A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(64)

“Dipshit name from a marketing perspective. But no.”

“Any chance a Realtor could have opened an office on Lone Eagle?”

“Anything’s possible since those neutron stars collided.”

“What?”

“The gravitational waves?”

“Enjoy the game.”

“We’re losing by four runs. But the peanuts rock. Why the interest in Lone Eagle Lane?”

“No reason.”

“Uh-huh. If the old coots have decided to sell, I want in.”

I returned to Google Earth and shifted to aerial view. My eyes confirmed what the map, and Anne, had said. Lots of shoreline. Lots of fuck-all.

Knowing the idea was pure insanity, I decided on a drive-by. What could it hurt?

Another courtesy call to Slidell, then, phone and flash at the ready, I set out.





22


Wylie, one of eleven man-made reservoirs strung like clots along the Catawba River, has 352 miles of shoreline meandering through both Carolinas. The Allen Steam Station is located at the lake’s northern end, near Charlotte. The Catawba Nuclear Generating Station dominates a peninsula in its southwestern part. I once read an NRC disaster emergency plan that defined plume exposure and ingestion pathway zones. Needless to say, fish from these waters don’t figure into my diet.

Despite the presence of gorilla reactors, the lake is a popular residential and recreational area, a schizoid mix of nouveau-riche McMansion and golf course communities, retirement condos, and Dukes of Hazzard–type trailers and shacks. Lots of barbecue and boat-supply stores.

Thirty minutes after we left the annex, Slidell turned right from Shopton Road. Yeah, I was shocked, too. He’d phoned back within minutes. Insisted on a tag-team approach. I had no choice. Though, truth be told, I was glad not to be tackling this one solo.

Dusk was yielding to night, and everything around us was monochrome gray. I’d never ventured into the area but knew that the McDowell Nature Preserve and Copperhead Island Park were somewhere to the south, the Daniel Stowe Botanical Garden off to the west, across the water.

A left, then another right. The streets were poorly lit, the homes modest ranches and bungalows. No gates, no guards demanding ID. Driveways ended under carports, or just ended. Bikes lay on lawns that were mowed, not professionally landscaped. Porch lights were coming on. Two boys kicked a soccer ball far down the block. A dog of indeterminate breed yapped and dashed from kid to kid.

A short distance, then my Google Maps app said to go right. Slidell did, at a nonthreatening green street sign: Lone Eagle Lane. Below that, a not-so-welcoming declaration: Dead End.

Lone Eagle was as empty and still as an abandoned movie set. Slidell eased to a stop. When we lowered our windows, hot air engulfed us like steam off soup. I smelled water, gasoline, algae, and mud. A hint of pine.

On my side loomed a wall of old-growth cypress interrupted here and there by a hut or shed. On Slidell’s side, across the narrow pavement, cottages crouched dark and sullen along the shore.

Quick glance over my shoulder. Twenty yards back, an empty lot separated two lakeside homes. Paralleling the lot’s right boundary, a concrete slab sloped gently into the water. Waves lapped sluggishly at the slab’s far end, audible but invisible in the thickening dark.

“Boat ramp,” I said.

Slidell said nothing.

We both logged its position, then the 4Runner crept forward.

I soon realized the street was far from deserted. Conservation, tradition, whatever the reason, lights were shunned on Lone Eagle on hot summer nights. Maybe always.

Despite the self-imposed gloom, perhaps because of it, people were out on their porches and stoops, rocking, talking, smoking cigarettes that sparked like tiny orange fireflies. Anne’s old coots. I sensed displeasure at our intrusion.

As we proceeded, the road rose in elevation. I felt hostile eyes tracking our uphill climb. Five houses, eight, twelve. Suddenly, loud as gunfire, my iPhone proclaimed our arrival.

“Jesus H. Christ. They probably heard that in the next county.”

I muted the sound and raised my window. Slidell slowed but didn’t stop. We both glanced left.

The cottage didn’t stand out structurally. One-story frame, window AC units, veranda in front, carport on the near side, chain-link fence enclosing the rear. The first difference involved cars. Unlike the others we’d passed, this driveway hosted a small fleet. The second involved illumination. Behind shuttered windows, every room appeared to be lit. The third involved neighbors. Being last before the promised dead end, there was nothing on the far side but a hill covered with holly and other inhospitable vegetation.

Slidell cruised past, looped around the cul-de-sac, and retraced our path. Pulling onto a narrow dirt strip fronting the cypresses, we observed. Saw no human form at a car, in the yard, or on the porch. But a prism of rainbow colors flickered around the edges and through the closed slats of shutters covering windows facing the dead end.

“Someone’s home,” I said.

Wordlessly, we got out, crossed the street and the lawn, and climbed the steps. A sign on the door said: No admittance after presentation begins.

Seeing no bell, I knocked. Zero response.

I tried the knob. The door was locked. I checked the fence. The sole gate was secured by a very large padlock.

“That’s it,” Slidell said. “We’re outta here.”