And Slidell’s anger wasn’t all bad. An irate Skinny isn’t a man you want on your trail.
THE NEXT MORNING I slept later than on any day since my return. Nevertheless, I awoke anxious and restless.
I had coffee and Raisin Bran, then washed my bowl and mug, feeling as though my skin wasn’t properly sized. The failure of the Passion Fruit raid. Concern for other girls who might suffer Candy’s fate. Frustration at still not knowing Candy’s identity. Anticipation of Slidell’s ongoing wrath. Guilt over D’Ostillo.
Guilt over avoiding Larabee’s crapper skull.
Apprehension because some nutcase put a tongue on my stoop.
The ankle felt pretty good. I decided it was time to try it out.
I phoned the main switchboard at the MCME. Mrs. Flowers answered. I told her I was going for a run and that I’d be in shortly. She asked if I planned to do the Booty Loop. Surprised that she knew of it, I said yes, though I hadn’t really decided on routing.
I donned my Nikes and usual spicy jogging attire—bike shorts and an oversized tee. The morning was cool but sunny. In tribute to Mrs. Flowers, I set off for the Booty Loop, a five-mile stretch circling the Queens University campus. Named for, well, that needs no explanation.
I hadn’t run in weeks and the first mile was a slog. But the ankle felt strong.
By the second mile, lactic acid burned my leg muscles. I pumped on, determined to finish the circuit.
Sweating and panting, I finally reached the Clock Tower. I was doubled over, breathing hard, when someone called my name.
Straightening, I saw a man slide from a bench and walk toward me. He was tall and thin and wore a Tar Heels cap, jeans, and a black nylon jacket. A plastic bag dangled from one hand.
What the hell?
“I called your office. The woman who answered said I might find you here. She was very helpful with directions.” Scott Blanton smiled, revealing the errant incisors. “I hope this isn’t a bad time?”
A bad time? I was perspiring, drained, and puzzled. I’d last seen the NCIS agent at Bagram. Why was he lying in wait on my jogging route?
Blanton extended his free hand.
I raised mine high and offered an apologetic grin. “Sweaty.”
Blanton scanned me from head to toe. “But looking very fit.”
“Thanks.” Suddenly conscious of the butt-molding spandex.
“How’s the ankle sprain?”
“Completely healed.”
“After the exhumation, I got sick as a dog. Was quarantined for two days before they let me come home.”
I remembered a detail from one of our DFAC conversations. Blanton was from Gastonia.
“I’m sure your family is glad you’re back.” Lame. But I had no idea what the guy wanted.
“And I’ll bet your cat was glad to see you.”
The comment surprised me. Then I remembered that I’d also shared that in the DFAC.
“Yes.” I brushed damp hair from my forehead.
Blanton reached into the bag and withdrew a cardboard box. Flat and rectangular.
Like the one that had held D’Ostillo’s tongue.
Feeling slightly apprehensive, I checked my surroundings. Students crisscrossed the campus at our backs. Traffic passed on Rad-cliff, not a steady flow, but enough for comfort.
“For you, doctor.” Blanton held out the box. “For being such a trouper.”
“I was doing my job.”
“Then consider it thanks for putting up with my obnoxious behavior.”
I took the box and lifted the cover. Inside was a pashmina similar to those Katy and I had admired at the Bagram bazaar.
Blanton had come to Charlotte and tracked me down to present a two-dollar scarf?
“Your expression says stalker. Either that or you hate the color.”
“It’s beautiful. Just unexpected.”
“I was in the area, thought you might like a memento.”
Gastonia was a good forty minutes away. With light traffic.
“Look. I wasn’t at my best over there. I was tense. The bugs. Welsted drove me nuts.” Rascal smile. “Bygones?”
“Bygones.”
Now that I’d stopped running, the breeze felt cold on my damp skin and clothes. I started to shiver. Blanton seemed not to notice.
“What we did was important, whatever the outcome. Sheyn Bagh was a bad situation with no winners. We helped see justice done.”
“Have you spoken to Lieutenant Gross?”
“No. But I heard through the grapevine he’s itchy to go back downrange.” Blanton’s look suggested he was trying to bore into my brain. “So how’s business? As busy as over there?”
“Mm.”
“Bad people doing bad things to other people. Hopefully to other bad people. But that’s not always how it goes, is it?”
Blanton leaned close, conspiratorial. He smelled of stale coffee and Old Spice.
“We see it, don’t we? Evil. Day in, day out. After a while it screws with your head. How does shit happen to good people? People like John Gross.”
I thought it a poor example, but held my tongue.
“I don’t know about you, but I’ve come to believe evil exists in this world. Real, tangible evil. You never know when you’re going to wake up and find it sitting on our doorstep.”
Blanton gave a self-deprecating grin.
“Listen to me, philosophizing. And look at you. You’re freezing.”
Blanton lifted the scarf from the box in my hands, unfolded it, and draped it over my shoulders. As he leaned close I noticed a tattoo low on his neck, a Chinese symbol of some sort.
Was I the only person left on the planet without inked skin?
“You take care, Dr. Brennan.”
Before I could respond, Blanton turned and headed up the sidewalk. I watched until he vanished around the corner at Selwyn.
Feeling a sense of relief.
Jesus. Why did the guy creep me out so?
Suddenly my ankle didn’t feel so great.
I did a slow jog home, showered, ate lunch, then headed to the MCME.
By 4:30 I’d finished with the skull. The unpleasant part was scraping off the caca. The easy part was ruling out foul play. No pun intended.
The skull was that of a young adult male, very possibly of Indian origin. The sutures and dentition gave me age. The bulging brow ridges, prominent nuchal crest, and large mastoid processes gave me gender.
The little screws, intended to hold the mandible in place, told me the skull was a biological supply house specimen. The exportation of real human bone stopped decades ago, but during the period it was legal, most human skeletons came from India. That fact, along with facial architecture, suggested South Asian ancestry.
I wrote a report stating the above. It would be up to Larabee, and, if he pursued it, the CMPD to figure out how the skull ended up in the dumper.
Motivated by my exemplary performance unpacking, jogging, and analyzing the skull, I hit a Harris Teeter on the way home to stock up on provisions. Who says I’m a procrastinator?
It was almost dusk by the time I got to the annex. Birdie darted from the hall closet and twined around my legs.
I picked him up and scratched his chin. He showed keen interest as I stashed my newly acquired rations. I left him wrestling with one of the plastic grocery bags.
I was upstairs stacking toilet paper and soap in the bathroom closet when I thought of the alarm and hurried down to set it. I’d seen a CMPD cruiser circling the drive as I arrived. Slidell’s surveillance. Still.
Though I’d never admit it, I was glad the cops were out there. At least periodically. D’Ostillo’s murder had my nerves on edge. Not to mention the delivery of her tongue to my house.
And Blanton’s unannounced appearance bothered me. Why not mail the scarf? Why buy it in the first place? That was one weird dude.
What had he said? Wake up and find evil sitting on our doorstep. Was he conveying a veiled threat?
&nb
sp; The phone rang.
“Jeez, doc. I been calling for an hour.”
“What is it, detective?”
“I brought Tarzec in for questioning. Didn’t expect much, and that’s what I got. Squat. Had nothing, so I had to kick her.”
“What about tax returns, employee documentation, a lease or mortgage on the building?”
“I’m working on it. But I did touch base with the guy at ICE.”
“Luther Dew.”
“Yeah. What a donkey dick.”
“Maybe if you tell him what D’Ostillo said—”
“I’m way ahead of you. I dropped by to share a few pics.”
“The photo of D’Ostillo’s body?”
“Thought he’d toss his lunch. But he gets it now. This could be about more than dead dogs. He shared some intel he’d just scored.”
I waited.
“Rockett’s a frequent traveler to the Lone Star State.”
“How did Dew learn that?”
“ICE is digging hard. Cell phone records, credit card receipts, the usual.”
“Does Rockett drive?”
“Sometimes. But get this. Sometimes he flies there, but not back.”
“Where?”
“Houston. Or Phoenix, then on to El Paso.”
“Where does he stay?”
“That ain’t clear.”
“Does he ever cross into Mexico?”
“Border patrol has records of Rockett flying to Guatemala, Ecuador, and Peru. Dew is guessing those are legitimate buying trips. There’s no record of him driving from Texas into Mexico.”
I started to ask a question. Slidell beat me to it.
“Or from Arizona, New Mexico, or California.”
“Do his visits coincide with sales to accounts here?”
“That’s just it. They don’t. ICE cross-checked dates against invoices.”
“Maybe the round-trip drives are to pick up legal shipments. Maybe the one-way flights are for something else.”
I didn’t need to spell it out. Every American has read about the porosity of our southern border. Two thousand miles, much of it unpatrolled. Most know about undocumented workers trudging through the desert or trying to swim the Rio Grande. We’ve all heard of coyotes, entrepreneurs who take money to smuggle illegals overland into the country, sometimes abandoning them to die rather than face arrest.
“I doubt it’s that simple,” Slidell said. “Remember, Rockett got nailed at Charlotte-Douglas flying shit in.”
“Cargo’s simple. You pack it, you ship it. People present a much thornier problem. They have to eat, drink, breathe.”
For a few beats we both thought about that.
“How’s this play? Somehow, Rockett gets girls into Mexico. From South America, Eastern Europe, wherever. Either they got their own passports or he fixes them up with fakes. Maybe he don’t even bother. Papers, no papers, he either marches them or trucks them over the border, then drives them east.”
“That plays,” I said.
“One thing’s for sure. Rockett’s not traveling to Texas to catch Cowboy games.”
“No,” I agreed.
More dead air. In the background I could hear phones, figured Slidell was at his desk in the squad room.
“Any luck with Ray Majerick?” I asked.
“Still in the wind. But we’ll get him.”
“What about citizenjustice? Any leads on that?”
“Shot it to the cyber boys, but they’re swamped.”
The doorbell rang. My fingers tightened on the handset. I was expecting no one.
The bell rang again.
Again.
“What’s that?”
“Someone’s here,” I told Slidell. “You’ve a got cruiser outside, right?”
“Once every hour. Best I could do. The department’s hamstrung for manpower.”
“Stay on the line?”
“Yeah.”
The doorbell rang again.
Again, too quickly.
Still clutching the portable, I climbed the stairs and tried to peek through the window overlooking the front steps. The porch light was off. Below the eaves I could make out part of a man’s shoulder and leg, scuffed loafers.
“You want I should dispatch a car?” Slidell asked.
I put the phone to my ear.
“Wait.”
I ran downstairs, crept to the door, and pressed my eye to the peephole.
“Oh, my God …”
“Yo, doc? You okay?”
Shocked, I slid back the deadbolt and opened the door.
HIS FACE WAS a halloween mask, eyes shadowy recesses, cheeks hollow, jaws stubble-dark.
“Talk to me.” Slidell’s barked demand spit from the phone.
I raised the device to my ear, gaze locked with that of the man on my doorstep.
“I’m fine.”
“What the—”
“It’s a friend.” Level, camouflaging the emotion roiling inside me. “I’m good. Thank you.”
I disconnected. Stood frozen, unsure how to play it. Joyful? Angry? Indifferent?
I flipped on the porch light. In the soft yellow glow I could see red spiderwebbing the whites of his eyes.
“You look like hell.” Opting for humor.
“Thanks.” Ryan’s voice sounded gravelly and hoarse.
“Shall I to try to reboot you?”
“Doesn’t work.”
“Come in.”
He didn’t move.
“If I leave you out there, you’ll run down and terrify the villagers.”
Normally, Ryan would have hit me with a snappy retort.
“This a bad time?” No snap.
“I was about to clean lint from the dryer.” Keeping it light.
“Fire hazard if you let that go.”
I smiled.
Ryan smiled. Sort of.
I stood back.
Ryan reached down and grasped the handle of a draped cube at his feet. As he brushed past me I heard a bell jingle. Scratching. His clothes stank of sweat and cigarette smoke.
I closed the door and turned.
Ryan stood in the center of the room, unsure what to do. He’d lost weight and looked gaunt and haggard.
“He expressed a desire to go south.” Pulling the cover from the cage.
Charlie, our shared cockatiel, looked startled. But birds always look startled.
I gestured to the dining room. Ryan set the bird on the table, replaced the cover, then returned to the parlor. I dropped into an armchair and drew my feet up.
Ryan sat on the sofa but didn’t lean back. “Place looks good.”
“Been a while,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“I’m glad to see both of you.”
Gran’s clock ticked off a full thirty seconds. The silence felt strained and awkward.
“How’s the birdcat?” Ryan asked.
“Still king of the lab.”
Ryan nodded, but didn’t call out or search for Birdie as he normally would.
“Coffee?” I asked.
“Sure.”
I went to the kitchen. Ryan didn’t follow. Cranking up the Krups, I thought of the times we’d shared the task, grinding beans, measuring water, arguing the mix was too strong or too weak. What the hell had happened?
When I returned to the parlor, Ryan was sitting forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped and hanging between them.
He accepted the steaming mug, then turned his head to stare out the window. To stare away from me?
I resumed my place in the armchair, legs tucked beneath my bum. Steeled for the words I was about to hear. The final severance.
At length, Ryan’s eyes rolled my way. He set down his untouched coffee. Cleared his throat. Swallowed.
“She’s dead.”
“Who?” Totally thrown. “Who’s dead?”
“Lily.” A strangled whisper.
Saying his daughter’s name unleashed a torrent of emotions Ryan had been battling to h
ide. His nostrils blanched and his breathing turned ragged.
A bubble of heat formed in my chest. Tears threatened.
No!
I flew to the sofa, pulled Ryan to me, and held him close. Sobs racked his shoulders. I felt hot dampness on my shirt.
“I’m so sorry,” I murmured again and again, feeling helpless in the face of such devastating grief. “I’m so, so sorry.”
At length, Ryan tensed. He pushed from me, sat back, and ran his palms down his cheeks.
“Captain America, reporting for duty.” He smiled, clearly embarrassed.
“Crying is good, Ryan.” I took his hand.
“Man tears.”
“Yes.”
He drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. “I thought you should know.”
“Of course.”
Ryan yanked a hanky from a jeans pocket and blew his nose.
“When?” I asked softly.
“Ten days ago.”
No wonder he’d returned none of my calls. Remorse overwhelmed me. But with undertones of pain. Why hadn’t he reached out for my support?
“What happened?” I asked.
I was certain of the answer. Ryan had shared his daughter’s recent history. The drug escalation, culminating in heroin addiction. The dealer boyfriend. The arrest for shoplifting. I was one of the few in whom he’d confided.
The past year, Lily had appeared to be turning a corner. She’d seemed happy, was attending rehab.
What do we really know about others?
“Overdose.” Ryan patted a pocket. Remembered where he was. Dropped his hand to his lap.
“It’s okay to smoke.” It wasn’t. I hate the smell, hate what cigarettes do to the carpets and drapes. To people. But Ryan needed a crutch to steady his nerves.
I went to the kitchen for an ashtray, knowing I had none. Returned with a saucer.
Ryan shook a Camel from its pack. As he lit up, I noticed a tremor in his hand.
“Guess we each choose our own poison,” he said.
I watched Ryan inhale hard, hold the smoke deep in his lungs, let it out slowly through his nose.
“They found her in an abandoned duplex being used as a shooting gallery.”