by Kathy Reichs
We scampered upstairs.
* * *
Our little dance in the sheets forced the negativity to run for cover. Once again dressed and back at my laptop, I was able to think more logically.
In my heart, I knew everything came back to the fenced property. That it was critical to gain legal access.
Ryan stayed upstairs to pursue whatever lead he’d kicked loose regarding his purloined pony.
Unsure what tidbit would ring his or her honor’s bell, I opened a blank document and entered every detail I could recall from every interview I’d conducted or witnessed. Desai. Yuriev. Barrow. Ramos. Keesing. Bing. Aiello. Then I went back over my notes. Twice. The second time through, I paused on Duncan Keesing.
Keesing witnessed a frightened child being driven onto the fenced property. When was that? Did the date track with the disappearance of any child on my list? If I could show a correlation, might that be the judge’s smoking gun?
When questioned by Slidell, Keesing had denied further knowledge of Vodyanov. Drive back out to Cleveland County?
When Harry and I were kids, we spent hours alone together. Especially when Mama was having one of her “bad days.” Sequestered in the secret clubhouse cubby off our bedroom, we’d play mind games, taking turns creating long sequences of memory challenges—strings of words, numerals, names of states or vegetables—then presenting the list for the other to recite back blind. Points for accuracy. Points for speed.
I closed my eyes as I had long ago in that tiny closet. Visualized Keesing’s phone. The numbers jotted on the lid. Thanks to all those years of practice, the area code was easy. Ditto the exchange. The next three digits because they formed a pattern: 2-4-6. Try as I might, the last numeral eluded me.
I punched in a ten-digit combo. Got a woman named Tammy. I tried again. Got voice mail for Bill and Irene. On my fifth attempt, a man answered.
“Yeah.” Startled, maybe alarmed.
“Duncan Keesing?”
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Temperance Brennan. I stopped by to see you last Saturday?”
“How’d you get this number?”
“You showed it to me.” True, indirectly. “Remember? You said it was your SOS line?”
“Didn’t figure you’d be calling it.”
“I hope this isn’t a bad time.”
“Don’t know there’s ever a good time for bad news.”
“Oh, no, sir. This isn’t bad news. I just wondered if I could ask you a follow-up question.”
Fuzzy air. Then a cat meowed loudly.
“Mr. Keesing?”
“I’m here. Calculating if you’re my first time talking on this thing.”
“I’ve been wondering about the child you saw in the car entering your neighbor’s gate. Do you know what date that took place?”
“Damn, lady. I told you that?”
“You did, sir.”
Another pause, then, “You’re talking three, four years ago.”
“I know, sir. But it would be very helpful if you could be more precise.”
“Helpful with what?”
“An investigation.”
“That little one come to harm?” Voice rising.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss specifics.”
“That why that fat cop come by my trailer?”
“Mm.”
Objects clattered, then the cat let loose a piercing screech.
“Goddammit, Sarge. Git.” To me. “I gotta go. All this ringing’s got my cat’s balls in a twist.”
“If you think of anything, would you please contact me?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
I gave Keesing my number. He may or may not have written it down.
We disconnected.
I returned to the timeline. The interviews. As before, I kept checking the clock, impatient for a call from Slidell. Again.
I started by focusing on Felix Vodyanov. The victim. The faceless man.
I browsed the interviews, plucking out facts and observations.
Ryan came downstairs around one. Banged around in the refrigerator, then placed two sandwiches on the table. A diet Coke for me, a Grolsch beer for himself.
“Going well?”
“Eh.”
“Bounce it off me.”
I did. Between bites and swigs.
“Barrow thought Vodyanov was a spy. Ramos thought he was terrified of being killed. Keesing and Aiello thought he was nuts.”
“There are things known and things unknown and in between are the doors of perception.”
“Rod Serling?”
“Aldous Huxley. Or maybe it was Jim Morrison.”
“Right. So. Barrow said Vodyanov, aka Vance, had been at Sparkling Waters more than once. That his issue was taphophobia. That he stayed to himself. That Yuriev alone tended to his medical care and administered his meds.”
“Was that unusual?”
“No idea.” I rolled a questionable item around on my tongue. “Is this a beet?”
“Yes.”
“On ham and cheese?”
“Go on.”
“Vodyanov’s body was found close to the Cleveland County property. He may have stayed or worked in the bunker. Does taphophobia seem compatible with underground living?”
“Not really.”
I pictured my autopsy-room photos of MCME 304-18. The mangled face and belly. The missing hands. The bruising that Heavner had failed to note.
“Vodyanov’s body showed multiple hematomas in various stages of healing.”
“From falls? Blows?”
“Who knows?”
“How old was Vodyanov when he died?”
“I put him at mid-to-late forties or early fifties.”
A thought tapped softly deep down in my subconscious. I tried to haul it up but couldn’t.
“What else did others say about Vodyanov?”
“Keesing said sometimes he’d be all wound up and shaking. Speculated about a condition that made him unsteady. Bing called him Felix the fall guy. Klutzoid. Mocked him.”
Tap. Tap.
“In the weeks before his death, Vodyanov tried to contact several people. Vince Aiello. Me.”
“Maybe this Cootie Clanahan?”
“Maybe.”
Tap! Tap!
“Vodyanov’s thumb drive listed Depacon, Zoloft, and Seroquel.”
“Do those drugs make sense for the treatment of taphophobia?”
I hardly heard Ryan’s question. Data bytes were clicking together in my mind.
Bruising. Unsteady movement. Middle age. Mood stabilizers.
In a blinding moment of absolute clarity, the thought broke through.
Jesus on a tightrope!
“What?”
“Just give me a few minutes.”
Fingers flying over the keyboard, I got back online and linked from site to site. At one point, I heard Ryan request car keys, the door open and close.
Thirty minutes later, I was so jazzed I couldn’t sit still.
I knew the reason Vodyanov had been at Sparkling Waters.
I knew that he’d killed himself.
I knew why.
31
It was then that things kicked into warp speed. Had Ryan stayed, I might have acted with more caution. Perhaps avoided a spectacular mistake.
He didn’t. Though his offer was sincere, I assured him my cerebral vessels and all other systems were fully online and insisted he return to France, knowing he was anxious to get back on Neville’s trail. Lots of discussion, in English and French, and in the end I won. Ryan’s retirement was recent, his career as a PI in its infancy. He needed to establish his reputation. That’s the argument he bought.
I dropped Ryan at the airport, outlined my breakthrough on the way. He didn’t scoff, didn’t shout hallelujah. Just listened, squinting at me and nodding. I think his mind was on the damn horse.
Back home, I began punching Slidell’s number every thirty minutes. Was on my fourth volley wh
en the phone buzzed in my hand. I checked caller ID, clicked on, unsure what to expect.
“Mr. Keesing. That was quick.”
“Yes, ma’am. I got to pondering. You know, ’bout that young ’un. Your questions grabbed hold of my mind, so I been feeling outta sorts since you called.”
“I appreciate your concern.”
“I’m taking out the lunch trash, and suddenly it hits me. Duncan, you dimwit. You put that child on your barrel.”
“I’m sorry?”
“It ain’t worth crap, but I do some drawing and painting. You seen it.”
Flashbulb image. Not an aquarium crab, a rear window? Not claws, pigtails? Not shells, beads?
“You painted your memory of the child on your barrel?”
“Yes, ma’am, I sure did. The little face looking outta that car. I guess I just wanted to get something down, case anything come of it. And the barrel was new and needed some beautifying.”
Easy. Don’t spook him.
“Did you happen to recall the date?”
“Yes, ma’am, I put that right on there, real small, down by her chin. It happened further back than I thought.” I heard movement, as though the phone was being shifted from hand to hand. “The year was 2013. I’m guessing it was probably in the fall, ’cause the month starts with a one. And I recall the leaves was changing.”
“And the day?” Pulse quickstepping.
“The rest of the numbers is rusted away. Surprised any of it lasted. Tell the truth, I used some paint that weren’t in its prime. That help you any?”
“A great deal. Would it be all right if someone came to look at your barrel? To shoot a few pictures?”
“Warn ’em it smells like a shitpot and watch out for snakes.”
“I’ll do that.”
We disconnected. I didn’t have to check.
Jahaan Cole disappeared in October of 2013.
I spent a moment calming my nerves, then dialed Slidell again. This time, he answered.
“Christ Almighty. Can’t you get the hint I’m tied up?”
I relayed what I’d just learned from Keesing. “You should send someone out to photograph that barrel and take his statement.”
“As soon as I can.”
“He said the barrel was relatively new. Maybe you can pinpoint the exact date of purchase. Even if that’s impossible, what he witnessed might still be enough for a warrant.”
“You’re a lawyer now?”
I ignored that. “Are you getting anywhere with the list of missing kids?”
“Can’t talk now.” Lots of commotion in the background. Voices. Bleating phones. I figured Slidell was in the squad room and it was hopping. “Gimme Ryan.”
“Too late. He’s making his way back to France. We need to grill Yuriev.”
A weary sigh.
“Vodyanov didn’t go to the ashram to be treated for taphophobia,” I said. “That was a cover—”
“I gotta cut you loose for a while.”
“What?” I couldn’t believe I’d heard correctly.
No response at the other end of the line. I sensed Slidell weighing options. Finally, “There’s another one.”
“Another one what?” I snapped.
“Missing kid. An eight-year-old girl. It’s not my case. Obviously. But the lead asked me to pitch in.”
“My phone didn’t sound an Amber Alert.”
“Being issued as we speak.”
“What happened?” Skin feeling suddenly cold.
There was some shuffling as Slidell flipped pages. “April Siler, blond hair, green eyes, eighty-two pounds, fifty-six inches tall. Last seen wearing white shorts and a red-and-white-striped top. Disappeared from the athletic fields behind Carmel Middle School. The mother was watching the younger brother play baseball. The area was crawling with parents, siblings, lots of teams playing at the time, so the kid was allowed to roam unsupervised. When the game ended, she was nowhere to be found.”
“When was this?”
“Call came in at sixteen thirty yesterday afternoon.”
“Why the delayed alert?”
“Looked like a probable noncustodial parental abduction. Turns out that’s not the case. The father’s in Denver, been there since Wednesday.”
“A zillion people around, and someone snatches a kid in broad daylight?” Way too harsh. Slidell wasn’t to blame. As the bearer, he was taking the hit.
I listened to more silence. Longer this time. Much longer.
“Gotta go.” Gruff.
“Keep me updated,” I said, more controlled.
“Right.”
“You have to find this kid.”
“I know that.”
After disconnecting, I got a glass of iced tea. Store-bought, not steeped on the porch. Downed it. Breathed deeply several times to clear the old noggin. Slow the old ticker.
The noggin counseled restraint.
The ticker urged otherwise.
* * *
Sparkling Waters Ashram looked as summer-camp-monasterial as it had two weeks earlier. Same security fence. Same cameras. Same guardhouse. I skipped all that and went straight to the squat pink box housing administration.
E. Desai’s replacement looked up when I came through the door. Blond hair, not from a bottle, the real deal, aquamarine eyes, skin so pale it was almost translucent. The name bar on the desk now said Z. Kantzler.
“Welcome to Sparkling Waters.” Kantzler beamed a smile that would have made her predecessor proud. “May I assist you?”
“I’m here to see Dr. Yuriev.”
“I’m so sorry.” Looking impressively blue. “The director isn’t here at the moment. Is there something I can help you with?”
“When do you expect him?”
“Do you have an appointment?”
I turned. Yuriev’s door was closed. I crossed to it and tried the knob. The office was locked.
Kantzler pushed away from her desk, the wheels on her chair protesting the sudden backward thrust. It was a soft sound but hostile in its own way.
“You mustn’t go in there.”
I pivoted. Kantzler was on her feet and no longer smiling.
“Is he gone for the day?” I asked.
Her eyes cut to the front window. “His car is still here.”
“The white Mercedes?” Following her sightline.
The aquamarines snapped back, clouded by worry at leaking classified info. “Is Dr. Yuriev aware of your visit?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you’d like to schedule an appointment?”
“No.”
“May I give him your name?”
“No.”
My blasting out the door obliterated Kantzler’s next question.
It was maybe two degrees cooler than on my previous visit. Which put the mercury at a bump south of 98°F. Waiting al fresco wasn’t an option.
I got into my car and started the engine. The gas gauge indicated a half-full tank. Uncertain how long that much fuel would last, I turned the AC to low, rolled to a spot beside the Mercedes, and settled in to wait.
Twenty minutes later, Yuriev came striding up the path. He was carrying a briefcase and had a fawn linen jacket finger-hooked over one shoulder. His pants were tan, his shirt so white it threatened to trigger snow blindness. Scrunching low, I tracked his progress.
Instead of continuing toward the pink box, Yuriev veered from the path and angled toward the Mercedes. Five yards out, he wheep-wheeped the locks, then popped the trunk.
It was then I realized I had no plan. Confront him on the pavement? He might get into his car and drive away. Follow him? Then what?
Yuriev circled to the rear to deposit the briefcase and jacket. The raised trunk lid blocked his view of my car. Without further thought, I acted.
Moving with as much speed and stealth as possible, I eased open my door, crouch-walked the gap between vehicles, and slipped into the Mercedes’s passenger seat.
The good doctor entered butt-first and
sideways, then swiveled to position his feet by the pedals. Catching a glimpse of me in his peripheral vision, he gave a small squeak. His shoulders jumped, and both hands shot into the air. They were trembling.
“Take the car!” Never looking my way.
“I don’t want the car.” Not quite true. It beat the hell out of mine.
“Take my wallet. My watch.”
“It’s me,” I said.
Nothing but quick, hiccupy breathing.
“Look at me.”
“If I do, you’ll have to kill me.”
“If you don’t, I’ll shoot your ass.”
Yuriev’s head rotated so slowly I thought it might be stuck on his neck. His chin was canted and showed decidedly less attitude than on our first meeting.
I waggled my fingers, demonstrating I was unarmed.
Yuriev seemed unsure, just for a moment. Then his shoulders and hands dropped, and his eyes went stone-hard.
“You,” he said.
I smiled in confirmation.
“You were with that rude detective. The one asking about someone he claimed had been a guest at this facility.” Yuriev looked different somehow. Not just the chin. A trick of the lighting?
“Felix Vodyanov,” I said. “Aka F. Vance.”
“As I have explained, doctor-patient privilege prohibits discussion of any guest under my care. Had that ever been the case.” His face was more symmetrical than I recalled, the nose more centered over the upper lip.
“Vodyanov is dead,” I said.
“I do not know the man.” Enunciating every syllable by moving his mouth in exaggerated slo-mo. Exposing the very bad gums.
Snapshot memory.
Sudden insight. Like nuclear fusion—two separate atoms coming together to form something new.
“I think you do,” I said.
“I am going to ask you to—”
“I think the two of you shared a fondness for snus.”
Yuriev said nothing, but an overly forceful hiccup suggested surprise.
“Göteborgs Rapé? Is that your preferred brand?”
The stone eyes narrowed.
“Vodyanov died with a canister of Göteborgs Rapé in his pocket. Also a thumb drive recording your name.”
“What is it you want?”
“The truth.”
“That a man used snus?”
“Felix Vodyanov died from a fentanyl overdose.”