A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(60)

The screen darkened, swirled like ink spinning down a drain, then filled with a long list of text. I scrolled through it. Found nothing but links to Body’s podcasts and blogs.

A low-level headache sent feelers up the back of my skull. A migraine? Nope. Wrong cranial zip code.

I tried the name Felix Vodyanov. The cursor blinked, puzzled or defiant.

Yates Timmer. More swirling. Slowly, the page loaded. Three URLs were listed. Homes at the End of the World, LLP and World’s End House. Familiar with those, I went for the third.

And found myself reading a full-screen infomercial, an ad touting the desirability of underground living and promising the investment opportunity of a lifetime. An Atlas F missile site in upstate New York backlit the bold black message in pastoral greens and blues.

Interested parties were encouraged to contact Yates Timmer by phone. The number was the one at which I’d left my voice mail.

At the bottom of the page, in extraordinarily wee font, was the surprising invitation: Qualified individuals are invited to DeepHaven. An address was provided in GPS coordinates: 35°20'00"N 80°59'58"W. Beside the address, blank rectangles requested a username and password.

Knowing it was the longest of long shots, I checked my images and began with the passcodes scribbled on the folded scrap. RABUK 1973. DALIHP2580. UATNOM1739. No winner there. Then, though hopeless, I began entering random combinations. Timmer, Body, Vodyanov, WorldsEnd MKUltra Body Language.

I’d been at it several minutes when the screen went black. A beat, then I was bounced to the TOR home page. I’d been ejected.

I returned to DeepUnder and entered the password I’d been using. No go.

I unplugged the modem to obtain a new IP address and adjusted settings. Repeated the process several times. With no success.

I’d been barred from the site. Busted? If so, what had they learned about me?

And how? Had my laptop been hijacked? Altered to permit a remote user to spy on me with my own camera? To secretly record me? I’d read about such hackers. And there was that FaceTime bug that allowed anyone to make a group call, add their own number, and gain access to audio and video of the recipient without the recipient’s knowledge. Had Apple fixed that? Had I downloaded the update?

I powered down, slammed the lid, and yanked the plug. Irrational, I know. But my frustration and anxiety were stratospheric. And the throbbing in my side and up my neck and occipital wasn’t helping.

To calm my frazzled nerves and battered ribs, I took a very long, very hot bath. Then, fingers pruny, body smelling of honey-apple-blossom lotion, I crawled into bed and dialed Ryan.

No answer.

I left a message.

It was too late to call anyone else.

On impulse, I downloaded a new ringtone.

Sleep eluded me for a very long time. Finally, spurred by some impulse I couldn’t explain, I got up, crossed to my dresser, and searched a drawer two-handed in the dark. Found the object I was seeking. Smooth and round with a plump belly, long trunk, and one broken tusk.

Returning to bed, I set the little elephant-headed figure on the bedside table and stared into his eyes. He stared back. Ganesha. The god of beginnings. The remover of obstacles.

Somehow, I felt lighter.

When Birdie curled at my knee, I stroked his back and explained why I’d been so tense of late. Tomorrow was Monday, I assured him. A new week. Things would improve. A breakthrough in the case was imminent.

A new beginning.

I was wrong.

Life was about to go from bad to pure hell.





21


MONDAY, JULY 9

I woke to Bob Marley urging me to chill. My eyes flew to the clock.

9:48. Impossible.

’Cause every little thing gonna be all right …

I grabbed my mobile. Slidell was already talking when it hit my ear.

“—bench slug says it ain’t enough, I should—”

“A judge refused to issue a warrant?” Overenunciating to sound fully awake.

“According to her thinking, which is on par with my cousin Blanton’s senile gerbil, undocumented photos, a bone of dubious origin, and a hearsay tale don’t constitute probable cause.”

“Damn.”

“She suggested, not so politely, I come back with more.”

“Then we’ll do that.”

“We? I don’t recall you standing there getting your head handed—”

I told him about the washcloth, DeepHaven, the GPS coordinates buried in Timmer’s ad.

“I’m sure you looked them up.”

“Not yet.” I didn’t mention my ouster from DeepUnder and the subsequent paranoia that my Mac was now spying on me. “But I’m conversant enough to know the location is just south of Charlotte.”

“You think it’s some kinda real estate office?”

“If so, Timmer’s not putting it out high-profile.”

“You say this yak’s hawking old missile sites. Maybe a buyer’s gotta be vetted to get the inside skinny.”

That made sense.

“What’s up with Kimrey?” I asked.

“In the wind. I’ll get him.”

“Find anything more on Vodyanov?”

“Nada. It’s like the skank never existed. I checked records for the unit in Ramos’s building. You’re right. The tenant in number six had no cable, no phone, no internet. Swung by for a chat with the landlady. There’s a piece of work. Ramos claims she hardly ever saw the guy. Got the same story from a neighbor.” Pages flipped. “Hugo Garcia. Looks like Vodyanov used the place as a drop, maybe a safe house.”