A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(19)
“I ain’t brain-dead.”
Not totally, I thought.
I said, “I think the tent symbol is an upper-case A missing the crossbar. So AAG. There’s an auto-salvage yard about a half mile from where the body was found. Art’s Affordable Garage. I think the hangman symbol is a partial upper-case R. So HonRd. The garage is on Honeysuckle Road.”
Slidell started to speak, but I cut him off.
“The cars are parked in four clusters, with wider access lanes running between. I think the rest of the code refers to the northeast, NE, cluster, fourth row, eighth slot. And yes. There’s a vehicle parked there.” At least, there was when the Google image was captured.
We exited the expressway onto S-11-65, a state road squirming through the northern part of Cherokee County, South Carolina. I watched a fireworks factory, a towing service, a whole lot of soybeans and cows flash by my window.
Slidell was quiet. Contemplating the code. Or the faceless man. Or last night’s lamb chops. Yellow slashes clicked up his Ray-Bans, dark splotches as we passed underneath trees.
“So this mope hikes out to the woods to off himself but leaves directions how to find his ride?”
“We don’t know it was suicide,” I said. “That’s Hawkins’s opinion.”
“I dimed the place.” Slidell reached for his cup, and the slashes veered wildly. “Got a recording saying they’re closed for the Fourth. Apparently, Art’s a patriotic guy.”
“And affordable. Did you phone Cleveland County?”
“They told me to piss off.”
“They did not.”
“They said Art’s a moron, have at it. They’re waiting for word from Heavner.”
We rode in silence again, Skinny slurping, me wondering what his issue was with the Cleveland County sheriff. Or if he’d offended one of Poston’s deputies. Maybe all of his deputies.
Every now and then, my eyes flicked sideways, checking the validity of my first impression. Slidell wasn’t toned, far from it, but he’d definitely lost weight. And the bags under his eyes looked a little less packed. Credit to the lovely Verlene?
Slidell turned north onto NC-198. We’d just reentered the Tar Heel State when my cell chimed an incoming text. I raised my shades to my head to better see the screen.
The message contained a photo and three words: Back of scrap.
I tapped the image.
Printed text. Unlike the jotted code, remarkably sharp. I used two fingers to enlarge it.
“It’s from Hawkins.” Mumbled.
Slidell shoved the Ray-Bans higher onto his nose. Said nothing.
“Looks like I was right about it being torn from a book.” Mostly to myself.
“The scrap with the tips on how to find Art?”
“Mm.”
Though the letters were clear, the words made no sense. The alphabet was Roman, not Cyrillic, but the language wasn’t any I spoke. Not English, Spanish, or French.
I felt the 4Runner purring around me, knew we were rolling through the landscape I’d eyeballed via the Google Earth satellite view the night before. Paid no attention.
Foreign yet somehow familiar.
Suddenly, a synapse. Another. Then a blizzard.
Jesus. Could that be it?
Slidell must have sensed the change of tension in my spine.
“What?”
Words were careening at me. Symbols.
“Yo. Doc? You sick? No hurling on the new upholstery.”
“The book isn’t in English.”
“You saying your vic was Chinese after all?”
“It’s written in Latvian.”
“That like the place your ex is from? What’s his name?”
“Pete. And yes. Latvia is one of the Baltic republics. Until ’91, it was part of the Soviet Union.”
“Thanks for the geography lesson.” Tip of his head. “What’s it say?”
“I recognize the language, but I can’t give you a word-for-word. Except for a few English borrow phrases.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“There’s mention of NATO, of a Gulfstream-Privatjet, of an amerikā?u firma, of Estonia, and of 27–29 septembri. Those translations are obvious.”
No response.
I scrolled down. Teased out a word here and there.
My fingers halted as two recognizable bits hit hard. I swallowed.
“There’s reference to biologiske un ?īmsko iero?u and to dekontaminācijàs specialisti.”
“Right. I get it. You’re bilingual.”
“Biological and chemical weapons and decontamination specialists.”
The Ray-Bans slowly swung my way, Slidell’s brows floating well above the rims.
“What the hell’s that mean?”
“Biologic—”
“I heard what you said. What’s it mean?”
“I don’t know.”
Our gaze held for as long as Slidell felt comfortable with his eyes off the road. When he refocused, I went back to prying what I could from the text.
Nogrim?anas diena uz ku?a …
“There’s a phrase that translates something like ‘on the day of the sinking, aboard ship.’?”
“Aboard what ship?”
“Hold on.” Checking my memory by going online. “The passenger ferry Estonia sank while crossing the Baltic Sea to Stockholm on September 28, 1994.” I paraphrased. “Eight hundred and fifty-two people died.”