A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(51)
Nick Body was second on the alphabetized list. I clicked on his name. A box materialized, stating that the link had been deleted.
I thought about that. How had Body managed to block access to information about himself? No one knew where he lived or the location at which he recorded his podcasts. How did he so effectively remain deep background?
Why such secrecy? Was he manipulating his audience by creating an aura of mystery? Concerned for his personal safety?
The clock said 3:20. My tea was cold, and my neck was stiff.
I felt like I’d spent hours feeling my way through a pitch-black cave, stumbling down steep inclines, around blind corners, through twisting passages and narrow openings. Each time I was about to quit, the home page with its unexplored tabs drew me back.
Final one. Then off to bed.
I placed the cursor on “Photos and Archives” and encountered many unsurprising offerings. The motorcade, the grassy knoll, the book repository. Planes arrowing through a clear blue sky toward two tall buildings. Mummified remains of three-fingered aliens. Bigfoot. Atlantis. Ancient astronauts.
Others were grimmer. Leaked autopsy photos of Anna Nicole Smith, Marilyn Monroe, Tupac Shakur, Elvis Presley. Survivors of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings. Victims of Ebola, Mad Cow, SARS, AIDS.
There were diagrams of bomb shelters, flight plans, underground complexes, bullet-trajectory simulations. Maps showed the projected fallout of nuclear radiation, the spread of smallpox and plague, the dissemination rate of ricin in lakes and streams.
I viewed photo displays from conferences denying global warming, affirming extraterrestrial life and UFOs, promoting New Age philosophies, questioning various celebrity deaths. Other reasons to gather and exchange wisdom included government poisoning of baby products and the creation of the H1N1 flu, as well as the existence of slave camps on Mars.
The convention photos were interchangeable. Speakers at lecterns, diners at tables, people standing or seated, drinks in hand, smiling at the camera. Or not. The occasional subject was identified; most weren’t. Many seemed normal. Some looked totally bonkerballs. I recognized a few faces from my romp through “The Watchdogs.”
As I was about to log off, mind numb with fatigue, my eyes roved over three images filling the screen.
One picture showed a middle-aged man behind a podium, wispy white hair poorly concealing a shiny pink scalp, glasses the size of bagels. Above his left shoulder, a portion of a banner. —ference on MKUltra and Mind Control 2010.
The second was a group shot following what may have been a panel presentation. Three men, one woman, all with plastic-encased badges pinned to their chests. I recognized no one.
The third was a candid of maybe twenty people, closely packed and oblivious to the camera. The angle wasn’t great, catching mostly profiles and the backs of heads. It looked like an image captured by a mobile phone or camera held high with no attempt at framing.
The men were in off-the-rack suits, the lone woman in a Walmart Women’s Plus red dress and fake pearls. A party or reception of some sort.
Farthest from the lens, detached from the crowd, three men stood, visible from the shoulders up. They were deep in conversation, heads tilted, unaware of their part in an iPhone or Kodak moment. Two of the faces were caught full frontal, making me wonder if one of them had been the focus of the photographer’s interest. The third stood obliquely, features hidden.
The man on the left was the tallest of the three. Probably mid-forties, he wore military-style glasses and had wavy brown hair side-parted and combed back from his face. A text box had been inserted into the picture below his chin. It said Yates Timmer.
The man turned away was short and stocky, with thick black hair that spilled over his collar. A text box gave his name as Nick Body.
Holy shit. There he was, looking younger than in any of the more recent photos I’d seen.
I shifted to the third man in the trio. And lurched forward in my seat.
It was Felix Vodyanov.
* * *
A june bug beat against the screen. I pictured it, small and bronze in the moonlight. I’d listened to it for hours, crawling up, falling away, returning with a buzzing clunk. Trying over and over to do what? Weren’t june bugs supposed to be gone after sunset?
Had it been a single insect? Or had I heard a succession, struggling, failing, being replaced?
The digits on the clock said 8:05. The window showed a montage of greens below a hazy sky.
The beetle was gone.
Had it been real? Or had I dreamed it as a metaphor for my frustration?
It’s a sick feeling being an exile, unable to go home.
But at last, I had a lead. A maybe lead.
Totally pumped from what I’d seen online, I considered driving to Slidell’s home. It was Sunday morning again. I doubted he’d answer a call from me.
Instead, I snatched my mobile from the nightstand, went to the privacy settings, and switched off caller ID. Then I dialed Slidell. The ploy worked.
“I got this number on every Do Not Call list on the planet. You’re now blocked. I’m a cop. I hear from you again, you’re going to the can. Share my sentiments with the skeevy-ass outfit that’s paying you.”
“It’s me,” I said. “Do not hang up.”
Slidell sucked a quick breath. I shut him down.
“Felix Vodyanov knows Nick Body.”
“What in the name of sweet Christ are you talking about?”