A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(77)

Slidell again jabbed the Cole photo, now back on the table.

Aiello nodded. “And others.”

“What others?”

“I don’t recall names.”

“Don’t jerk me around.”

“I’m not.” Aiello was sweating visibly now. His skin looked silky yellow through the filter of the mirror. “More than once, he accused me of kidnapping and molesting children. Of being behind these disappearances.”

“What made him think that?”

“The man was insane.”

“And there’s that pesky arrest record you got.”

“I was never convicted.” Churlish. “Everyone misunderstands. Viewing images does not equate to hurting children.”

“Go on.” I couldn’t see Slidell’s face but knew he was struggling to control his temper.

“For a while, he dropped the whole subject. Then, as I said, maybe six weeks ago, he started this stalking business. When I saw him outside my home, I confronted him. He said he’d come to force me to level with him. To tell him what had happened to these kids. I told him to go screw himself. He tried again at DeepHaven. That’s when I hit him.”

Slidell looked at Aiello a very long moment. Then, “Don’t move.”

“I really must—”

Slidell gathered his papers, got to his feet, and crossed to the door. I met him in the hall.

“What do you think?” Wiping his face with a grayed square of fabric yanked from a back pocket.

“He never asked how Vodyanov died.”

“You noticed that, too.”

“Still, my gut says he’s telling the truth.”

“But not all of it.”

“Exactly.” The hands on the wall clock were pointing to the twelve and the five. “Listen, I still have some cleaning up to do. And a file to collect and read before my testimony next week.”

“Go.” Pocket-jamming the hankie. “I’ll trot this wanker through his story a couple more times. See if it hangs together when he’s balls to the wall.”

A wave of hot, humid air engulfed me when I left the building. Slogged me across the lot to my car.

I was at the MCME in minutes. The lobby was almost empty, not unusual for a Wednesday afternoon in July. An elderly woman slouched in a chair, crying quietly into a lavender tissue. A death investigator stood flipping through papers on a clipboard.

I swiped my card, passed through the bio-vestibule to the secure side of the facility, and went straight to my office. No sign of Heavner. Mixed feelings about that. Part of me wanted to confront her. Another part wanted to avoid another skirmish with Dr. Death.

Once at my desk, I logged onto my computer and checked my email. Nothing from LaManche. I busied myself with other messages and requests, other tasks. The Pasquerault file finally arrived around four. After downloading and printing the relevant portions, I logged off and headed out.

I made a not-so-quick stop at the vet’s office to pick up a case of Birdie’s preferred food, apparently stored in a warehouse in suburban Dubrovnik. I was back at the annex by five.

After a glass of sun tea, which I’d brought in from outside and placed in the fridge, I opened the Pasquerault file and sorted the components into stacks at the kitchen table.

I was reviewing my skeletal autopsy report when Dorothée Pasquerault opened the back door.





26


THURSDAY, JULY 12

Sounds eddied around me, a cacophony of beeping and clanking and humming and ringing.

And voices, most hushed, one forceful, frenzied almost.

I smelled climatized air and disinfectant.

My head pounded. My chest burned. My forearm prickled.

I tried to sit up. Felt pressure on my shoulders, gentle but firm. I lay back.

“She’s awake.”

Footsteps clicked, hard and fast.

I opened my eyes.

Light scorched my optic nerves like a jolt from a Taser.

A face hovered above me, a landscape of foggy valleys and peaks. Slowly, the geography crystallized into a recognizable pattern.

“You’re going to be just dandy, doc.” Forced calm belying tension.

I could only stare at Slidell, unable to speak.

“I rang for the nurse.” Then, bellowed over one shoulder, “Where’s the goddamn nurse?”

“Drink?” My mouth was as dry as an unwatered lawn in August.

Slidell conferred with someone. Got clearance. A plastic tumbler was produced. I sucked on the straw like I’d never drunk liquid before.

Flash synapses. Dorothée Pasquerault backlit in my doorway. Standing at my car, flies buzzing and dive-bombing the fenders and hood.

“Wha … time?”

“Almost four.”

Jesus Christ. Could that be?

When I tried rewinding a mental tape of the afternoon, my brain unspooled a mash-up of visual, tactile, and olfactory impressions. Images of a jarringly blue path winding through psychedelically green vegetation toward an open blast door leading to a pitch-black void. A tiny green beacon beckoning me through an endless warren of ebony darkness. My fingers brailling over concrete furry with moss, convoluted piping, metal fittings vomiting rust. My nose sorting primordial smells—moldy earth, rotting fabric, and creatures long dead.