by Kathy Reichs
“Do you know where Asia lives?”
“I do.” Dragging sweat-soaked strands from her forehead. “I can’t tell you how.”
“Why Asia?” I asked, handing E. Desai my card.
“If anyone knows anything about your person, it would be Asia.”
11
Slidell dropped me at the annex, then blistered off to the Law Enforcement Center, on fire to review the Jahaan Cole file. Knowing he’d be at it for hours, maybe days, I went alone to see Asia Barrow. Skinny had argued against it, of course. I’d promised to be careful and keep in touch.
The address E. Desai gave me was in Mooresville but not the pricey lakefront area favored by bankers and lawyers making the daily slog uptown for the privilege of owning Catalinas and riding mowers. The unfashionable rural part, too far east of I-77 to be of interest to anyone not conversant in John Deere.
From the interstate, the nice Waze lady speaking through my cell phone directed me onto a two-lane winding through fields and scruffy woodland. A farmhouse here, a trailer there. A complicated transformer station. Thirteen miles, then she sent me onto a road with no markings at all. I drove through what must have appeared on a Google Maps satellite view as a knobby green finger of forest. Ten minutes, then I was informed that my destination was on the right.
A rusty mailbox leaned at an angle never intended by its installer. No number, no name. No red flag to be raised for outgoing correspondence.
I looked ahead and behind me. Saw only pavement shimmering like sand in a desert mirage. Not a vehicle in sight.
Bad idea? Probably.
I made the turn.
The driveway was dirt with sporadic patches of gravel. I passed below a mix of pine and hardwood for a long two minutes. Suddenly, the road dipped, changed its mind, and turned sharply uphill.
The few loner clouds were now buddying up into larger clusters. As I crept forward, wishing the intrepid Waze lady was riding shotgun, shadows mottled my windshield, staccato moments of darkness and light filtering through overhead needles and leaves.
Another eon, or thirty seconds, then I crested a hill.
And braked hard. Foot shaky on the pedal, I reached for my water. Drank. Rescrewed the cap.
A structure squatted at the back of an oblong clearing measuring about sixty yards by twenty. It was small, more shack than house. The green paint, faded and peeling, made me think of the anoles that molt and leave their skins stuck to the annex pillars. Blue-and-white curtains hung, limp and dejected, in windows to either side of a sagging front door. The windows were screened and open. The door was screened and closed.
A covered porch stretched the length of the building, adding a certain je ne sais quoi to the architectural style. Not so the junk piled along it. Newspapers. Scooters and bikes. A console TV designed to fit into a corner. An old window air conditioner. Stacked Tupperware tubs, their contents resembling shadowy creatures intent on escape.
A chrome-and-leather chair sat to the left of the door. Beside the chair, a floor-model ashtray, the kind once placed outside elevators and in hotel lobbies.
On the lawn, had there been grass, was a scattering of items that hadn’t made the cut for the porch. Tires. An ancient Frigidaire washer. A blue toilet with a Hoover upright rising from the bowl. A plastic playhouse molded into the shape of a castle, cracked and coated with mud.
To the right of the house, beside the driveway access point at which I’d stopped, stood a small shed. A muted droning suggested it housed a generator. A black Chevrolet Silverado was parked outside, rear bumper tight to the east-facing wall. The truck, old and dinged, fitted well with its shabby surroundings.
The plastic bottle popped loudly in my hand. Startled, I released the grip I wasn’t aware I’d tightened.
Why such apprehension? The place was depressing, sure, but menacing?
Feeling a bit foolish, I turned off the engine.
But was it foolish? What did I know about Asia Barrow? I’d been directed to her by a stranger who didn’t seem overly bright.
According to E. Desai, Barrow had been the life coach assigned to the faceless man, Felix Vodyanov. His treatment by Yuriev, combined with the thumb-drive list of meds, suggested Vodyanov had a condition requiring mood regulators, antidepressants, and antipsychotics. Barrow had left Sparkling Waters for reasons E. Desai chose not to disclose.
Not exactly a road map to the Zodiac killer.
After texting Slidell, I got out and quietly closed the car door. My footsteps chafed across dusty soil that, following a rain, would surely be a sea of mud. Above the whir of the generator, I heard a wind chime, not the usual melodic tinkle, more a metallic clanking, like engine parts begging for oil.
As I approached the house, a red-tailed hawk swooped up and looped low in the sky, framed by a cloud whose belly was the color of a bruise. The avian air show did nothing to calm my nerves.
At the base of the stairs, I called out.
No voice. No movement. No barking dog.
Five treads up to the porch. Seeing no doorbell, I opened the screen and knocked.
Nothing.
I knocked again.
Still no response.
The air was so hot I felt I was standing in a kiln. Wiping sweat from my face, I stepped to the right, around the air conditioner and the TV. Eyes shaded with both hands, I leaned close and peered through the screen.
In a sliver of space between the curtain and the window frame, I could see a multicolor flicker reflected in a wall mirror. The mirror was centered in a pig’s belly. The pig was laughing and dancing.
A television was on. Someone was in there with Porky.
Crossing back to the door, I knocked again, harder.
“Who the hell are you?”
I whipped around.
A woman stood halfway between the shed and the house, arms cocked at her sides. Her hair was short and, given the deep brown shade of her skin, bleached several shades lighter than desirable. Her shorts were baggy, her Judas Priest tee several sizes smaller than desirable. A cigarette pack bulged in one rolled sleeve. White cotton socks hung loosely around the tops of her boots.
“I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for Asia Barrow.”
The woman eyed me suspiciously. “What do you want with her?”
“I’d like to ask her a few questions.”
“About what?” I put the woman’s age at mid-forties, her muscle tone somewhere in the Rambo range.
“A visitor to Sparkling Waters.”
“Well, that takes major-league balls.” Glaring hard.
“Are you Asia Barrow?”
“Who gave you this address?” Slight accent but with a Southern overlay. Georgia?
“Ms. Desai.”
“That moron.” Exasperated head shake.
“She claimed to know you.”
“She’s my goddamn cousin.” Beat. “This about that lying wankass says I broke his arm?”
“No. I—”
“I ain’t saying nothing to no one. Now, I think you’d best get back in your car and drive on off my property.”
“I’d like to talk to you about—”
“You representing Sparkling Waters?”
“I’m not an attorney.”
“You don’t look like a cop.”
No way I’d explain my actual profession or tell her I worked with the ME. Word could get back to Heavner.
“You were employed at the ashram?” I asked.
“Until the cocksuckers fired me.”
“May I ask why?”
“You may ask, but that don’t mean I’ll tell you.” Barrow hooked her thumbs in her belt loops. Which dragged her waistband low enough to show serious abs.
“Do you know a man named Felix Vodyanov?”
No response.
I pulled the composite from my shoulder bag and held it up. “Is this Mr. Vodyanov?”
Nothing.
“I believe he was under Dr. Yuriev’s care?”
“Do I need to haul
out my shotgun?”
“Your cousin said Mr. Vodyanov was someone you counseled.”
“That the term she used?” Scornful headshake.
“Close enough.”
“My cousin has goat shit for brains.” Cocking her chin at the sketch. “He in some kind of trouble?”
“A body was found last week in Cleveland County. ID hasn’t been confirmed, but we believe the deceased is this man.”
A moment of silence, followed by a long exhalation. “How’d he die?”
“Cause of death remains uncertain.” Hoping she wouldn’t follow up on the who the hell are you? line of inquiry.
“I figured the dude would end badly.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The crap he was into.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“You really think he’s dead?”
“Is this Felix Vodyanov?” Raising the sketch.
“My guy registered under the name F. Vance. But yeah, that’s him.”
“I do,” I said.
Barrow’s shoulders slumped slightly. Then she straightened and began striding in my direction. “This sun’s frying my brain.”
I stepped sideways, allowing Barrow room to pass. She opened both doors and held the screen wide. I followed her into the house.
The interior was as hot and cramped as expected. But the air smelled clean and slightly exotic, like Pine-Sol and spices and sandalwood incense.
“Lemonade?”
“That would be nice,” I said.
Two doorways faced the front room. Through the right one, I could see a small galley kitchen. Through the left, a tall wooden dresser and part of a bed.
The flooring was linoleum throughout, gray and blue. Maybe chosen to match the curtains. More likely due to a Home Depot sale.
Barrow gestured toward an upholstered grouping far too large for the small space in which we stood. Then she crossed to the kitchen.
Avoiding a quilt featuring a rather angry-looking parrot, I sat on the sofa and scanned my surroundings. The curtains needed attention; otherwise, the place was spotless.
My knees were jammed tight to a steamer trunk serving as a coffee table. From the kitchen came the sound of a faucet squeaking on, then off, the whoosh of a refrigerator door, the clink of ice hitting glass.
Behind me were bookshelves holding everything but books. Statues of horses, dogs, elephants. Three or four manifestations of Ganesha. Magazines. Framed photos, most featuring the same two little girls at varying ages. A collection of what appeared to be journals or logbooks, dated by year.
Opposite the couch and the trunk between which I was wedged were a round metal table and two rattan chairs. On the table was a potted geranium whose DOD must have been years in the past. Its black, leafless stems reached out like spidery claws. Irrationally, I felt a new wave of foreboding.
Barrow reappeared, set two glasses on the trunk, then crossed to the shelving. Pulling one of the dated journals, she returned and dropped into the larger of the oversized chairs.
“Thank you,” I said. “Your home is very cozy.”
“It’s a rental, and it’s shit. I don’t like tethers.”
I had no response to that.
We both drank. Several moments passed. Barrow ran a thumb across the condensation on her glass. The nail was naked, the cuticle red and ragged. I waited, allowing her to set the pace.
“Felix Vodyanov, F. Vance, whatever. He was a repeat customer at the ashram.” Barrow’s eyes stayed on her lemonade. “Showed up more than once during the four years I worked there. VIP, so he got special treatment.”
“Special?”
“Separate quarters, room service. That sort of thing. Ask me, he came for more than just cleansing and yoga.”
“Meaning what?”
Shoulder hitch. “Dunno. He was a quiet guy. Stayed to himself. But then, Hitler liked dogs.”
“That’s an odd comment,” I said.
There was a wide patch of silence. Then, “I think your guy was into some seriously messed-up shit.”
“Go on.”
“He was Russian. Had an accent. Subtle, but if you listened, you could catch it.”
“How do you know it was Russian?”
“Dr. Yuriev’s half Indian, half Russian. I made the mistake of showing interest in the Russian bit once, you know, to schmooze him up. He yammered on and on about the glories of Rimsky-Korsakov, Dostoyevsky, the motherland. I never did it again. Anyway, he and your guy sounded alike. And I think Yuriev was the reason he chose the ashram.”
“Can you explain the Hitler reference?”
Barrow gulped lemonade. Backhanded her mouth and set down the glass. “When he was at Sparkling Waters, Vodyanov was my main responsibility. I spent a lot of time with him, one-on-one. He knew things.”
“Things.”
“I keep a sort of diary. Been doing it since high school. Nothing fancy, just random ideas strike my fancy. Or happenings I might want to recall later on.”
Silence as Barrow thumbed through the journal, found the entry she sought.
“Ever hear of a ship named the Estonia?”
“A passenger ferry that sank in the Baltic in ’94.” The disaster that had interested the owner of the Hyundai. The owner of the notebook.
“That’s the one. Real shame. Almost nine hundred people died.” Barrow ran a finger down the page. “Vodyanov—you say that’s his name, I’ll call him that—knew that this boat was carrying some serious juice.” The finger stopped. “Here it is. Advanced Soviet space and laser technology. Whatever the hell that is. Vodyanov claimed the boat was sunk to prevent the transfer of that cargo to the West.”
“Go on.” Voice calm, pulse not.
“I never got the whole story, but it was clear Vodyanov was privy to classified info.”
“Such as?”
Barrow’s eyes dropped back to the journal. The finger traveled, mining information. “He knew that the wreck wasn’t found for five days, even though it could be seen by helicopter.” More mining. “That some sort of multinational military exercise was going on in the Baltic during the entire episode.” More. “That two submarines, one Swedish and one Soviet, followed the Estonia when it left Tallinn for Stockholm. Don’t ask me where those places are.” The finger shifted to the next page. “That after the boat went down, the U.S. and Israel began developing this laser crap and something else.” Movement, then a finger jab to the paper. “Infrared-beam weaponry.”
“Vodyanov talked about this?”
“A couple, three times. Before Yuriev got his meds sorted.”
“What else?”
“I didn’t write everything down. But hold on.” Long pause. “He said that right after the sinking, divers hired by the Swedish government spent hours breaking into cabins searching for a black attaché case belonging to a Russian space-technology dealer. I didn’t record the guy’s name, but Vodyanov knew it. He said that the case was found in a cabin usually used by one of the ferry’s missing captains. And that this dealer’s name was on it.”
It was as if a barrier had lifted and Barrow was finally able to unburden herself. She talked in bursts as she pried Vodyanov’s comments from the words scrawled on the pages before her.
“Here’s a kicker. Did you know that most of the victims are still down there? Instead of trying to retrieve the bodies, the Swedish government hired a marine-salvage firm specializing in, get this, neutralizing underwater nuclear waste. Vodyanov knew the name of the outfit. I didn’t put it in here. He said they spent $350 million trying to bury the ship in concrete. To this day, no one’s allowed to dive anywhere near it.”
Barrow’s eyes rose, then drifted off over my shoulder. I wondered if she was visualizing her former charge, perhaps corpses rotting on a sea floor.
Assuming Barrow was finished, I said, “I’m curious. Why did you feel compelled to record Vodyanov’s statements?”
“I was convinced the dude was some sort of Russian operati
ve. I figured what the hell? The story might come in handy someday.”
“You thought he was a spy bec—”
“Are you not listening to me? He was talking about the transfer of secret Soviet space technology to the West.” Speaking slowly, emphasizing each word. “About an attack to prevent that from happening.” Voice rising. “About the murder of nine hundred people. About a cover-up to keep those people at the bottom of the ocean. The guy knew way too much about it. And that isn’t all.”
The pig clock chose that moment to grunt. Repeated the sound twice. Three o’clock.
I waited for Barrow to continue. Instead, she sat back and ran a hand through the ill-advised hair. “Hell, I don’t know.”
“What is it you’re not saying?” I urged gently.
“It’s not my business.” Visibly uneasy now.
“The more information I have, the better my chances of determining what happened to this man.” Indicating the composite.
Barrow’s gaze dropped to Vodyanov’s face. Lingered a moment, then, “I need a smoke.”
Before I could react, she pushed to her feet, shoved the diary back into its slot on the shelf, and clomped out the door. I collected the sketch and followed. Barrow had already lit up when I joined her on the porch.
“You’re troubled because you believed Vodyanov was a spy yet you didn’t report it?”
Barrow drew deeply. Snorted, shooting smoke from both nostrils. “Funny. I was about to say telling you all this could cost me my job. Guess not.”
Deep drag.
“Vodyanov wasn’t allowed a computer, tablet, cell phone, nothing like that. Ashram rule. Leave your technology at the door when checking in. One day, I was in his room. Sometimes I had to monitor his sleep. Never knew why. I was reading email on my laptop when the guy woke up and begged for a few minutes online. Shit, he was calm, lucid, his drugs or his cleanse or whatever was working.”
“What was he taking?”
“Above my pay grade. Dr. Yuriev dealt with that.”
“Was that standard?”
“Yeah, I guess. Anyway, this was before I learned, you know, the Estonia stuff. He seemed so sad and lonely, I figured what the hell.”
“I understand.”
“A couple days later, I went to clear my browser history.” Barrow drew smoke into her lungs, exhaled. “Ever hear of the deep net?”