand. Weathered cemetery bones. A partial skeleton unearthed in an abandoned septic tank. I resolved to focus on the dead in need of my attention.
Try as I might, I couldn’t concentrate. Partly fatigue. My flight had landed late, of course. By the time I’d made it through customs and immigration, gotten an Uber, and ridden from Pierre Elliott Trudeau into Centreville, it was well past midnight.
At one thirty, I gave up and headed home. To my new Quebec digs.
Knowing the larder was bare, I made a quick stop at a noodle shop near the Peel Métro and was back at my condo building by two. Our condo building. Though Ryan wouldn’t be in it. He’d called late Tuesday to say that his return to Montreal would be on Friday. Neville had been reunited with his very grateful mistress, a vineyard worker was behind bars, and a guy in Marseille was stuck with a whole lot of oats.
After winging up in the unfamiliar elevator, I let myself in and dumped my briefcase on the unfamiliar counter in the shiny state-of-the-art kitchen. Lots of marble and stainless steel.
The place was blissfully quiet. Vowing to stay awake at least until sundown, I peeled off my go-to-court suit, pulled on sweats, then ate my pad thai while checking my iPad for news from Charlotte. Found the follow-up coverage I wanted.
April Siler was alive and well. I knew that. Slidell had gotten word just as Kimrey tripped the wire at the Pine Lily Court house. The father’s girlfriend had lured April into her van on a day when Daddy was in Denver, thus providing him with an alibi. They planned to transport the child by private jet to Costa Rica, where the girlfriend owned property.
I learned that Papa and his honey were now in custody, and April was home with her mother.
Hallelujah. One happy ending.
Two, actually.
On Monday and Tuesday, while Slidell was firing questions at his suspects, a CSU unit had been scouring Pine Lily Court, running cadaver dogs over the property and through the surrounding woods. Stoking expectations, a golden retriever named Hilda had grown agitated on approaching a suspicious depression. Unfortunately, excavation revealed that the depression was, in fact, a shallow grave holding only a recently deceased opossum.
Punchy with exhaustion, posttrial letdown, and the metabolic effort of digesting my body weight in carbs, I gave up on my vow to stay up until dusk. After trudging down the hall to the unfamiliar bedroom, I closed the unfamiliar curtains, then fell into the unfamiliar hundred-acre bed. And slept a sleep as secluded and still as the dead I’d left behind in my lab.
I awoke to the chimes of incoming texts. Groggy and confused, I picked up and tapped my phone. 5:52. I’d been asleep barely two hours.
Both messages were from Slidell. In the first, he reported that the search of the Cleveland County bunker was still under way. He included a few photos. The place looked like the before shots of Timmer’s World’s End House.
The second was composed of three words. Nailed Body Call.
I hit speed dial.
“Where’d you get him?” Jumping right in, Slidell style.
“The shit-for-brains was gophered into one of the back tunnels in his underground Shangri-la. Guess Atlas Acres wasn’t all that foolproof after all.”
“Timmer?”
“There’s nothing to tie him to what Peppers uncovered. Besides, I know where to find him. His lawyer’s assured me his client is going nowhere.”
“Unger?”
“Oh, yeah, given his history, I’ll bet my ass he’s dirty. I’m letting Body and Unger simmer a while. From what they’ve let drop so far, each is going to turn on the other like a bobcat on prey.”
“What more has Peppers learned?” Burning ice below my sternum at recollection of the abhorrent scene that had played on her screen.
“It worked pretty much as she said. They weren’t hiding steg images in the audio files. It was passwords and hookups to a site showing video in real time.” Slidell’s voice darkened with loathing. “You download the link, you buy the password, you get to watch footage of kids being abused live and in color. The buyers are thousands of miles away, so no skin off their noses. No guilt. Also, the sick twists can pursue their sport without actually storing files on their computers. Keep your browser history clean, you’re golden. Or so the morons thought.”