Текст книги "Bones Never Lie"
Автор книги: Kathy Reichs
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CHAPTER 4
I LOVE THE Carolina mountains. Love driving the narrow two lanes that worm like twisty black ribbons through the humpty-back giants.
That morning the beauty was wasted on me. I hadn’t the time. Or the mindset for a Blue Ridge outing.
The dashboard clock said 7:44 A.M. I’d been up two hours, on the road ninety minutes. Surprisingly, I felt good. Or at least better. God bless chemistry.
Just before Marion, I turned east off Highway 226. The sun floated above the horizon, a yellow-orange ball winking on and off as I rounded curve after curve. Long slanted rays sparked mist still lingering in low spots between the ridges.
I passed a field with a chocolate mare grazing side by side with her colt. Both raised their heads and ears, mildly curious, then resumed eating.
Within minutes a sign peeked from the foliage on my right. Wrought-iron script announced the entrance to Heatherhill Farm. Discreetly. If you don’t know we’re here, just keep on motoring.
I turned onto an unmarked strip of asphalt arrowing through enormous azaleas and rhododendron. When I cracked the window, a post-dawn mix scented the car’s interior. Pine, wet leaves, damp earth.
Soon I passed buildings, some small, some large, each looking like a set straight out of Christmas in Connecticut. Ivy-covered chimneys, long porches, white siding, black shutters.
I knew Heatherhill’s forty acres contained multiple structures. A chronic-pain center. A gym. A library. A computer lab. Amenities for the well heeled with issues.
Knew only too well.
Beyond the four-story main hospital, I split off onto a tributary road, passed a low-rise building housing business and admissions offices, and made another left. The tiny lane ended fifty yards later in a rectangle of gravel enclosed by a white picket fence.
I parked, grabbed my jacket and purse, and got out.
Through a gate in the fence, a flagstone path led to a small bungalow. Above its door, a sign said River House. One calming breath, then I started toward it.
On the inside, River House could have been anyone’s mountain cottage. Anyone with a predilection for antique reproductions and a whole lot of bucks.
The floors were wide plank and covered with Oushaks and Sarouks that cost more than my house. The upholstery involved shades a decorator probably called mushroom and moss. The wooden pieces were stained and distressed to look old.
I wound through the living room, past gas-fed flames dancing in a stacked stone fireplace, and exited double glass doors at the back of the house. The deck held a teak table and matching chairs, several tubs planted with pansies and marigolds, and four chaise lounges with bright melon cushions.
The farthest chaise had been displaced several feet and angled away from the others. On it was a woman with white hair cut pixie-short. Before her, on the porch rail, sat a thick ceramic mug. The woman wore khaki slacks and an Irish sweater that hung to the middle of her thighs. On her feet were ballet flats, two-tone, the leather on the toes a perfect match for the pants.
I watched a moment. The woman sat motionless, hands clasped, eyes fixed on a forest thick with morning shadows.
I approached, my bootfalls loud in the stillness.
The woman didn’t turn.
“Sorry I couldn’t make it last night.” Cheerful as Mickey’s Marching Band.
No response.
I dragged a chaise close and positioned it parallel. Sat sideways, oriented toward the woman. “I like your new haircut.”
Nothing.
“The drive was good. I made it in under two hours.”
Still no acknowledgment of my presence.
“You sounded upset last night. Are you feeling better?”
A bird landed on the rail. A nuthatch, maybe a waxwing.
“Are you angry with me?”
The bird cocked its head and regarded me with one shiny black eye. The woman crossed her ankles. The bird startled and took flight.
“I was planning to come for Thanksgiving.” Still speaking to her profile. “That’s next Thursday.”
“I’m aware of the date. I’m not an idiot.”
“Of course you’re not.”
A fly dropped onto the rim of the mug. I watched it test its way around the perimeter, feelers and front legs working the substrate. Tentative. Unsure what to expect. I felt total empathy.
“Did you know that Carrauntoohil is Ireland’s highest mountain?” The woman unclasped her hands and laid them on the armrests. The skin was liver-spotted, the nails perfect ovals painted dusty rose.
“I didn’t.”
“It’s in County Kerry. Rises thirty-four hundred feet above sea level. Not much of a mountain, if you ask me.”
I reached out and placed my hand on hers. The bones felt fragile beneath my palm. “How are you?” I asked.
One cable-knit shoulder lifted ever so slightly.
“You said you have something you want to share.”
The woman’s free hand floated up, held, as though unsure of its purpose in rising. Dropped.
“Are you unwell?”
Again the shoulder.
“Mama?”
Deep gusty sigh.
They say a daughter becomes some variation of her mother. A different reading of an old script. A new interpretation of an existing character.
I studied the face so vigilantly preserved by creams and lifts and injections. By wide-brimmed hats in summer and long cashmere scarves in winter. The flesh was looser, the wrinkles deeper, the lids a bit droopy. Otherwise, it was the mirrored reflection I’d seen at the CMPD. The green eyes, the set jaw.
The air of tension. Of guardedness.
I knew I resembled my mother physically. But I’d always believed the similarity ended there. That I was an exception. A contradiction to the rule.
I was not my mother. I never would be.
Physicians, psychiatrists, psychologists. So many diagnoses. Bipolar. Schizoaffective. Schizobipolar. Disorder of the moment. Choose your favorite.
Lithium. Carbamazepine. Lamotrigine. Diazepam. Lorazepam.
No medication ever worked for long. No treatment ever stuck. For weeks my mother would be the warm, vibrant person I loved, a woman who brought sunshine into every room she entered. Happy, funny, clever. Then the demons would claim her again.
Bottom line: my mother is as loony as a bag of squirrels.
Throughout my childhood, each time the blackness descended, Mama would pack her Louis Vuittons; kiss my sister, Harry, and me; and disappear in the old Buick with Daddy at the wheel. Later Gran.
But there were no public hospitals for Daisy Brennan, née Katherine Daessee Lee. Over the years Mama visited dozens of private facilities, each with a name that promised healing in the bosom of nature. Silver Birch. Whispering Oaks. Sunny Valley.
Mama never made an encore appearance. Always something was lacking. The food. The room. The attentiveness of the staff.
Until Heatherhill. Here the menu suited, and she had her own room and bath. And after so many visits, she was now welcome to stay as long as she liked. As long as the Lee family trust ponied up.
Mama spoke without meeting my eyes, voice low and honeyed as Charleston in August. “ ‘In that other room I shall be able to see.’ ”
The quote sent cold rippling across my chest. “Helen Keller.” Mama loved Keller’s story, retold it often when Harry and I were kids.
Mama nodded.
“She was speaking of death.”
“I’m old, darlin’. It happens to all of us.”
Was this a ruse? A new ploy to gain my attention? A delusion?
“Look at me, Mama.” More stern than I’d intended.
For the first time she rotated to face me. Her expression was serene, her gaze clear and composed. The sunshine Mama.
When I was younger, I’d have tried to force an explanation. I knew better now. “I’ll speak to Dr. Finch.”
“That’s an excellent idea.” The manicured hand slipped free of mine and patted my knee. “No sense spoiling the little time we have together.”
Behind us, the glass door opened. Closed again.
“How about you, darlin’? What’s on your plate these days?”
“Nothing extraordinary.” Murdered children. A depraved killer I’d hoped to never encounter again.
“Are you still seeing your young man?”
That threw me. “What young man?”
“Your French-Canadian detective. Are you two still an item?”
The million-dollar question. But how did Mama know?
“Did Harry tell you I was dating?” Really? Dating? Did that term even apply to the complex rituals of those over forty?
“ ’Course she did. Your sister and I have no secrets.”
“Harry could use a bit of discretion.”
“Harry is fine.”
If four husbands, obsessive overindulgence, and an insatiable need for male attention classifies as fine.
Mama leaned close and did something with her eyebrows meant to encourage shared intimacy.
There was no point denying her. “I haven’t seen him recently.”
“Oh, dear. Did he dump you?”
“His daughter died. He needs to be alone for a while.”
“Died?” The perfectly plucked brows arched up.
“She was ill.” True enough.
“Oh, how very, very sad.”
“Yes.”
“Do you still hear from– What’s this gentleman’s name?”
“Andrew Ryan.”
“That’s a lovely name. Have you communicated with him since his child’s passing?”
“One visit and one email.”
“My, my. That’s hardly devotion.”
“Mmm.”
“Did he tell you where he was going?”
“He told no one.” Defensive.
“Others are looking for him?”
There’s no slipping anything past Mama. “Some detectives would like his help on a case.”
“Is it something just too wretched for words?”
Mama had always shown keen interest in my work. In my “poor lost souls,” as she called the unnamed dead.
Seeing no harm, I described the cold case investigations involving Vermont and Charlotte. Anique Pomerleau and Montreal. I said nothing about Shelly Leal.
Mama asked her usual questions: who, when, where. Then she settled back on the chaise and recrossed her ankles. I waited. After a full minute she said, “These other detectives think your Andrew Ryan can catch this dreadful woman?”
“Yes.”
“Do you?”
“Maybe.” If he hadn’t fried his brain with booze. Fried himself with grief and self-loathing.
“Then we shall find him.”
I snorted.
Mama’s jaw tightened.
“I’m sorry. I just know you have other things on your mind. You need to focus on recovery. I don’t doubt you can find him.”
I didn’t.
When she was fifty-eight and emerging from a particularly cavernous funk, I bought my mother her first computer, an iMac that cost much more than I could afford. I held little hope that she’d find the cyber world attractive, but I was desperate for something to occupy her attention. Something other than me.
I showed her how to use email, word processers, spreadsheets, the Internet. Explained about browsers and search engines. To my surprise, she was fascinated. Mama took class after class. Learned about iTunes, Myspace, Facebook, Twitter, Photoshop. Eventually, as was typical, her mastery of the new sport was way beyond mine.
I wouldn’t call my mother a hacker. She has no interest in the secrets of the DOD or NASA. Doesn’t collect credit card or ATM numbers. Nevertheless. When she’s on her game, there’s nothing she can’t tease from the World Wide Web.
“Do you still have his email?” Mama asked.
“I suppose I could find it. But all he said was—”
“I’ll be right back.”
Before I could object, she was up and into the house. Moments later, she returned with a Mac the size of a fashion magazine.
“You use Gmail, don’t you, darlin’?” Lifting the lid and tapping a sequence of keys.
I nodded.
She patted a spot to her right. When I shifted to her chaise, she placed the laptop on my knees. “Pull it up.”
I logged in to my service provider and entered an identifier I thought might work. Seconds later, Ryan’s email appeared on the screen. I opened it.
Doing well. Miss you. AR.
I passed the computer to Mama. She clicked on a tiny triangle to the right of the reply arrow. From a drop-down menu, she chose the command “Show Original.”
A block of data appeared. The font looked like something produced by the old mainframe I used as an undergrad.
Mama pointed to a line about halfway down. The header said “Received.” Embedded in the gibberish was a string of four numbers divided by periods. “Every email has an IP address. It does basically the same thing a street address does for snail mail. That’s our sweet baby there.”
She highlighted and copied the numbers to the clipboard. Then she logged out of Gmail and entered a site called ipTRACKERonline.com. “Now we do what’s called geolocation.”
After pasting the string of numbers into a box in the middle of the screen, she hit enter. In seconds, a Google Earth satellite image appeared. On it was a red circle with its root stuck into the ground.
Below the map was information organized into three categories: Provider info. Country info. Time info.
I skimmed the center column. Country. Region. City. Postal code. I looked at Mama. “It’s that easy?”
“It’s that easy.”
She closed the laptop, turned, and hugged me. Her arms felt frail inside their thick woolen sleeves. “Now, my sweet girl, you go find your Andrew Ryan.”
“If I do, I may not be able to visit on Thursday.”
“We can have turkey any ole time. You go.”
Before leaving River House, I detoured down a carpeted corridor accessed from one side of the dining room. Dr. Finch’s office door was cracked, allowing a partial view of her seated behind an ornately carved desk. A plaque shared the fact that her first name was Luna.
I knocked softly, then entered.
Dr. Finch looked up. A moment of surprise, then she gestured to one of two chairs opposite her.
As I sat, Dr. Finch leaned back and steepled her fingertips. She was short and round, but not too short and round. Her hair was curly, dyed brown, and blunt-cut just below her ears.
“Her spirits are up,” I said.
“Yes.”
I smiled, and Dr. Finch smiled back.
“She thinks she is dying.”
A pause, then, “Your mother has cancer.”
My heart froze in my chest. “She just learned this?”
“She’s been seeing an oncologist for several months.”
“And I wasn’t informed?”
“We are not your mother’s primary physicians. We attend to her mental well-being.”
“Can the two be separated?”
“Upon arrival, your mother informed us of her condition and requested confidentiality. She is an adult. We must respect her wishes. Now she feels it is time we talk to you.”
“Go on.”
“Go on?”
“Tell me the rest.”
“The cancer is spreading.”
“Of course it is. That’s what cancer does. How is it being treated?” Luna Finch regarded me with eyes that answered my question. Yes, I thought. No hair loss and wigs for Mama.
“Would chemo help?” I asked. “It might.”
I swallowed. “And if she continues to refuse?”
Again the eyes.
I looked down at my hands. My right thumb was red and swollen. Itchy. A mosquito, I diagnosed.
“What now?”
“Your mother has chosen to stay at Heatherhill Farm as long as she can.”
“And how long will that be?”
“Perhaps a good while.”
I nodded.
“Is the number we have on file for you still current? In case we need to reach you?”
“Yes.” I rose.
“I’m very sorry,” she said.
Outside, the mist had burned off. High above, a white vapor trail streaked a cloudless blue sky.
Mama couldn’t be dying.
Yet Luna Finch said it was so.
CHAPTER 5
I DON’T SLEEP well on planes. Believe me, I try.
It was midafternoon by the time I got back to Charlotte. Eight when I finished a prelim on Larabee’s car trunk case. Ten when I finally found and booked a flight and room.
After arranging for cat care with my neighbor, I packed a carry-on, took a shower, and fell into bed.
My mind kept churning, offering up outtakes, unedited, lacking chronology.
Childhood memories of my mother.
Happy times. Reading to Harry and me on the garden swing. Quoting Shakespeare, Milton, other long-dead strangers we didn’t understand. Driving the Buick on illicit après-bedtime ice cream sorties.
Sad times. Listening outside Mama’s bedroom door. Confused by the tears, the breaking glass. Terrified she’d come out. Terrified she wouldn’t.
Memories of Andrew Ryan. Happy times. Skiing at Mont Tremblant in the Laurentian Mountains. Celebrating successes at Hurley’s Irish pub. Laughing at our shared cockatiel Charlie’s bawdy quips.
Sad times. The day Ryan was shot. The plane crash that took the life of his partner. The night we ended our relationship.
Doubts about my upcoming excursion. Was it futile? Ryan’s email was almost a month old. Had he moved on?
No. Barrow had nailed it when he’d asked if I could think of a spot Ryan had mentioned. I remembered comments. Ryan loved the place. It was where he’d go to hide out. To drop out.
Doubts about my decision not to tell my daughter about Mama. No. That decision was sound. Katy was serving in Afghanistan. She had enough on her mind.
All night I tossed and turned, questions skittering up and down my neural pathways. Doubts. Uncertainties.
Certainties. Luna Finch. Rogue cells multiplying out of control.
The last time check occurred at 2:54. The alarm screamed at five.
The flight to Atlanta was short, the layover just a little over an hour. Not bad. But this leg was torture.
I tried reading. Life. Maybe Keith Richards’s problems could make mine seem small. No go.
I closed the book and my eyes.
Something brushed my arm. I raised my lids. My chin from my shoulder.
The passenger beside me was steadying the plastic cup holding the remains of my cranberry juice. He was tall, with faded red hair and eyes the color of smoked glass.
“We are about to land.” They were the first words he’d spoken since takeoff, four hours earlier.
“Sorry.” I took the cup and returned my tray to its upright position. My seat.
“You are on vacation?” the man asked in softly accented English.
What the hell. The guy had prevented a spill. “I’m trying to find someone.”
“In Liberia?”
“Playa Samara.”
“Ah. My destination also.”
“Mmm.”
“I own property there.”
The man withdrew a card from his wallet and handed it to me. His name was Nils Vanderleer. He sold irrigation systems for a company headquartered in Atlanta. Or so his card claimed.
I managed a smile. I thought.
“Perhaps I could be of assistance?” Vanderleer asked.
“I’m good. Thanks.”
“Yes, you are.”
The plane banked and we both glanced toward the window. Vanderleer could see out. I could not.
Moments later, the wheels engaged. Vanderleer turned back to me. “Might I buy you dinner one evening?”
“I’m hoping to be in Samara only one night.”
“That’s a shame. Costa Rica is a magical place.”
The line at passport control took thirty minutes. I exited the terminal perspiring, headachey, and cranky as hell.
Vanderleer was on the sidewalk, frowning and pacing. I had no choice but to pass him. When he saw me, he put up his hands in a “What can you do?” gesture.
“I booked a car, but of course it has not arrived on time. The driver is now ten minutes out. If you don’t mind a short wait, I am happy to take you to Samara.”
“Thanks for the offer. My hotel has ordered a taxi.”
Three hours after wheels down, I finally passed under a white stone arch rising from a wall thick with some sort of flowering vine. A wooden sign announced my arrival at Villas Katerina.
The place looked as advertised online. Palm trees. Woven hammocks. Villas with yellow stucco walls, white trim, and red tile roofs circling an amoeba-shaped pool.
The woman at reception was small and bubbly and had a bad case of acne. She took my credit card, all smiles, then led me to a villa set apart from the others. Smaller. Overlooking a garden lush with tropical vegetation.
I entered, wheeled my bag to a carved wooden chair beside one window, opened the drapes, and looked out. Nothing but foliage.
I turned and surveyed my surroundings—buttery walls, orange trim, orange bedspread and drapes. Native art, crude, probably local. Tiny kitchenette. Tiled bath, jarringly blue coming off the carroty bedroom.
Suddenly, I felt exhausted. Kicking off my shoes, I stretched out on the bed to consider options. Nap? No way. The sooner I found Ryan, the sooner I could leave.
Where was I, exactly? Samara Beach. Playa Samara. On the Pacific coast of a peninsula curling down from the northwest corner of Costa Rica, not far from its border with Nicaragua.
The night before, I’d done some research. Costa Rica is a small country, just a hair over fifty thousand square kilometers. A country known for its biodiversity. For its rain forests, cloud forests, woodlands, and wetlands. A country with a quarter of its territory protected as national parks and refuges.
Somewhere in it was Andrew Ryan. I hoped.
The IP address had placed Ryan in Samara four weeks earlier. The town was small, less popular with tourists than the upmarket sands of Tamarindo and Flamingo. That would work in my favor.
I pulled out the map I’d downloaded and studied the small tangle of streets. Noted a church, a laundromat, a number of shops, hotels, bars, and restaurants. A couple of Internet cafés.
Ryan is many things. Witty, generous, a crack detective. When it comes to communication, he is a Luddite. Sure, he has a smartphone. And he knows how to use the tools available to cops. CODIS, AFIS, CPIC, the lot. But that’s it. When off duty, Ryan prefers to call. He never texts, rarely emails.
And he doesn’t own a laptop. Says he wants to keep his personal life personal.
I got to my feet, undressed, and went into the shower. After toweling off, I put on sandals, jeans, and a T-shirt. Then I popped two Sudafed, shouldered my purse, and headed out.
The acne-faced woman was sweeping dead blossoms from the stone decking surrounding the pool. On a whim, I crossed to her and spoke in Spanish. Flashed a picture of Ryan.
The woman’s name was Estella. She knew of no Canadian living in Samara. She remembered a foursome who visited briefly from Edmonton. Both men were short and bald. When I asked, she cheerfully provided directions.
The walk along the beach took only minutes. I passed a restaurant, a surf school, a police station the size of a soap dish.
Samara’s main drag was a jog in the highway cutting through town. I reached it by heading straight up from the water.
Two horses grazed a patch of grass at the first corner I reached. A few cars and motorcycles were parked on either side. Power lines crisscrossed the air above.
The nearest Internet café was jammed between a souvenir shop and a small grocery. Its front was stucco, done in the same lemon and tangerine theme as my room. Lettering on the window offered international calls, Internet service, computer and iPhone repair.
The interior, considerably more drab than the exterior, held a counter, a soda vending machine, and six computer stations. At one station a confused-looking young woman studied a Lonely Planet guidebook, backpack at her feet. I assumed the other services were offered through the door at the far end of the shop.
A kid manned the register, back against the wall, front legs of his stool raised off the floor. He was maybe sixteen, with pasty skin and ratty blond dreads gathered high on his head. The dreads bobbed as he talked into a cellphone.
I approached.
The kid continued his conversation.
I cleared my throat.
The kid pointed to the computers but didn’t disconnect.
I placed a photo on the counter and slid it toward him.
The kid righted the stool and glanced at the image. Up at me. Something flickered in his eyes, was gone. “I’ll call you back.” East Coast accent, maybe New York. To me, “So?”
“Have you seen him?”
“What makes you think that?”
“He may have come here to use the Internet.”
“Yeah, lady. That’s what people do.”
“You’d notice him. He has sandy hair and stands over six feet tall.”
“In his moccasins?”
I hadn’t a clue what he meant by that.
“I’ll be damned, Natty Bumppo right here in Samara.”
Okay. The kid read James Fenimore Cooper. Maybe he wasn’t a total loss.
“It’s important that I find him.”
“What’s he done?”
“He’s a cop. His input is needed on an investigation.”
The kid glanced toward the door, the Lonely Planet girl. Then he leaned forward on his elbows and whispered, “Could be I’ve seen him.”
“Here?”
“I’m having a little trouble remembering.” His brows flicked up, dropped. “You catch my meaning?”
I did. I dug my wallet from my purse and teased free a twenty.
The kid’s hand shot forward. I held the bill out of his reach.
“Take the highway west from town. Beyond where the Arriba Pathway T’s in, past the Las Brisas del Pacifico, down on the beach. Got a blue awning. Watch for a road cuts inland on the left. There’s a guy named Blackbird rents out a couple of tree houses up there. Your guy’s in one of them.”
“He’s still here?”
“He’s still here.”
Our eyes locked for a moment, then I let him snatch the money.
As I hurried back down toward the water, my pulse was racing. Could it be this simple? Walk into one café and score?
Or had I been played? Was the kid now laughing on his cellphone, describing the dumb gringo he’d just scammed?
But he knew I’d come back if I’d been conned. Right. Come back and do what?
Again I considered options. Which seemed few. Hurry there now? Wait until later, when Ryan might be in bed? How much later? Sleep, then strike at sunrise?
My stomach growled.
That decided it. Dinner first, then I’d set off.
I unfolded and checked my TripAdvisor printouts. El Lagarto was just up the beach. A lot of people liked it. What’s not to like about a joint with a slow-dancing gator couple as its logo?
I located the entrance and followed a lantern-lit walkway to a very long bar. Beyond the bar, a man tended steaks, fish, and plantains on a huge grill. The smell set my stomach whining again.
A woman wearing an embroidered cotton top seated me in an open area filled with tables and chairs that looked made of fossilized wood. Already half were occupied. Overhead, lanterns and colored lights twinkled softly. At ground level, candles flickered inside dozens of glass hurricane chimneys. In the gathering dusk, across the sand, the ocean boomed softly.
I ordered the seafood platter. Ate it. Felt sluggish as blood diverted to my gut.
I was on my second coffee, idly scanning my fellow diners, when my brain snapped back to attention.
Across the restaurant, a man stood talking to the bartender, his back to me. He wore a black T-shirt with a neon-green surf logo, faded denim shorts, and boat shoes. The hair was blonder and shaggier than the last time I’d seen it. But I knew the jawline, the shoulders, the long ropy limbs.
As I stared, heart pounding, the man flicked a quick one-finger wave at the bartender, turned, and walked out.
I dug money from my purse. Too much. I didn’t care.
Slapping colones on the table, I bolted for the door.
