A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(53)

World’s End House began life in 1954 as part of the Nike Ajax project, a surface-to-air defense system (SAM) developed by the Army Air Defense Command (ARADCOM). Eventually, the Ajax was replaced by the improved Hercules missile, and Nike Ajax bases became Hercules sites. A gradual decrease in Nike deployment began in 1967, and by 1975, with the SALT II Treaty, ARADCOM itself was deactivated.

World’s End House is now a twenty-seven-acre estate located forty miles south of Manhattan, Kansas. The missiles are long gone, and the structure has been converted into a home in which Yates Timmer has lived since 1998. Tours are available, and World’s End House can be rented for special events.

I took the video tour.

Timmer narrated as the camera moved up and down dizzyingly steep steel stairs, across massive open spaces, past rusty metal entities about whose function I hadn’t a clue, eventually into rooms with cheap paintings, factory-made Oriental carpets, and brightly colored Rooms To Go furnishings striving to be cheerful within miles of windowless concrete.

Living room, bedroom, institutional-sized kitchen. As he passed through, Timmer explained the original function of each. Missile magazine. Personnel safety room. Mechanical room. Storage area.

After twenty minutes, Timmer reentered the outside world, exiting through a one-foot-thick entry blast door. Behind him, the camera caught the small mountain of earth now concealing the Cold War relic that was his home. The lawns and walkways. The perimeter fence.

The video shifted to a montage of abandoned bases similar to World’s End House. Nike. Titan I and II. Atlas E and F. Communication bunkers. As the footage moved from one listing to the next, Timmer spooled through a sales pitch, touting the desirability of underground living, discreetly concealing prices and locations.

Some properties were wooded, some barren. Some had been landscaped; others remained as they’d been when mothballed by the DOD. But a configuration of common features linked them all.

A synapse fired red-hot in my brain.

Dots connected. A vision of real estate emerged.

Not waiting for Timmer’s closing remarks, I dialed the number on the screen.

A recorded voice confirmed that I’d reached Homes at the End of the World, apologized for being unavailable, and requested that I leave my name and number. I did.

Throwing on sneakers, jeans, and a tee, I grabbed a long-sleeved shirt and headed out.



* * *



Images kaleidoscoped as I made my way back to Cleveland County. The Google Earth bird’s-eye view of the acreage down the road from Duncan Keesing. The mound at its center. The security camera and keypad. The overkill fence.

Questions rode with the images. Some old, some new.

Was the site an abandoned military base? The apartment in Ramos’s building appeared to have been used solely for storage. Perhaps as a safehouse. Was a converted silo or bunker Vodyanov’s actual home? Why?

Keesing said he’d occupied his trailer for twelve years. Was he aware of the history of the neighboring land? If so, why didn’t he tell me?

Vodyanov knew Yates Timmer. Had Timmer arranged for him to use the property? Who was listed as the owner with the register of deeds?

Nick Body knew Yates Timmer. Where Body lived and worked were closely guarded secrets. Might the place be Body’s home? His studio? Might he record his outrageous podcasts there?

Vodyanov had known Body for at least eight years. The MKUltra conference had taken place in 2010. Both knew Timmer. All three were interested in conspiracy theories. Was that their connection? Or did the link go beyond that?

And. For the zillionth time. How had Felix Vodyanov ended up dead on Buffalo Creek?

And how the hell was I going to get through the gate?



* * *



Arriving at the fenced property, I backed into the drive and parked with the front bumper facing the road. Slipping the shirt on over my tee, I climbed out of the car.

Undeterred by Friday’s storm, the heat had rolled its sleeves up and committed to a personal best. A record-breaking 105°F was predicted for the afternoon high.

I stood with arms out, in full view of the camera, sweat glands already clocking in. As before, no one questioned my presence.

The gate proved easy. It wasn’t fully latched.

A little pressure with one hand, and it swung inward.

Careless? Overconfident? Either way, the behavior was consistent. Vodyanov had kept copious notes and carried them on his person and in his car. He’d left the keys to the Hyundai on the front tire. Acts that showed neither a concern with nor an aptitude for tight security or clever concealment.

Based on the Google Earth capture, I estimated the distance to the clearing at roughly fifty yards, the earthen mound another twenty beyond that.

Before proceeding, I paused to text Slidell. The message failed to send. Either lack of signal or juice in my phone.

Turn around?

Not a chance. My curiosity was like a force field driving me forward.

Keeping my mobile in hand, I started up the drive.

The thick mesh of leaves and branches blocked all sunlight, lowering the temperature and creating an atmosphere of perpetual dusk. Though far from cool, my skin prickled.

Again, the forest seemed ominously still. No locust whined in the foliage. No creature stirred in the underbrush. No bird took flight overhead.

I spotted no tread mark in the gravel, no rut in the narrow strip of dirt skimming each edge. Nothing to indicate the passage of a vehicle.