A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(34)

“Are you not listening to me? He was talking about the transfer of secret Soviet space technology to the West.” Speaking slowly, emphasizing each word. “About an attack to prevent that from happening.” Voice rising. “About the murder of nine hundred people. About a cover-up to keep those people at the bottom of the ocean. The guy knew way too much about it. And that isn’t all.”

The pig clock chose that moment to grunt. Repeated the sound twice. Three o’clock.

I waited for Barrow to continue. Instead, she sat back and ran a hand through the ill-advised hair. “Hell, I don’t know.”

“What is it you’re not saying?” I urged gently.

“It’s not my business.” Visibly uneasy now.

“The more information I have, the better my chances of determining what happened to this man.” Indicating the composite.

Barrow’s gaze dropped to Vodyanov’s face. Lingered a moment, then, “I need a smoke.”

Before I could react, she pushed to her feet, shoved the diary back into its slot on the shelf, and clomped out the door. I collected the sketch and followed. Barrow had already lit up when I joined her on the porch.

“You’re troubled because you believed Vodyanov was a spy yet you didn’t report it?”

Barrow drew deeply. Snorted, shooting smoke from both nostrils. “Funny. I was about to say telling you all this could cost me my job. Guess not.”

Deep drag.

“Vodyanov wasn’t allowed a computer, tablet, cell phone, nothing like that. Ashram rule. Leave your technology at the door when checking in. One day, I was in his room. Sometimes I had to monitor his sleep. Never knew why. I was reading email on my laptop when the guy woke up and begged for a few minutes online. Shit, he was calm, lucid, his drugs or his cleanse or whatever was working.”

“What was he taking?”

“Above my pay grade. Dr. Yuriev dealt with that.”

“Was that standard?”

“Yeah, I guess. Anyway, this was before I learned, you know, the Estonia stuff. He seemed so sad and lonely, I figured what the hell.”

“I understand.”

“A couple days later, I went to clear my browser history.” Barrow drew smoke into her lungs, exhaled. “Ever hear of the deep net?”

“Yes.”

“Vodyanov had gone to it. I admit, I got curious, cruised around. Stumbled onto some pretty grim sites.” Barrow sent her ash flying with the flick of a thumb. “Looked like the dude was into two things.”

I expected secret government facilities, maybe nuclear reactors. What she said shocked me.

“Missing kids. Child porn.”

“Do you recall specific websites?”

Barrow shook her head no. “Made me want to puke. I deleted every link. And the browser. Put nothing in my diary.”

“Did you confront him?”

“What for? He was supposed to be unplugged; I broke the rules and wired him in. I wiped the whole incident from my mind. Tried to, anyway. Vowed to never let the asshole con me again. Didn’t matter. Shortly after that, he was gone.”

“This occurred during his final stay?”

“Nah, an earlier one.”

“When was he last at Sparkling Waters?”

She considered. “I keep in touch some. I hear he was last there late May, early June.”

“Do you know where Vodyanov lived?”

Barrow mashed her cigarette against the heel of her boot. Held the stub in one palm, considering. Then, without a word, she yanked the screen open and disappeared into the house.

Time passed. I sweated. A lot. I was certain I’d been dismissed when Barrow reappeared, holding the door with one hand while thrusting a yellow Post-it at me with the other.

“You didn’t get this from me.”

“Thank you.” Quick glance, then I slipped her offering into my shoulder bag.

“Any way I spin it, spying, trafficking, child porn, comes down to the guy was bad news. My conscience is clear. Now I got work needs doing.”

“One last question.”

Barrow didn’t retreat.

“If they weren’t simply spiritual retreats, why do you think Mr. Vodyanov made visits to Sparkling Waters?”

“I never asked the reasons folks needed to get away from their lives. Still, some shared. Usually, it was alcohol, drugs, stress at work. Vodyanov told me he suffered from taphophobia.”

I raised questioning brows.

“The dude had spells when he was terrified of being buried alive.”





12


The drive back to the highway felt as dismal as the drive in from it. More so. The clouds, no longer satisfied with forming small alliances, were expanding and muscling out the sun. Rolling and bumping over the driveway and then the narrow road, I felt enveloped in gloom—gray forest, gray road, gray sky through gray vegetation. Monet might have titled the landscape Study in Depression.

Rush-hour traffic had the northbound lanes of I-77 congealed into one enormous clot. Fortunately, I was heading south, toward Charlotte. Still, it was five forty when I finally parked at the annex.

Walking from the car felt like passing through a steam bath. I estimated the barometric pressure at about a billion.

First off, I fished the yellow Post-it from my purse and, seated at the kitchen table, googled the address. Was a bit surprised.