A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(18)

“Ryan admires your”—I sought the right word—“skills.”

“You asking to hire me?”

“Maybe.” I wasn’t.

I heard a refrigerator door open, close. The whoosh of a pop-top. Swallowing followed by an expressive belch.

“First thing I’d do is figure out how the vic got onto Poston’s patch.”

“He’s the Cleveland County sheriff?”

“Bill Poston. A real wankwad.”

I had no idea what that meant.

“Find out if Poston has people canvassing the hood, looking for wits, searching for a vehicle, whatever.”

“The incident report is pretty basic.”

“That’s ’cause it’s Old MacDonald and the E-I-O squad out there. But you take my meaning. See if Poston’s looking for a driver who picked up a hitchhiker, a snoopy neighbor who spied a stranger on foot, a mysterious car off-loading a rolled rug.”

“Apparently, Sheriff Poston wants no part of the case. Shortage of funds and personnel, blah, blah, blah.” Hawkins had shared that earlier.

“Your guy didn’t fly out to that creek.”

“If I start asking questions, word will get back to Heavner.”

Following another pause to refresh, “I guess I could make a few calls.”

“That would be helpful.”

“But my opinion? Right now, you got jackshit. If Poston’s not on it and Heavner’s playing games, you’re dead in the water.”

We both waited out a long, staticky intrusion.

“What the hell was that?”

“My phone has issues.”

“You ever think of maybe getting a new one?”

“All the time.”

When we’d disconnected, I went back to my pic of the scrap. Found no more inspiration than when I’d first pondered the Russian word and the almost illegible code.

Frustrated, I made myself a salad, picked out and ate the feta and turkey, threw the rest in the trash. Every few minutes, I glanced at the clock. Slidell didn’t call.

As the afternoon wore on, the wind diminished. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact time. It was the absence of noise that eventually caught my attention. The silence seemed more deafening than all the grating and creaking.

At six, antsy and having no better ideas, I pulled out the photocopy of the Cleveland County incident report. After rereading the description of the body location, I got online and opened Google Earth. Alternating between bird’s-eye and street view, I zoomed in and out, studying the locale.

The area was mostly woodland and fields. A railroad paralleled NC-198 just to the west. Another two-lane ran to the west of the tracks.

Could the faceless man have arrived by rail? Might he have been a modern-day hobo hopping free rides? Was his body tossed from a boxcar? Did trains still have boxcars, or had cargo containers replaced them entirely?

Smaller roads cut from the larger highways, most dead-ending amid farm buildings or looping into empty cul-de-sacs. Some were paved, others weren’t. Some had names, some didn’t. One track led to a fair chunk of acreage enclosed in chain linking. Just one small, ramshackle building. Didn’t seem much point to the fence.

My eyes followed the snaking brown line labeled Buffalo Creek. The smaller thread marked Lick Branch. The white dashes indicating the border between North and South Carolina.

A few businesses straggled along the sides of the blacktops. Some churches. A pest-control company. A farm-supply store. A garage and auto-salvage operation.

Directed by an impulse my conscious mind didn’t grasp, I zoomed in on the latter. Considered the name. Studied the layout.

My breath escaped in a little rush.

I grabbed my jotted notes.

My eyes ran laps between the screen and the page.

Check. Check. Check. Check.

Current spitting from nerve ending to nerve ending, I punched a key on my phone.





7


MONDAY, JULY 2

“You better not be wild-goosing my ass.”

“I can’t be certain, but everything fits.”

I’d called Slidell to share my idea. He’d responded like a yellow jacket smoked from its nest. Which I’d expected. But he’d listened, then agreed to go with me to Cleveland County. Which I hadn’t expected.

Predictably, Slidell insisted on driving. He’d pulled up in a spit-polished, fully tricked-out silver Toyota 4Runner. The interior was junk-free and crammed with cloying sweetness oozing from an air freshener clipped to an AC vent.

Buckling myself in, I’d complimented his new wheels, masking my shock with reasonable success. As long as I’d known him, Slidell had vehemently disparaged Japanese cars. His series of Fords and Chevys, both personal and official, had been rolling landfills, stacked with the unimaginable and smelling of forgotten fast food, sweaty gym gear, stale tobacco smoke, and Skinny himself.

It was now eight twenty on Monday morning. We were on I-85, barreling west from Charlotte. The temperature had already climbed into the eighties. We were drinking tepid coffee purchased by Slidell at a Greek diner that reliably earned C+s on its annual health inspections.

“You said it yourself,” I added. “The guy didn’t fly out to that creek.”

“Run me through this again.”

“OK. Picture it in your mind. A—tent symbol—G. Then H-O-N—hangman symbol—D. NE R48. Got it?”