A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(62)
Disconnecting, I wondered. Was it my fault? Had I mentioned the ashram to her? Thought not, but couldn’t be sure.
I checked my email, hoping for a consult request, which would mean a bit of additional income. Found none. At one point, I considered a trip to the Apple Store but couldn’t muster the energy. Another truth about me. I hate malls. And waiting in lines. And there was the budgetary issue. After phoning the painter and the electrician again, I spent time catching up on neglected paperwork.
As the afternoon wore on, a troubling question percolated up through my agitation. Given Heavner’s obvious hostility, why had she shared any information at all? Was her uncharacteristic collegiality spurred by an ulterior motive? Dribble Brennan a few crumbs, let her crack the case, then Dr. Morgue can swoop in and grab credit for the solve?
Around five, after placing duct tape over my laptop’s camera lens, I logged onto WebMD and typed in the term taphophobia. Consistent with Asia Barrow’s characterization, the condition was defined as the irrational fear of being buried alive, sometimes the fear of interment resulting from a false pronouncement of death. The site also offered these tidbits.
Taphophobia can originate from childhood experiences involving actual entrapment or from viewing depictions of such situations. Sufferers may avoid enclosed buildings, fearing collapse. Some refuse anesthesia, fearing they’ll be wrongly declared dead and buried. Exacerbating factors include other mental disorders and substance abuse.
Felix Vodyanov was being treated for taphophobia? Then why live underground?
After a Foodie Call dinner of lamb korma, much appreciated by Birdie, I tried reading. My theory was solid: escape into a world I could leave whenever I chose. My carry-through was lacking. Anger and frustration had me jittery and unable to focus.
Just past six, Marley announced yet another caller. Blocked number. Thinking my anxiety couldn’t possibly increase, maybe hoping to unload on some unsuspecting telemarketer, I answered.
“I’m trying to reach Dr. Temperance Brennan.” Male. Unfamiliar.
“This is she.”
“I work for the Charlotte Observer.”
“I already have a subscription.”
“I’m sorry. I should have made myself clear. I’m a reporter.”
“What’s your name?” Wary. I knew most of those on the crime beat.
“Gerald Breugger.”
Gerry. The lizard asking questions at Heavner’s press conference.
“You’re a freelancer,” I said. “You’re not actually employed by the Observer.”
“Yes, but they often publish my pieces.”
“How did you get this number?”
“I have my ways.”
I said nothing.
“I’ve just had a long conversation with Dr. Margot Heavner.”
“Bully for you. Have a good life.”
“Please don’t hang up.”
For some reason, I didn’t. An instinct for self-preservation?
“I’m doing a story on the state of forensic science in North Carolina,” Breugger said. “My lead-in will be the case of the corpse eaten by hogs out in Cleveland County. I’m wondering if you’d like to make a statement.”
“Rethink your use of the term eaten.”
“Go on.”
“I’m done.”
“Is it true the body is still unidentified?”
“No comment.”
“That cause of death is unknown?”
“No comment.”
“That the ME refuses to bring you in on the case?”
“No comment.”
“Is it true that Dr. Heavner is filing complaints against you?”
“Who told you that?”
“You know I can’t reveal my sources.”
“You and your sources can take a flying fuck off my backyard fence.”
“I regularly do stories for the New York Times, the Washington Post, and the Daily Beast. I have those numbers right here in my contacts.”
The implied threat sent the three-ring emotional circus into hyperdrive. My thumb mashed so hard to disconnect I nearly dropped the phone.
Sitting there, coaxing my pulse back down into the normal range, I was hit by a sudden recollection from Heavner’s presser. She’d addressed only one journalist by name. Gerry Breugger.
I was considering the significance of that when Marley sang again. This time, I checked.
Area code 514. I pictured a different desk, a different office, Dr. Pierre LaManche, Directeur on a plaque by the door.
“Bonjour. Comment ?a va?” I answered.
“Très bien, merci.” LaManche switched to English as precise as his French. “I apologize for contacting you so late.”
“It’s good to hear your voice.”
“You are unwell?” My boss for decades at the Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires et de médecine légale, LaManche was uncanny at interpreting the subtlest of nuances in my mood.
“I’m fine.”
“Ah, Temperance. You sound peiné.” Pained? Distressed? Either way, he’d nailed it.
“I have a lot on my mind.”
“Such a vale of woes in which we ply our trade. But I am an old wagon, all rusty metal and squeaky wheels. You are young. You should be happy.”