A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(40)

“Spas are good,” I said, noncommittal.

After disconnecting, I trudged upstairs and dropped into bed.

The last sound to register was the mantel clock announcing midnight with twelve soft bongs.



* * *



I popped awake at five fifteen. The annex was dark and still. Birdie was gone.

I knew I’d been dreaming, but no memories lingered. Only the unsettling sense that somewhere out there, someone was watching me. A feeling so intense I got up and crossed to the window.

The grounds of Sharon Hall were silent and empty. No crouching silhouettes, no unfamiliar shapes. Just multilayered shadows, shifting now and then in a light breeze.

Paranoia again? A nightmare hangover?

I returned to bed and forced myself to relax, muscle group by muscle group. Did one of those counting mantras in my head. Punched the pillow, turned it to the smooth side, turned it back again. Kicked free the covers and sheets. Thought about dolphins. Sea turtles. Willed sleep to come.

Images of Vodyanov kept playing on the backs of my tightly closed lids. Faceless at Buffalo Creek. Cold and lifeless on a gurney in the morgue. Trench-coated at my home.

Vodyanov had been at Sharon Hall. I was convinced of it now. The prowler wasn’t a nocturnal illusion generated by my migraine-stressed neurons.

When the window started going translucent, I gave up. The clock said 6:10.

I shrugged into shorts and a tee, pulled my hair into a pony, and laced on my Nikes. Right out the door, I knew running was a bad idea.

Contrary to my expectations, the storm had been powerless in breaking the grip of the heat. Just past dawn, and the porch thermometer was already registering 84°F. Due to the rain, the air felt hothouse muggy.

Forty minutes of pushing, then I returned to the annex, exhausted, flushed, and sweaty. After a long shower, I made coffee and cinnamon toast and settled at the table. The exercise helped some, but I still felt restless and tense. I considered turning on CNN as a distraction. Decided talking heads debating the mess in Washington were the last thing I needed.

As I ate, my eyes landed on the clothing I’d dumped by the sink. On the cutting board on which I’d spread the scraps to dry.

Would squinting at paper qualify as rogue-ass cowboying? What the hell. I had nothing else to do.

I got up, washed buttery crumbs from my hands, and carried the board to the table. Then I retrieved a hand magnifier from the guest room/study, the penlight from my purse.

First, I checked both sides of the BRES/MKUltra note. Saw no other writing. No telltale hint suggesting the provenience of the scrap. Looked like part of a blank page torn from a notebook.

Next, I skimmed the codes. RABUK19-smear-3. DALIHP2580. UATNOM1793.

I wondered. Was that Vodyanov’s MO? Jot cryptic reminders, clear to himself but obscure to others? Code for the location of a vehicle? A missing child? A secret government operation?

Had Vodyanov shoved the reminders into the coat pocket, planning to discard them later? Had the scraps worked their way through the torn seam and become lost? Was he unaware of their fate? Had he simply forgotten them?

I snapped a few pics with my iPhone. The screen went black, seconds later came back on. I checked to see if the images had been properly saved. Found they hadn’t. Cursing, I repeated the exercise. This time, the shots were there. Definitely time for a visit to the Apple Store.

I was pouring more coffee, the last thing I needed, when Birdie strolled into the kitchen. An appraising glance, then he padded to me and began loop-rubbing my ankles. I filled his dish and returned to the table.

Though still creased and faded, and now stuck to the board, the third scrap had improved somewhat overnight. The paper was much thinner than the BRES or code scraps, almost translucent. But the black marks now looked ordered, the patterning intentional. Like printing.

I flicked the button on the penlight, picked up and maneuvered the magnifier. The black smudges and dots sharpened.

“Yes!” Shouted with such feeling that Birdie coiled for action.

The scrap appeared to be part of a delivery receipt. The smudges and dots were definitely ink, perhaps made by carbon paper. Under magnification, they organized into a blurry address and a partial name. The last letters of the name were ov.

Securing the light in position with a folded place mat, I grabbed a pen. Then I raised and lowered the lens, scribbling digits and letters as they came into focus.

In less than five minutes, I had a few versions, depending on my take on one letter and one digit. Obvious fact. The address was not that of the Charlotte building owned by Ms. Ramos.

But I was familiar with the zip code.

Excited fingers clumsy on the keyboard, I entered my first interpretation into Google Earth. Got an error message suggesting I try again.

I did. Twice.

On my third attempt, Mother Earth rotated, and the screen zoomed in. I switched to street view. Saw a rural two-lane. Woodland. A property enclosed by chain-link fencing.

Pay dirt.





14


I’m lousy with auditory cues—names, verbal instructions, lyrics. But give me a visual—a map, a crime scene, a face, a photo—and my mind logs data with uncanny precision.

I recognized the layout right away. The rural highways with spurs shooting into farms and cul-de-sacs. The shoulder-straggling homes and mom-and-pop businesses.

When given the correct address, Google Earth had swooped me to a view of heavily wooded acreage enclosed in chain-link fencing. By zooming in, I could see a driveway leading from the blacktop, via a gate, to a clearing surrounding a humpy rock formation. Not far from the hump, a small, ramshackle building. I remembered my reaction upon first stumbling across the property. Why bother with a fence?