Flash and Bones

A couple of teens moved toward the booth beside ours. He wore a tank and basketball shorts that hung to his knees. She featured a floopy little skirt that struggled to cover her bum.

“The Gambles refused to accept that their daughter left on her own,” I said. “Are you saying they were right?”

“Maybe.”

“Did you share your doubts with them?”

“Wasn’t my place.”

“Why are you telling me?”

“In retrospect, I realize that the investigation left holes big enough for a Humvee.”

“Loose ends.”

Galimore nodded. “That summer, Cindi asked to have the locks changed at home. Her kid brother thought it was because she was afraid of Lovette.”

“What did you think?”

“I thought it was because she was afraid of something. When I shared this information with the FBI, they blew me off. For me, that doesn’t skew right. When you learn a missing kid was scared, you find out why.”

Ellen arrived with our food. For a moment we focused on dressing and condiments.

“Something else bugged me. In my initial canvas, I turned up a guy who claimed he saw Gamble and Lovette at the Speedway the night they disappeared.”

“Grady Winge.”

Galimore shook his head. “Eugene Fries. Fries swore he sold Gamble and Lovette corn dogs at a concession stand around eight p.m.”

“Winge said they left the Speedway at six.”

“Yeah.”

“Did anyone interview Fries?”

“Our FBI brethren said the guy was a crackhead and unreliable.”

“Did you share this with Rinaldi?”

Galimore nodded. “He agreed the contradiction was troublesome.”

“Did either of you follow up?”

“We tried, but by then Fries was in the wind. Then my life started falling apart. I got busted, went to jail, lost my job, my marriage imploded.”

Galimore took a forkful of lettuce, chewed.

“For a long time I was a very bitter man. Hated the cops, the FBI, my slut wife, life in general. The Gamble-Lovette file was like a festering wound. The only way I could move on was to put it behind me.”

“I’m confused. You’re revisiting the case now because your employer wants to know about the landfill John Doe? Or because you think the victim could be Cale Lovette?”

Galimore leaned forward, eyes intense. “Fuck my employer. Those dickwads locked me up so I couldn’t follow through on a case that mattered to me. I want to know why.”

“Did Rinaldi pursue the leads after you left the task force?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it possible you’re being paranoid?”

“We’re talking the friggin’ FBI. You don’t think, with all their resources, they couldn’t have cracked this case if they wanted to?”

That same thought had occurred to me.

“But it wasn’t just the FBI and the cops.” Galimore pointed his fork at his chest. “I was also part of the problem.”

I let him continue.

“The Gambles were good people caught between bad alternatives. Either their daughter had turned her back on them, or she’d come to harm. Early in the investigation, they phoned me every day. Eventually I stopped picking up. I’m not proud of that.”

“So your interest is twofold and self-serving. You want to clear your conscience and at the same time stick it to the cops.”

“There’s something else. I got a call at my office earlier this week. The voice sounded male, but I can’t be sure. It was muffled by some sort of filter.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ll spare you the colorful verbiage. Bottom line, the caller threatened to take me down by exposing my past to the media unless I backed off on the Gamble-Lovette thing.”

“And you said?” I kept my voice neutral to hide my skepticism.

“Nothing. I hung up.”

“Did you trace the number?”

“The call was placed on a throwaway phone.”

“Your explanation?”

“The body in the landfill. The story in the paper.”

Galimore’s eyes again swept the restaurant.

“Someone out there is getting very, very nervous.”

“WHAT DO YOU PROPOSE?”

“I did some checking. Fries was in the wind for a while, reappeared about five years back, and now lives outside of Locust. He’s in his eighties, probably senile.”

Offended by Galimore’s broad-brush dismissal of the elderly, I snatched up the bill. He didn’t fight me.

“You intend to question him?” I asked curtly.

“Can’t hurt.”

While digging for my wallet, I spotted the page of code I’d torn from Slidell’s spiral. I withdrew both.

When Ellen left with my credit card, I unfolded and read Rinaldi’s notations.

“This mean anything to you?” I rotated the paper.

“What is it?”

“It’s from Rinaldi’s notes on the Gamble-Lovette investigation.”

Galimore looked at me. “Rinaldi was a stand-up guy,” he said.

“Yes.”

The emerald eyes held mine a very long moment. When they finally dropped to the paper, my cheeks were burning.

Jesus, Brennan.

“Wi-Fr. That’s probably Winge-Fries. Rinaldi was curious about the contradiction between their statements.”

I felt like an idiot. I should have seen that, but then I’d just learned of Fries.

“OTP. On-time performance?”

“Seriously?”

“Onetime programmable? You know, like with some electronic devices.”

“Onetime password? Maybe the rest is a password for something.”

“Could be.” Galimore slid the paper to my side of the table. “The rest, I’ve no idea. Unless FU stands for the obvious.”

My eyes were still rolling when Ellen returned. I signed the check, collected my card, and stood.

Galimore followed me out to the parking lot.

“You’ll let me know what Fries says?” I asked in parting.

“Shouldn’t this go two ways?” Slipping on aviator shades, though the day was cloudy. “You must have something on that John Doe by now.”

Oh yeah. The ricin. The confiscation and destruction of the body. The Rosphalt. No way I could share that information.

“I’ll talk to Dr. Larabee,” I said.

“I’m good at this, you know.” The aviators were fixed on my face. “I was a detective for ten years.”

I was weighing responses when my iPhone overrode the traffic sounds coming from East Boulevard.

Turning my back to Galimore, I moved a few paces off and clicked on.

“Yo.” Slidell was, as usual, chewing something. “This will be quick. Got two vics capped, another bleeding bad, probably not gonna make it. Looks like the gang boys are unhappy with each other.”

“I’m listening.” Sensing Galimore’s interest, I kept my response vague.

“Owen Poteat.” I waited while Slidell repositioned the foodstuff from his left to his right molars. “Born 1948, Faribault, Minnesota. Married, two daughters. Sold irrigation systems. Canned in ’ninety-five. Two years later the wife divorced him and moved the kids to St. Paul. Dead in 2007.”

“Why was Poteat at the airport?”

“Going to see his madre, who was checking out with cancer.”

“How’d he die?”

“Same as Mama.”

Failed job. Lost family. Dead mother. Though far from unique, Poteat’s story depressed the hell out of me.

“Looks like I’m out on Lovette-Gamble for now. With the bangers on the warpath, the chief’s reined us all in.”

“I understand.”

“I’ll jump back aboard when things cool down.”

“Focus on your investigation. I have another lead.”

“Oh yeah?”

Moving farther from Galimore, I told Slidell about Fries.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Cotton Galimore.”

“What the fuck?” Slidell exploded.

“Galimore participated in the original investigation. I thought he might have useful information. Which he did.”

“What did I tell you about that asswipe?”

“He claims he was framed.”

“And Charlie Manson claimed he was just running a day camp.” It was exactly the reaction I’d expected. “I don’t plan to date him,” I snapped.

“Yeah, well. Word is Galimore wasn’t exactly humping back in ’ninety-eight.”

“What does that mean?”

“That investigation went bust. Why’s that, I ask myself. I come up with no explanation makes sense. So I float a few questions.”

“To whom?”

“Cops been around the block.”

“They suggested that Galimore obstructed the work of the task force?”

“They inferred as much.”

I ignored Slidell’s misuse of the verb. “Why would he do that?”

“I ain’t his confessor.”

“Did they cite examples?”

“All I’m saying. Galimore’s a reptile. You chum with him, I’m out.”

Dead air.

“I’m guessing that was Skinny.”

Furious with Slidell, I hadn’t heard Galimore approach.

Shifting my face into neutral, I turned.

“He’s pissed that you’re talking to me.”

I said nothing.

“And ordering you to be a good girl and send me on my way.”

“He was reporting that he’d be tied up for a while.”

“So we’re on our own.”

“What?”

“Just you and me, kid.” Galimore winked. Ineffective, given the unnecessary lenses.

I dropped my phone into my purse and glanced up at him. As before, my stomach performed a wee flip.

I looked away. Quickly.

Two cats were tearing at something in a patch of grass by one corner of the restaurant. One was brown, the other white. Both had sinewy shadows overlying their ribs.

“I know you’re curious about Fries,” Galimore said.

I was.

“And Bogan.” Cale’s father.

“You’re heading to talk to them now?” I asked, still looking at the cats.

“I am.”

A zillion brain cells clamored that it was a bad idea. I waited for opposing views. Heard none.

“I drive,” I said.

North Carolina is loaded with little pockets that have managed to remain on the far side of rural. Fries had found one of them. Or someone had found it for him.

Following Galimore’s directions, I’d taken the outer beltway, then gone east on NC 24/27. Just before Locust, I’d cut north on 601, then made several turns, ending up on a stretch of gravel that hardly qualified as a road.

For several minutes we both assessed the scene.

If Galimore’s information was correct, Eugene Fries lived in the seediest trailer I’d ever seen. Its hitch rested on a boulder, keeping the thing more or less horizontal.

The trailer had no wheels, its flip-open windows were rusted shut, and a mound of debris rose halfway up the side facing us. BOLER was barely legible on its sun-fried aluminum.

A brand name? The owner’s name? A name given to the trailer itself? Whatever. I suspected Boler had been parked sometime this millennium and never again moved.

The trailer occupied most of a small clearing surrounded by hardwoods and pines. Along its perimeter I could see more trash heaps.

Behind and to the trailer’s right stood a shed constructed of haphazardly nailed two-by-fours. A dirt path circled from the trailer’s door around the hitch and boulder toward the shed. Straight shot to the can. Though gray and weathered, the outhouse seemed of more recent vintage than Boler.

To the trailer’s left loomed an ancient oak whose trunk had to be eight feet in diameter. Its gnarled limbs stretched over both trailer and shed. In its shadow, the earth was dark and bare.

Four feet up the oak’s trunk, I spotted two bolts. Clipped to each was a chain, now hanging slack. The stainless-steel links looked shiny and new.

My eyes traced the chains downward, then out across the bare ground. As I feared, each ended in a choke-collar clip.

“There might be dogs,” I said. “Big ones.”

“Yeah.” Galimore’s tone suggested he shared my apprehension.

As one, we lowered our windows.

And heard nothing. No birdsong. No barking. No WKKT Kat Country music twanging from a radio.

I sorted smells.

Damp leaves. Moist earth. An organic pungence that suggested garbage rotting in plastic.

Galimore spoke first. “You stay here. I’ll see if anyone’s home.”

Before I could object, he was out of the car. Couldn’t say I was unhappy. My mind was conjuring images of Rottweilers and Dobermans.

Galimore took two steps, then paused.

No slathering canines came charging forth.

Looking left and then right, Galimore headed across the ten feet of open space between the road and the trailer. A backward crooking of his right elbow told me he was armed.

Striding with purpose, he went directly to the trailer’s only door. His voice broke the stillness. “Mr. Fries. Are you in there?”

No response.

Galimore called out again, louder. “Eugene Fries? We’d like to talk to you.”

Nothing.

“We’re not going away, Mr. Fries.” Pounding the metal door with the heel of his left hand. “Best you come out.”

Still, no one answered.

Galimore stepped back to recheck his surroundings. And made the same observation that I had. The only path in the clearing was the one leading to the outhouse.

I watched Galimore circle the boulder and hitch, then disappear behind the trailer.

Time passed.

I checked my watch. Three-twenty-seven.

How long had Galimore been gone?

My eyes roved the clearing. The edge of the woods. The trailer.

Three-thirty-one.

I drummed anxious fingers on the wheel. Where the hell was he?

Three-thirty-four.

A yellow jacket buzzed the windshield, tentative. Landed. Crawled, antennae testing.

The tiniest breeze rustled the leaves overhead.

Three-thirty-six.

Thinking Galimore might have called to tell me to join him, I dug out my mobile. Checked for messages. Found none. Verified that the ringer was turned on. It was.

Impatient, I leaned toward the passenger-side floor and snatched up my purse.

When I straightened, the cold steel of a muzzle kissed my left temple.

ICY FEAR TRAVELED MY SPINE.

In the corner of my eye, I could see a dark figure standing outside the car. He or she held a shotgun tight to my skull.

Through the open window, I heard growling and thrashing. Terror froze me in place. I was in the middle of nowhere. Alone. At the wrong end of dogs and a gun.

Dear God, where was Galimore?

“State your business.”

The wheezy voice snapped me back. Low and deep. Male.

I swallowed. “Mr. Fries?”

“Who the hell’s asking?”

“Temperance Brennan.” Keep it simple. “I’m a friend of Wayne Gamble. Cindi’s brother.”

The growling gave way to snarling and scratching. The Mazda lurched.

“Down, goddammit!”

The earsplitting bellow sent a new wave of adrenaline flooding through me.

“Rocky! Rupert! Asses to the dirt!”

I heard the dull thud of a boot hitting flesh. A yelp.

My heart pounded in my chest. I didn’t dare turn my head. Who was this lunatic? Had he killed Galimore?

The gun muzzle prodded my skull. “You’re going to get out now. Real slow. Keeping your hands so’s I can see ’em.”

I heard the sound of a latch, then the door swung open.

Hands high, I thrust out my legs and stood.

Rocky and Rupert were the size of elk, black, with brown crescents above eyes that were fixed on me. Though a low growl rose from each massive throat, neither dog made a menacing move.

Their master looked about as old as a human can look. His skin was pale and tissue-paper thin over a prominent forehead, chin, and nose. His gaunt cheeks were covered with prickly white whiskers.

Though the day was muggy, the man wore wool pants, a long-sleeved flannel shirt, an orange hunting cap, and a windbreaker zipped to midchest.

His Winchester followed my every move. Its condition suggested an age equaling that of its owner.

The old man studied me with rheumy blue eyes, his gaze as steady as his grip on the gun.

“Who sent you here?”

“No one, sir.”

“Don’t you lie to me!”

As before, the vehemence of the outburst caused me to flinch.

“Move.” The gun barrel arced toward the far side of the clearing.

I held ground, knowing that entry into the trailer would limit my options.

“Move!”

“Mr. Fries, I—”

The muzzle of the Winchester jammed my sternum, knocking me backward. My spine struck the edge of the open car door. I cried out in pain.

The dogs shot to their feet.

The man lowered a hand, palm toward them.

The dogs sat.

“I said move.” Cold. Dangerous. “That way.”

Again he gestured with the gun.

Seeing no alternative, I began walking, as slowly as I felt my captor would allow. Behind me, I heard panting and the crunch of boots.

Desperate, I sorted options. I saw no phone or power lines. My mobile was in the car. I’d told no one where I was going.

My heart thudded faster.

I was marooned.

With a madman.

And Galimore nowhere in sight.

Outside the trailer, I stopped and tried again. “Mr. Fries. I mean you no harm.”

“You take one step, you get a load of shot in your head.”

The man circled me, then snapped his fingers at Rocky and Rupert. “Down!”

The dogs dropped to their bellies, mouths open, purple tongues dangling over yellowed teeth.

Keeping the Winchester cradled in one arm and pointed at my chest, the man bent, snatched up one chain, and clipped it to either Rocky or Rupert. He’d just secured the second chain when I noticed a flicker in the shadows beyond him.

Galimore struck like a ninja.

Firing around the trailer’s far end, he arm-wrapped the old man’s throat, dragged him clear of the dogs, and yanked the gun from his grasp. The hunting cap went airborne and landed in the dirt.

The dogs flew into a frenzy.

Terrified, I backpedaled as fast as I could.

Confused and enraged, Rocky and Rupert alternated between lunging at Galimore and me, muscles straining, saliva stringing from their gums and jowls.

“Call them off!” Galimore’s command barely carried over the furious barking.

A gagging sound rose from the old man’s throat.

“Sit them down or I shoot them!”

“Break.” Barely above a whisper.

Galimore released the old man. He doubled over, coughing and spitting.

The dogs grew even more frantic.

The old man straightened and tried again, louder, one trembling hand extended toward his animals. “Break.”

The dogs dropped to the ground, bodies tense, eyes on their master, clearly dubious about his directive.

“What’s your name?” Galimore demanded.

“Eugene Fries.” The old man’s Adam’s apple seemed ready to pop out of his throat. “This is my place. You got no right to bully me.”

“You were pointing a shotgun at the lady’s heart.”

“I weren’t gonna shoot no one.”

“You had me fooled. Her, too.”

No shit. The lady’s heart was still hammering against her ribs.

The old man leaned over and hawked an impressive gob.

Galimore cracked open the Winchester. Seeing it was unloaded, he snatched up the hunting cap and smacked it back and forth against one thigh.

“Got a couple of questions for you, Mr. Fries.” Galimore parked the cap on the bald old head. “Then we’re on our way.”

Fries said nothing as Galimore urged him in my direction, staying carefully outside the reach of the dogs.

Fries’s eyes rolled to me, then refocused on Galimore. Still on edge from the dogs and the gun, I let Galimore do the talking.

“We’re interested in two kids who went missing from the Charlotte Motor Speedway back in ’ninety-eight. Cale Lovette and Cindi Gamble. You know who I’m talking about?”

“I know what you’re talking about. Never knew either one of ’em.”

“You stated that you served Gamble and Lovette at a concession stand around eight p.m. the night they disappeared. Is that correct?”

Fries nodded.

“How did you know it was them?”

“The cops showed me pictures. Lovette was easy to remember because of the tats.”

“A lot of guys get inked.”

“OK. I knew of Lovette by reputation.”

“How’s that?”

“He was tight with a bunch of militia types. Word was they were real bad actors.”

Galimore thought about that. Then, “You know Grady Winge?”

“He’s an idiot.”

“According to Winge, Gamble and Lovette left the Speedway around six that night.”

“Like I said, Winge’s an idiot.”

“How could you be so certain about the time?”

“I was checking the clock.”

“Why was that?”

“A certain lady was coming to see me at nine.”

“She show up?”

“No. Look, I told all this to the cops back then. Nearly got my ass killed.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means I nearly got my ass killed.”

Galimore drilled Fries with a look.

“Right after I talk to the cops, I get a call. Guy says my life turns to shit if I don’t change my story.”

“Who was it?”

“If I’d known that, the prick would be fertilizing a patch of forest.”

“What did you do?”

“I told him to fuck off. A couple days later, my dog turned up dead on my porch.”

“Maybe it just died.”

“She sure as hell did. From a slug in her brain. Two days after that, my house burned down.”

“You think the caller actually followed through on his threats?” I was shocked.

“No.” Fries turned to me, contempt drawing his thin, flaky lips into a downward U. “It was Al Qaeda recruiting me to the cause.”

“Then what did you do?” Galimore asked.

“What the hell would you do? I quit my job and headed west. Few years back, my brother offered me this trailer. I figured enough time had passed, so I come home.”

“You’ve had years to think about it,” Galimore said. “You must have your suspicions.”

Fries didn’t answer for a very long time. When he did, his scraggly white brows were drawn low over his lids. “All’s I’ll say’s this. Word on the street was Lovette and his pals were trouble.”

“You’re talking about the Patriot Posse?”

Fries nodded. “Why would they threaten you?” I asked.

“What?” The brows shot up. “I look like a cop? How the hell would I know?”

I asked the same question I’d asked of the others.

“Mr. Fries, what do you think happened to Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette?”

“I think Lovette and his asshole buddies either killed someone or blew something up. Then he and his girlie split.”

“Where the hell were you?” Buckling my seat belt, adrenaline still pumping through me.

“Checking a path behind the trailer. I didn’t want Fries coming up on us from the woods.”

“Good job.”

I spent the first few miles concentrating on the road. And my nerves.

Galimore seemed to understand. Or was focused on thoughts of his own.

We were on I-485 when I finally felt calm enough for conversation. Exhilarated, almost. Being rescued from a shotgun-toting maniac and his hounds will do that, I guess.

Nevertheless, I kept it professional.

We debated the significance of Fries’s story. Galimore thought the old geezer was probably exaggerating about the threats and harassment. I didn’t think so. His house either burned or it didn’t. Easy enough to check. Why lie?

We were still confused by the contradictory statements given back in ’ninety-eight. Had Lovette and Gamble left the Speedway at six, as Grady Winge reported? Or had they left later, as Eugene Fries insisted? Had one of the two been mistaken? Or had one intentionally lied? If so, which one? For what purpose? I was putting my money for accuracy on Fries.

We discussed theories concerning the fate of Gamble and Lovette. Currently there were five.

One: Cale and Cindi left voluntarily, either to join a militia elsewhere or to marry. This was the finding of the task force. I didn’t buy into the run-away-to-marry theory. Even a halfhearted investigation would have uncovered that.

Two: Cale killed Cindi, then went into hiding. Wayne Gamble thought his sister had dumped Lovette and feared for her life. Lynn Nolan suspected Lovette was abusing Cindi.

Three: Either Cale or Cindi was working undercover for the FBI. The Patriot Posse learned of this and killed them both. This was Slidell’s suggestion.

Four: Learning that Cale or Cindi had been compromised as a CI, the FBI had pulled and routed them both into witness protection. This had been my idea.

Five: Cale did something illegal with the Patriot Posse, then he and Cindi went into hiding. Eugene Fries had concocted this scenario based largely on rumor.

Still, I was bothered by the effectiveness of the disappearances. In all those years, not one phone call. Not a single slipup. That seemed to discredit the runaway theory.

Except for Owen Poteat. His sighting suggested a mistake on someone’s part.

I remembered my conversation with Slidell. Wondered if he’d learned anything more about Poteat other than that he was dead.

As we pulled into the lot at Bad Daddy’s, Galimore proposed dinner. Though tempted and hungry, I decided against it.

Galimore confused me. He was egotistical, infuriating, and of dubious moral character. But his actions proved he was a definite asset in a fight.

Bottom line: I found him smoldering hot.

Puh-leeze!

“No, thanks,” I said. “I have a skull waiting for me.”

Galimore looked at his watch. “It’s going on six.”

“I do some of my best work at night.”

Stupid!

Before Galimore could jump on the opening, I slammed it shut. “Alone.”

Winking, Galimore opened his door. “See you, Doc.”

In minutes I was at the MCME.

Bad mistake.

I was about to take a quadruple volley.

NOT A PATHOLOGIST OR RECEPTIONIST ON SITE. THE BOARD showed one death investigator present. Joe Hawkins.

My phone’s message light was blinking. After getting a Diet Coke from the kitchen, I put the thing on speaker and picked up a pen.

Special Agent Williams, sounding annoyed. It was urgent that I call him back. I jotted down the number.

Wayne Gamble, sounding anxious. He knew who was following him and intended to confront the guy.

Earl Byrne, the mushroom-shaped reporter from the Observer, sounding eager. He wanted to write a follow-up to his original article and wondered what was taking so long with an ID on the landfill John Doe. Delete.

Special Agent Williams. Delete.

Special Agent Williams. Delete.

Cotton Galimore, sounding, what? Flirtatious? The dinner offer was still on the table. Also, he intended to visit Craig Bogan in the morning. Did I want to come along?

I was scribbling Galimore’s number when a shadow fell across my desk. I looked up.

Hawkins was standing in my doorway, a half-dozen forceps in one hand.

“Hey, Joe.”

“That Cotton Galimore?” The scowl on Hawkins’s face would have frightened small children.

“Sorry?”

“Galimore.” He jabbed the forceps toward my phone. “You talking to him?”

“Mr. Galimore was involved in the search for Cale Lovette and Cindi Gamble back in ’ninety-eight.”

“You need to stay away from him.”

“Excuse me?”

“The man’s not to be trusted. You’ve got no business being anywhere near him.”

“How I choose to conduct an investigation is of no concern—”

“The man’s corrupt.”

“People change.”

“Not him.”

“That’s a bit rigid.”

“Galimore worked that case, all right. Wouldn’t surprise me if he took part in the cover-up folks are talking about. He’s probably jumping in now to protect his sorry ass.”

“Or he has a genuine interest in finding out what happened to his investigation?”

Hawkins was in full rant mode and in no mood to listen.

“Why the interest now after all these years? Could it be you’re getting to the truth and he wants to keep you close? Whatever Galimore’s motive, he’s acting solely in the interest of one person. Cotton Galimore.”

At that moment my phone rang.

Snorting his disgust, Hawkins turned and strode down the hall.

Without thinking, I picked up the receiver.

“Dr. Brennan. I’m glad I caught you.”

“I was just about to leave.” Not true. But I didn’t want another sermon. Especially from the likes of Special Agent Williams.

“I’ll keep it brief.”

“Why did you confiscate the landfill John Doe?” I decided to take the offensive.

“I explained the bureau’s reasoning to Dr. Larabee.”

“Ricin contamination.”

“Yes.”

“The ricin toxin isn’t contagious.”

“It was not my decision.”

“Was it your decision to cremate the body?”

“That was an unfortunate error.”

“What about my bone plugs?”

“What about them?”

“Were those samples also destroyed?”

“It is my understanding they’d been placed in the same body bag.”

“Could it be the bureau doesn’t want this man ID’ed?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Ted Raines turn up yet?”

Williams knew what I was asking. Did the bureau suspect that the landfill John Doe was the missing man from Atlanta?

“Not that I know of.”

“Odd coincidence. Raines working for the CDC. The John Doe showing evidence of ricin poisoning.”

“Indeed.” I heard what sounded like a ballpoint pen being clicked repeatedly. “I understand you talked to J. D. Danner.”

“Nice hair.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I could handle the groceries myself.”

A beat. Then, “I have been authorized to reveal certain sensitive information. Dr. Larabee already has it. He asked me to share it with you.”

I waited.

“In 1996 the Patriot Posse came to the attention of the FBI. The group was small and strictly local, but intel was that certain members were becoming radicalized, perhaps plotting acts of violence.”

“Which members?”

“That’s not relevant.”

“Danner?”

The pen. Click. Click. Click.

“Lovette?”

“No.”

“What was their alleged target?”

“This information is strictly confidential.”

“Oh. Wait. I’ll cancel my tweet.”

“According to our source, the posse was planning to contaminate the water supply of a nearby town.”

“Why?”

“Two gripes. The presence of a women’s clinic that provided abortions. The election of a black woman as mayor.”

A mélange of anger and disgust soured my stomach. I reached for the Diet Coke.

“At the time Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette vanished, the posse was under surveillance,” Williams went on.

“You had someone inside?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Was it Lovette? Gamble?”

Williams ignored my questions. “Our intel also suggested that members of the group may have had ties to Eric Rudolph.”

“Did they?”

“We were unable to establish that fact with certainty.”

Click. Click. Click.

“The posse disbanded in 2002, but the bureau has continued to track some of its members.”

“J. D. Danner?”

“Danner now heads a much bigger organization called the Loyalist Movement. The group has several thousand followers throughout the Southeast.”

“Who are they?”

“Extremists who believe that the federal government deliberately murdered people at Ruby Ridge and Waco, and that door-to-door gun confiscation could begin any day. Their ideology is less white-supremacist than in the nineties, though many have now turned their venom toward followers of Islam. What holds the group together is anger at the government.”

I pictured the Tommy Bahamas, the sapphire ring, the RX-8. “Danner looked pretty flush.”

“The Loyalist Movement is well funded, and Danner skims a big chunk off the top. But make no mistake. Though he lives well, Danner is committed. The guy’s cunning as a fox and dangerous as typhoid.”

“Why are you sharing all of this now?”

“To keep you in the loop.”

“You want nothing in return.”

“Normal professional consideration.”

“Uh. Huh.”

With that, we disconnected.

Right, I thought. Who’s the fox?

After chugging the dregs of my Diet Coke, I got MCME 239-11 from the cooler.

The I-485 creek-bed skull was covered with moss and missing its entire face and most of the base. Copper staining, remnants of adipocere, tissue turned crumbly and waxy due to the hydrolysis of fats, and the presence of a shriveled mass of petrified brain told me I was probably looking at an old coffin burial. Without more contextual information, there was little I could say.

I was jotting a request to Hawkins for information about cemeteries in the vicinity of the creek bed, when my iPhone rang.

Katy.

I clicked on.

“Hey, babe. What are you up to?”

“Working late.” Her tone suggested a need to vent. “As usual.”

“Same here. Anything interesting?”

“Mind-blowing. I can hardly stay in my chair.”

“Oh?” I ignored the heavy sarcasm.

“Some guy’s in the running for most flagrant tax-fraud artist of the year. I get to plow through boxes and boxes of his papers.”

“Getting any good ideas?”

“With my salary? What would be the point of tax evasion?”

“Will you finish tonight?”

“I won’t finish until I’m ready for Medicare—one of the few systems this creep didn’t scam. Here’s a good one. He’d buy first-class airline tickets, then turn them in for a full refund and buy coach. But he’d submit the first-class receipts for tax purposes.”

“Not all that original.”

“OK. How about this one? He set up some sort of tax-free bank accounts for his kids’ education. But before they went to college, he drew out all the money. And never told Uncle Sam.”

“Isn’t the IRS able to track that sort of thing?”

“I’m probably missing something. It was complicated. And just one of the many cons el creepo got away with for years.”

I heard an intake of breath. Assuming Katy had more to say, I waited.

“Um. Have you talked to Ryan lately?”

“He’s pretty tied up with Lily.”

“How is she?”

“Eh.”

“How about Charlie Hunt?”

“He’s busy composing the world’s most brilliant closing argument.”

There was a moment of hesitation. Then she blurted, “I think he’s seeing this other lawyer in the office. They work late a lot. Together. And they just left. Together. All chatty and smiley.”

I felt a cool fizz in my chest.

“That’s fine. Charlie and I have no commitment to each other.”

“Have you heard from him?”

“No.”

A little beep told me another caller was trying to get through.

“Gotta go, sweetie.”

“Come by my cubicle sometime. Reach in and take my pulse.”

I was still chuckling when I clicked over to call waiting.

The sobs put a choke hold on my mirth.

“Tempe, I do hope it’s OK to call you.” Tremulous. “I didn’t know where else to turn.”

“I’m at the ME office, Summer.”

“I am super, super sorry. You have such a kind nature, and I fear I am abusing it.”

Thinking decidedly unkind thoughts, I began gathering my things.

“The wedding is now a complete disaster.”

When I tossed my purse onto the desk, my wallet popped out. The page with Rinaldi’s code stuck out like a bookmark.

“Pete’s ideas are completely worthless. He chose green napkins. Green? Can you imagine?”

“Mm.”

Desperate for distraction, I teased the paper free and spread it flat with one palm.

ME/SC 2X13G-529 OTP FU

Wi-Fr 6–8

“One of my bridesmaids is pregnant and can’t wear the dress. That’s Mary Gray. How could she do that to me?”

Galimore’s interpretation of the second line made sense. Rinaldi was interested in the contradiction in time line presented by Grady Winge and Eugene Fries. I focused on the first line.

“Sarah Elizabeth can’t get to Charlotte in time for the rehearsal. How can you have a wedding without a rehearsal?” Warbly.

Summer blew her nose loudly. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Sarah Elizabeth has always been horribly thoughtless.”

My lower centers sat up.

What? Napkins? Pregnant? Rehearsal?

I stared at the alphanumeric string, only half-listening to Summer’s whining.

Mary Gray.

Sarah Elizabeth.

My mind strained, on the verge of a breakthrough.

“I swear.” More wet sniffling. “I just want to go to sleep and never wake up.”

I ran through my conversation with Katy.

IRS? Airline tickets? Bank account?

I dug deep.

Dots connected.

I knew what was needed to decipher Rinaldi’s note.

AFTER HUSTLING SUMMER OFF THE LINE WITH SOME VAGUE promise of support, I phoned Slidell. Got voice mail. Left a message. Urgent. Call me.

I tried Galimore. Voice mail. Same message.

Frustrated, I tossed my Diet Coke can into the recycling bin, grabbed my purse and laptop, and headed out.

Something was happening at the NASCAR Hall of Fame that night. I averaged about four miles a decade crossing uptown.

The bumper-to-bumper crunch changed my supper plan. No way I’d divert to Price’s for fried chicken. A salad made from produce in my refrigerator would have to do.

I was finally heading south on Providence Road when my iPhone sounded.

Galimore.

“I think I know what concerned Rinaldi,” I said.

“You’re breaking my heart.” Galimore sounded, what? Coy? “I thought you’d changed your mind about dinner.”

“What was Owen Poteat’s middle name?”

“I can check.”

“Poteat had two daughters, didn’t he?”

“That sounds right.”

“Get their names, too.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ahead, the light turned red. I stopped at the intersection. To my left, Providence Road cut south. To my right, it became Morehead Street.

“What about bank records? Tax records?” I asked.

“Whose?”

“Any account bearing Poteat’s name.”

“It would help to know the bank.”

The light went green. I proceeded straight on what was now called Queens Road. See. I wasn’t kidding.

“Start with Wells Fargo,” I said. “Work backward to 1998.”

“I’ve got sources who can do that. What are you thinking?”

“How long will it take?”

“The names, a matter of minutes. Tax and financial records, that’s tougher. Why aren’t you getting this through Slidell?”

“He’s either tied up or ignoring my calls.”

“Don’t expect Skinny to come around easily. The guy’s a champion grudge-holder.”

I turned in at Sharon Hall.

“I’m at my town house. I’ve got to go.”

“A quiet meal at home alone?”

“I’ll be dining with my cat.”

Birdie had other thoughts. Upon hearing me enter the kitchen, he retreated to a dining room chair.

I knew what was up. The feline coolness was a comment on the lateness of the hour. Normally Birdie eats at six.

I checked my phone, hoping for a message from Ryan or Charlie.

Neither had called.

Disappointed, I flipped on the TV. Two overly keen sports analysts were discussing potential lineups for the upcoming Coca-Cola 600. One predicted Sandy Stupak’s #59 Chevy would start near the front.

Hearing an unhappy meow, I went to the dining room, reached under the table, and stroked Birdie’s head.

“Sorry, Bird. I’ve been wicked busy.”

The cat didn’t budge.

“Cut me some slack. I’ve been to Concord and Locust all in one day. Slidell berated me. Hawkins lectured me. Ryan and Charlie have apparently dumped me. Katy and Summer both whined in my ear. Oh yeah. And an old coot held me at gunpoint with a Winchester.”

The cat remained obstinate.

After filling Birdie’s bowl, I went upstairs to shower. Then I threw on shortie-PJ bottoms and an old tee. No bra or panties. The freedom was exhilarating.

Back to the kitchen.

The tomato was flaccid, the cucumber slimy, the lettuce limp and black on the edges. So much for a salad.

Plan B. Something in a can.

I was rooting in the pantry when the back doorbell chimed. Wary, I peeked out.

Galimore was standing on the porch, face bathed in a yellow wash from the overhead bulb.

I closed my eyes. Tried to wish myself gone.

I heard the cadence of the evening news. The cat crunching Iams.

But gone where? What did I really wish for? To let Galimore in? To send him away?

Both Hawkins and Slidell disliked the man. Were they bitter that Galimore had made mistakes?

Had Galimore betrayed the badge? Were their concerns justified?

Had Galimore really taken a bribe? Or had there actually been a frame-up back in 1998? A frame-up in which police officers participated?

Had Galimore impeded the Gamble-Lovette investigation? Was he trying to do so now? Or was he genuinely interested in righting a wrong to the Gambles, which he saw as partly of his making?

Ryan wasn’t exactly burning up the phone line. Nor was Charlie Hunt.

Did I just need a booster? What was this peculiar attraction I felt for Galimore?

I sneaked another look.

Galimore was holding a flat square box. DONATOS was visible in big red letters.

My eyes drifted to the tomato and cuke. Which were now oozing liquid across the sideboard.

What the hell.

I crossed and unlocked the door.

Galimore smiled. Then his gaze dropped.

Too late, I remembered my lack of undies. One hand rose, pointlessly, to my chest.

Galimore’s eyes snapped up. “Totally loaded.” He raised the pizza. “Hope you like anchovies.”

I gestured toward the table. “Let me throw on some clothes.”

“Not on my account.” Galimore winked.

A flush rose up my neck.

Oh, yes, cowboy. On your account.

When I returned in jeans, a sweatshirt chastely concealing my bosom, the table was set. A small bottle of San Pellegrino sat beside each wineglass.

Out of courtesy to me? Or was Galimore also a nondrinker. Given his past, it seemed likely.

Before taking my place, I muted the TV.

“What did you learn?” I started off, wanting to set the tone.

“Not yet.” Galimore slid an overloaded slice of pizza onto my plate. “First, we eat. And enjoy the lost art of conversation.”

In the course of three helpings, I learned that Galimore lived alone uptown, had four brothers, hated processed food, and besides auto racing, enjoyed football and opera.

He learned that I had one daughter and a cat. And that the latter was inordinately fond of pizza.

Finally Galimore bunched his napkin and leaned back in his chair.

“I know where you’re going,” he said. “And I think you’re dead-on.”

“What was Owen Poteat’s middle name?”

“Timothy.”

“And his daughters?”

“Mary Ellen and Sarah Caroline.”

“Yes!” I performed the “raise the roof” pantomime with both hands.

“What I can’t figure is how you got that.”

“First, I spoke to my daughter earlier this evening. She talked about a man who opened tax-advantaged savings plans for his kids’ educations.

“Second, I have a friend who is getting married. Right after my conversation with Katy, she phoned to complain about her bridesmaids.”

“Condolences.”

“Thanks. Both bridesmaids go by double first names.”

“True maidens of Dixie.”

“As I listened to Summer, I was studying Rinaldi’s code.”

“Summer is the lovely bride-to-be?”

“Do you want to hear this?”

Galimore raised apologetic palms.

“The plan Katy described is named after Section 529 of the Internal Revenue Code. 529s are investment vehicles designed to encourage saving for the future college expenses of designated beneficiaries.”

“OK. How do they work?”

“A donor puts money in and can take it any time he or she wants. The main benefits are that the principal grows tax-deferred, and that distributions for higher-education costs are exempt from federal tax.”

Pete and I had considered a 529 when Katy was small. Never followed through.

“A side bennie is that the assets in a 529 plan are not counted as part of the donor’s gross estate for inheritance tax purposes,” I added.

“So a 529 can be used as a sort of estate planning tool, a way to move assets outside your estate while retaining control if the money is needed in the future.”

Galimore was a very quick study.

“Yes,” I said.

“How much is a donor allowed to put in?”

“Thirteen thousand per year.”

Our eyes met.

“Get the code.” Galimore sounded as jazzed as I was.

I dug the spiral page from my purse and unfolded it on the table.

ME/SC 2X13G-529 OTP FU

Wi-Fr 6–8

Silently, we both translated the first line.

Mary Ellen. Sarah Caroline. Two times thirteen thousand into a 529 plan. Owen Timothy Poteat. First Union.

“First Union National Bank became Wachovia, then Wells Fargo,” I said.

Galimore cocked a brow.

“Right. You knew that. When can you get your hands on Poteat’s financial records?”

“Now that I know what I’m looking for, the job will be easier.”

“Tomorrow?”

A waggled hand. Maybe yes, maybe no.

“So.” Galimore gave me a high-beam smile.

“So.” I smiled back.

“Why did Rinaldi think it was worth writing down?”

“Poteat is the single witness who claimed to have seen Cale Lovette after the night of October fourteenth. The man has no job and no assets. Suddenly he parks twenty-six thousand in accounts for his kids?”

“Someone paid him to lie.” Galimore was right with me.

“Or at least Rinaldi thought so.”

“Who?”

I’d given the question a lot of thought. “The FBI? The Patriot Posse? A party wanting to make it look like Lovette and Gamble were still alive?”

Galimore leaned back and took a swig of his San Pellegrino.

Moments passed. In the dining room, Gran’s clock bonged nine times.

“Big weekend coming up.” Galimore’s eyes had drifted to the TV behind my back.

“Want audio?” I asked.

He shrugged.

As I crossed to turn up the sound, the station cut to a commercial.

We are the champions, my friends?….

“That’s what we are.” Galimore laughed. “The DOD’s going to be recruiting our asses to join some secret cryptography unit.”

“Yep,” I agreed. “We dazzle.”

Shooting to his feet, Galimore sang another line of Queen. “‘No time for losers!’”

“‘Cause we are the champions,’ ” I joined in.

Galimore caught me in a waltz hold and swirled me around.

We finished the lyrics together.

“‘Of the world!’”

More swirling.

I laughed like a kid at a carnival.

Finally we stopped. The emerald eyes caught mine. Our gazes locked.

I smelled Galimore’s sweat and cologne. Traces of tomato and garlic on his breath. I felt his body heat. The hardness of muscle below his cotton shirt.

I experienced a sudden, almost overwhelming yearning.

A memory flashed in my brain. Andrew Ryan and I dancing in this same room. A little black dress dropping to the floor.

Yearning for whom? I wondered. Galimore, who was here? Ryan, who was so far away?

Heat rushed up my face.

Palm-pushing from Galimore’s chest, I turned toward the TV.

A kid from Yonkers was singing about heartbreak, hoping to be America’s next idol. He hadn’t a chance.

As the kid crooned, a crawler appeared at the bottom of the screen. For distraction, I read the words.

My hands flew to my mouth.

“Oh my God!”

“YOU OK?” GALIMORE’S HAND WAS ON MY SHOULDER.

I gestured at the TV.

“Holy shit. Wayne Gamble’s dead? At my friggin’ speedway?”

Galimore grabbed his phone. Flicked a button. Messages started pinging in. Ignoring them, he jabbed keys with his thumbs.

I said nothing. I was already hitting speed dial myself.

Larabee answered on the first ring. Background noise suggested he was in a car. “I was just about to call you.”

“What happened to Gamble?” I asked.

“Some sort of freak accident. I’m heading to Concord now. You’d better join me.”

I didn’t ask for a reason.

“I’ll leave right away.”

“Thanks.” A beat. Then, “Everyone’s looking for Galimore. Any idea where he is?”

Great. Hawkins had told Larabee about the message he’d overheard. Undoubtedly embellished.

“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” I said.

When I disconnected, Galimore was no longer in the kitchen. Through the window, I could see him on the porch, talking on his mobile. Exaggerated gestures told me he was upset.

In seconds the door opened.

“I gotta go.” Galimore’s face was taut.

“Me, too. Larabee wants me at the scene.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“No.”

“See you there.”

For the second time that day, I made the long trek out to the Speed-way.

As the finding of the landfill John Doe demonstrated, the Charlotte media monitor police frequencies. And word spreads fast.

Every local station was there, one or two nationals, each positioned to provide an appropriately cinematic backdrop for sharing news of tragedy. A major NASCAR event is in full swing. Violent death strikes the pit crew of a favored son. I could hear the lead-ins in my head.

I had no doubt other reporters were barreling toward Concord. By morning not a millimeter of space would remain unoccupied.

I showed ID at the main gate. Was asked to wait. In moments a deputy climbed into my passenger seat. Wordlessly we looped around the stands toward the tunnel.

Along our route, reporters spoke into handheld mikes, expressions grim, hair and makeup perfect under portable lights. Others waited, smoking alone or sharing jokes with their camera and sound technicians. Media choppers circled overhead.

Barricades had been erected since my morning visit. Sheriff’s deputies, Concord cops, and Speedway guards manned them to keep the frenzy at bay.

On the infield, campers stood beside tents or atop trailers, talking in lowered voices, hoping for a glimpse of a celebrity, a shackled suspect, or a body bag. Some held flashlights. Some drank from cans or longneck bottles. Curving high above the gawkers, the glass-fronted luxury suites loomed dark and empty.

The deputy directed me toward the Sprint Cup garage area. In my mind’s eye, I pictured Wayne Gamble. In my office at the MCME the previous Friday. In Sandy Stupak’s trailer with Slidell just twelve hours earlier. Now the man was dead. At age twenty-seven.

Gamble had reached out to me, and I’d ignored him. Failed to return his call.

The guilt felt like a cold fist squeezing my chest.

Shake it off, Brennan. Focus. Help find what he wanted to tell you.

Once past the Media Center I could see the usual grouping of cruisers, civilian cars, and vans. One of the latter was marked Crime Scene Unit. The other was our own morgue transport vehicle. Behind the wheel was a silhouette I knew to be Joe Hawkins.

I parked off to one side and got out.

The night was still and muggy. The air smelled of rain, gasoline, and concession-stand grease.

“I need to find Dr. Larabee,” I said to my escort.

“I’ll take you to him.”

Grabbing my recovery kit from the trunk, I followed the deputy.

On the edge of the hubbub, a man leaned against a Cabarrus County Sheriff’s Department cruiser, face pale in the pulsating blue and red lights. He appeared to be trying hard for composure.

I knew from the logo on his shirt that the man was a member of Stupak’s crew. I guessed from his expression that he’d been the one who found Gamble.

Larabee was outside Stupak’s garage, talking to a guy in a shirt and tie whom I didn’t recognize. Experience told me they were standing at ground zero.

Every scene shows the same people-dispersal pattern. You can read it like a map. The ME near the vic, maybe a detective or death investigator nearby. Moving outward, the uniforms, speaking to no one. Sitting in or near their trucks, the CSU and morgue techs, idle and bored until called into action.

Despite the oppressive humidity, Larabee was wearing a Tyvek jumpsuit. Behind him, in the garage, I could see the #59 Chevy, its trunk end raised at an odd angle. The painted-on taillights looked dull and flat in the garish illumination of the overheads.

“Tempe,” Larabee said upon seeing me. “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course.”

Larabee tipped his head toward the shirt-and-tie guy. “Mickey Reno. He’s with Speedway security.”

Reno had seen too many barbecues and too few barbells. Once muscular, his body was stalwartly moving toward fat.

I offered a hand and we shook.

“Why am I here?” I asked Larabee.

“You got a suit?”

I raised my kit in answer.

“Put it on. And bring what you need. It’s tight in there.”

Larabee’s tone told me it was bad.

Placing the metal suitcase on the ground, I flipped the levers, pulled out and zipped a jumpsuit over my clothes. After hanging a camera around my neck, I stuffed latex gloves, plastic specimen containers, Ziplocs, tweezers, and a Sharpie into one pocket.

Satisfied, I nodded that I was ready.

“I’ll go in on the left, you go on the right,” Larabee directed.

Tight was an understatement. The garages assigned to NASCAR drivers at tracks are microscopic. The car takes up most of the space. The crew works around and under it.

Larabee entered and sidestepped toward the garage’s far end, his back to the wall. I did the same, opposite and facing him, the Chevy between us.

I noted familiar smells blending with the stench of gasoline and oil. Urine. Feces. A sweet coppery odor.

Again, icy guilt gripped my chest.

Shake it off.

I’d gone maybe five feet when I felt slickness below the soles of my sneakers.

I looked down.

It seemed more blood than could come from one human body. The pool stretched from wall to wall and half the length of the floor.

Breathing through my mouth, I continued.

When I reached the car’s hood I understood the reason for the hideous carnage. And the reason for my presence.

Wayne Gamble’s body lay off the right front tire, supine, legs crooked to his left, arms outstretched and tossed to his right.

Wayne Gamble’s head had been detached when the Chevy fired forward with great speed and force, slamming his head and neck into the garage’s back wall, crushing them. On impact, bone and brain matter had exploded in all directions.

Feeling a tremor beneath my tongue, I swallowed and drew several deep breaths.

Emotions in check, I dropped onto my haunches for a better look. Larabee did the same on the other side of the car.

I could see stuck to the mangled metal that had been the Chevy’s hood and engine front more bloody tissue, tufts of hair, isolated teeth, and bone fragments that included segments of upper and lower jaw, with dentition in place, and several large sections of skull.

“No chance of a visual ID,” Larabee said.

“No,” I agreed.

“He got family?”

“Not that I know of. His parents are dead.”

As Larabee watched, I took photos.

“I wouldn’t let them move the car until you’d had a chance with this mess.”

“Good call,” I said, pulling on the latex gloves. “If there’s no relative who can provide DNA for comparison, the dentition might be critical for a positive ID, even though we have anecdotal evidence who this is. What happened here?”

“Gamble was working with another mechanic, performing some test where you lift the rear wheels up, then rev the accelerator to hell and back. I forget what it’s called, but apparently it really stresses the engine.”

Larabee watched me tweeze up a molar and place it in a Ziploc.

“The other guy left to pee and grab coffee. Says he was gone maybe twenty minutes. When he got back, the car was against the wall, Gamble was down, and his brain was hamburger. His phrasing, not mine.”

“The rear wheels must have made contact and engaged, and the car fired forward, smashing Gamble’s skull against the concrete.”

“Yeah. Body position suggests he was leaning over with his head between the wall and the front grille. Only the guy says there’s no way something like that can happen. Says he and Gamble run this test before every race. Swears it’s safe.”

“So is swimming. Still, people drown.”

“Amen.”

Every few minutes Reno would shout through the open door, anxious to cue the tow truck.

“What’s with Reno?” I asked Larabee, voice low.

“Stupak’s people no doubt want immediate access to the car to see if it can be repaired for the race or if they need to go to a backup.”

“Seems cold. What time was he found?”

“Just past nine.”

“Jesus. Word travels fast.”

“You’ve got that right. News teams were already shouldering for real estate when I arrived. Apparently some reporter cold-called Stupak’s trailer and questioned one of his kids who happened to be there.”

“That’s ghoulish.”

“You need me for anything?”

“Anything new on Ted Raines?”

“Not yet. Legally we can’t get dental records until an MP actually turns up dead. But Raines’s wife allowed the Georgia authorities to search his computer’s hard drive and his cell phone records.”

I nodded. My thoughts weren’t really on Raines at that moment.

“I’m good here,” I said.

“I’m going to step out to talk to Hawkins.”

For the next hour and a half, I collected what I could reach, gently teasing teeth and bone shards from the engine block, or plucking them from the wheels, undercarriage, walls, and ceiling.

As I tweezed, packaged, and jotted identifying information for each specimen, sound bites looped in my mind. Gamble insisting he was being followed. Claiming someone had broken into his trailer. Saying he was about to confront his pursuer.

Had this been an accident? Or were we looking at a murder?

It was one a.m. when I finally emerged from the garage. My work was done. Larabee would now continue with examination and recovery of the remains.

While I’d been collecting what remained of Gamble’s head, the assemblage outside had grown. Galimore had arrived with the Speedway’s director of operations and several more security personnel.

Sandy Stupak had also appeared. He, Hawkins, and Larabee were discussing ways to tow the Chevy with the least amount of damage.

As I listened, it became clear that their concerns differed. Larabee and Hawkins were eager to preserve the body and its surroundings. Stupak was worried for his #59 car.

I was placing my jars and Baggies in the transport van when I heard the crunch of tires, followed by the thunk of a car door.

I turned.

And couldn’t believe who was walking toward me.

WILLIAMS AND RANDALL WORE THE SAME BLUE SUITS AND TIES, white shirts, and stern expressions they’d featured when ambushing me on Saturday.

“Evening, Special Agents,” I said when they were ten feet out.

Both looked surprised. I think.

“Dr. Brennan.” As before, Williams did the talking. “Nice to see you. Though not under these circumstances.”

“What are these circumstances?” I asked.

“That’s what we’re here to ascertain.”

“Good word, ‘ascertain.’ ”

“Yes. May I ask why a forensic anthropologist was needed here?”

“I managed to get most of Gamble’s head.” I hooked a thumb toward the van at my back. “The small pieces are in Ziplocs. The big hunks are in jars.”

Randall lost control. Blinked.

Williams’s face remained carefully neutral. “Could you elaborate?”

I did.

After a long pause, Williams spoke again. “You’ve been in recent contact with Mr. Gamble, isn’t that correct?”

“He came to my office last Friday, wondering if the landfill John Doe could be his sister. He phoned me several times after that, but we only spoke once. Detective Slidell and I interviewed him here around nine this morning.”

“As part of your reinvestigation of the Gamble-Lovette disappearances?”

“It’s hardly a formal reinvestigation.”

“Yes. Did Mr. Gamble say anything to lead you to believe he might be despondent?”

“Despondent? How is that relevant to what we have here? You’re not seriously suggesting he could have killed himself?” I wasn’t believing the question.

“I’m not suggesting anything. During your conversations, did Mr. Gamble express concern about anything? Other than his sister, of course.”

“He felt there might have been a break-in at his trailer. And that he was being followed.”

Again I felt the gut-wrenching guilt.

“Go on,” Williams urged.

“Today he left a message saying he was going to confront the guy.”

“Had he discovered the identity of the person surveilling him?”

“Obviously he thought he had. Otherwise, how could he confront the guy?”

“Do you recall anything else?”

“Not really.”

“Think, Dr. Brennan.”

I shrugged. “He was feeling lousy.”

“How so?”

“He thought he had the flu.”

Did I imagine it? Or did Williams and Randall both stiffen?

“May I ask why the FBI was needed here?” I borrowed a line from Williams’s playbook.

“As I stated during our initial conversation, the FBI very much wants to know what happened to Cale Lovette and Cindi Gamble. The young woman disappeared under suspicious circumstances. Her brother has now met a violent death. Shortly after you reopened her case.”

“I haven’t the authority to reopen a case.” It came out more defensive than I intended.

“You take my meaning.”

I did. And couldn’t disagree. So I said nothing.

“While the bureau has confidence in the competence of local authorities, Special Agent Randall and I have been asked to remain active in the investigation. Any help you can offer will be much appreciated.”

Williams let that hang out there a moment, but I didn’t bite.

“Thank you. We’ll want to see you and Dr. Larabee when he’s finished the autopsy.”

“So you can steal Gamble’s body?” Snarky, but the guy’s prim superiority was pissing me off. And I was exhausted.

“I assume that will take place tomorrow?”

“I don’t determine Dr. Larabee’s schedule.”

Williams did that maybe-smile thing with his lips. Then he and Randall strode into the crowd, blue and red lights slashing their somber dark suits.

Before leaving, I told Larabee about Williams and Randall. He said he planned to autopsy Gamble first thing in the morning. I said I’d be there.

While I was driving home, then lying in bed, different scenarios played in my head. Most, when prodded, showed serious fault lines.

Gamble killed himself. But how could he drop the wheels from the position in which he was found? Plus, the man had given no indication of suicidal intent. He was actively pursuing his job and seeking to learn about his sister.

Gamble fell, dislodging the car from its jack. But I’d read that a NASCAR cup car must weigh a minimum of 3,400 pounds. How could something that heavy accidentally be knocked loose? And it was the rear wheels that had to hit the ground for the car to surge forward. Gamble was at the front.

Gamble made an error. It happens. He was feeling unwell. But what kind of error?

Gamble’s coworker had accidentally caused his death, then lied about being elsewhere. Why? Was the man afraid of losing his coveted position on Stupak’s pit crew?

Gamble was murdered. He believed someone was following him, was intent on confrontation. Had his suspicions been more than paranoia?

One uncertainty blossomed again and again, drowning out other thoughts like a drunken uncle at a family gathering.

Was I somehow responsible for Wayne Gamble’s death, or at least responsible for a killer remaining unknown, because I had not returned a call in which Gamble might have identified the person?

The next morning I woke crazy-early, the same questions swirling in my brain. While making coffee, I turned the TV to the morning news. Flicked channels. Every station was reporting on Gamble, speculating less on how he had died than on how his death would affect the upcoming race and season.

To calm my nerves, I took my coffee to the garden to watch daybreak over the roof of Sharon Hall. It wasn’t much of a dawn. The sun was just a fuzzy bronze disk behind overstuffed clouds. Looking at the anemic performance, I thought not even Kipling could turn it into poetry.

At seven I left for the MCME.

And again encountered the Fifth Estate. Cars and vans packed the lot, and reporters and news crews stood talking in small clusters. I recognized the locals. WBTV. WSOC. WCCB. Others were anyone’s guess.

I noticed that Larabee’s car was parked in its usual slot. Hawkins’s truck was also present.

When I got out of my Mazda, cameras went to shoulders and mikes went to mouths. I heard murmured words, my name, then the questions began.

“Dr. Brennan, can you tell us anything about what happened?”

“When will Dr. Larabee finish the autopsy?”

“Why were you at the Speedway?”

“Word is Gamble’s body was mutilated. Can you comment—”

Ignoring the onslaught, I wormed my way through the crowd, hurried up the steps, and entered the building. The glass door swung shut, cutting off the barrage of voices.

Larabee had Gamble on a table in the main autopsy room. He and Hawkins were already finishing the external exam.

“You were up with the birds,” I said.

“Some dickhead called my home at five this morning.”

“How did he get your number?”

Above his mask, Larabee’s eyes made the point that my question was stupid. It was.

“You’ve heard of high-profile?” Larabee said. “This one’s going to be in the stratosphere.”

“Any issues with ID?”

“Not really. Gamble’s wallet was in his pocket. The other mechanic was right there with him. Guy’s name is Toczek. Still, I’d like you to reconstruct as much of the dentition as you can. We’ll shoot X-rays, do a comparison just to be safe.”

“You have dental records?”

“They’re coming.”

“Any reason to doubt Toczek’s story?”

“Williams and Randall didn’t think so. They grilled him so hard I thought the poor bastard would puke on his shoes.”

“I suspect we’ll have the pleasure of their company in the very near future.”

I was right. Mrs. Flowers announced their arrival at eleven-fifteen.

I was placing the last of Gamble’s cranial fragments into a boiler basket for final removal of flesh. Hawkins was shooting X-rays of his teeth. Larabee was stitching the Y on his chest.

Williams and Randall cooled their heels in reception while the boss and I showered and changed from surgical scrubs. The four of us then gathered in Larabee’s office.

Our visitors wore identical frowns. Annoyed at having to wait? Unhappy with developments in the investigation? With life in general? Because of their arrogance, I couldn’t have cared less.

Larabee’s face was also unnaturally stiff. Lack of sleep? Or had the autopsy revealed something disturbing?

As usual, Williams lasered straight to the point. “What did you find?”

Larabee stiffened at the man’s brusqueness. “Death due to exsanguination resulting from massive cranial trauma and decapitation.”

“Did the body show any defensive injuries?”

If the question surprised Larabee, he didn’t let on.

“I observed bruising in the right wrist area and a slight abrasion on the back of the right hand. Both injuries appeared to have occurred shortly before death. I cannot conclusively attribute them to any specific cause.”

“Anything else?”

“The stomach and intestinal linings were severely inflamed. I noted internal bleeding, widespread irritation of the mucous membranes, and early signs of vascular collapse and multiorgan failure. The stool that I collected contained blood.”

“So Gamble was sick.”

“He was probably suffering from excessive thirst, a sore throat, perhaps difficulty swallowing. He may have had nausea, abdominal cramping, vomiting, diarrhea, or a combination of these symptoms. It’s possible he was experiencing general weakness, perhaps drowsiness and disorientation.”

“What’s your diagnosis?” Williams asked.

“The configuration could mean many things. I’ve taken samples. Until I have tox results, I can’t be sure.”

Larabee paused a moment before continuing.

“What I find noteworthy is that the pathological fingerprint presenting in Wayne Gamble is identical to that which presented in the landfill John Doe.”

What the flip? The landfill John Doe had been poisoned with ricin. Was Larabee suggesting the same thing had happened to Gamble?

The special agents locked eyes for what seemed a very long time. Finally Williams nodded.

Randall withdrew a paper from the pocket of his really dark suit. Half rising, he tossed it onto the desk.

As Larabee read, my mind flew in a zillion directions. I pictured the empty water bottles, the tissues, and the Pepto in Gamble’s car. The man had called me and I’d blown him off. Once more, I had to hammer back the guilt.

“So.” Larabee looked up and gave a slow roll of his shoulders. “What now?”

“GAMBLE’S SYMPTOMS FIT WITH ABRIN POISONING, AM I CORRECT?”

Abrin? I was expecting ricin.

“Yes,” Larabee said.

“What can you tell me about it.” Williams laced his fingers and dropped his hands onto his genitals.

“Abrin is also known as agglutinin or toxalbumin. It’s a highly toxic lectin found in the seeds of Abrus precatorius, the rosary pea.”

“How does it work?”

“Like ricin, abrin attacks cells from the inside, inhibiting protein synthesis and causing the cells to die. As the toxin penetrates the body, more and more tissues are destroyed. This leads to organ failure and eventual death.”

“How quickly?”

Larabee shrugged one shoulder. “Hours or days. It depends on the dose and the route of exposure.”

“Route of exposure?”

“One could touch a surface on which abrin particles or droplets have landed, or particles or droplets could land on the skin or in the eyes. One could inhale abrin if it’s in the form of a mist or powder. One could ingest it if it’s in food or water.”

“That’s it?”

“I suppose pellets, or abrin dissolved in a liquid, could be injected into a person’s body.”

“How common is accidental exposure?”

“Not common, though it happens.”

“Give me a scenario.”

“Rosary pea seeds are used to make jewelry and percussion instruments, mostly in India or Indonesia. I think the products are illegal in this country. Anyway, there have been cases in which broken seeds have exposed the wearer.”

“So, in all likelihood, it would take a deliberate act to obtain abrin, either from rosary pea seeds or from some other source, and use it to poison someone?”

“In all likelihood. Now, I want to know—”

“If ingested, how much is required to kill a human being?”

“Very little.”

Williams curled his fingers in a “give me more” gesture.

“One seed would probably do it.” Larabee tapped the paper on his blotter. “Now. My turn. How was this sample obtained?”

Williams answered with carefully chosen phrasing. “Early this morning, Special Agent Randall and I entered an unlocked vehicle licensed to Wayne Gamble and collected a coffee mug clearly visible through an open window.”

“Your lab has an amazingly fast turnaround time.” I couldn’t help myself.

“This case has top priority.”

“Why is that?”

“The FBI has obtained information that”—Williams paused for another vetting—“bumped our request to the front of the queue.”

“This is your interpretation of normal professional exchange?” Disdain chilled my words.

Larabee had had it. Before Williams could respond, he jumped in. “Dick with this office, you’ll wish you were working a coal mine in Guizhou province.”

Williams and Randall exchanged another of their Men in Black glances. Then Williams graced us with a crumb of an explanation.

“Ted Raines works at the CDC but supplements his income with part-time employment at Emory University. The project on which he is a lab technician is funded by the U.S. Army Zumwalt Countermeasures to Biological and Chemical Warfare program. The project’s research focuses on the fate and mobility of environmentally dispersed phytotoxins.”

“Such as ricin and abrin,” I said.

“Yes.”

“So Raines has access to these substances.”

“Theoretically.”

For a full minute we all let that percolate. Down the hall, I heard my office phone ring.

I broke the silence. “The landfill John Doe showed signs of ricin poisoning. Wayne Gamble shows signs of abrin poisoning. Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette disappeared in 1998. Ted Raines has now vanished. You believe these facts are interrelated?”

“That is correct.”

“How?”

“The FBI would very much like to know.”

“Why did the FBI order my John Doe torched?” Larabee spat the letters as though they were a bad taste on his tongue.

“That is hardly a fair assessment.”

“Why was the Lovette-Gamble file confiscated?” I asked.

“I cannot confirm bureau involvement in that.”

“You had that one all loaded up.” Larabee was growing more steamed with each of Williams’s evasive replies. “Tell me, then. What is the FBI doing to resolve this whole mess?”

“The bureau is working with local law enforcement to determine Mr. Raines’s whereabouts.”

“Probably six feet under, like Gamble and Lovette and the poor slob from the landfill.”

Williams ignored Larabee’s outburst.

“With the consent of Mr. Raines’s wife, experts are searching the hard drive from his home computer. Unfortunately, his laptop goes with him when he travels. Mr. Raines’s cell phone records are also under scrutiny.”

“Unfortunately, his cell phone goes with him when he travels.” Larabee’s sarcasm had the atomic weight of lead.

“We have established that Raines’s mobile was not used after Monday last week. A call was made from Charlotte to the Raines’s home landline. We are also looking at the GPS on Raines’s second vehicle.”

“Which, unfortunately, was in his driveway when the poor schmo fell off the planet.” Larabee stood, anger barely in check. “This is bullshit. Get back to me when you’re ready to share what you learned by stealing my stiff.”

Williams and Randall rose, smiled tightly, and took their leave.

Back in my office I had not one but two phone messages. Both were unexpected.

I returned the calls in the order in which they came in. And slammed into yet more anger.

“Galimore.” Curt.

“It’s Dr. Brennan.”

“Oh. Sorry. Didn’t check the caller ID.”

“I was surprised to hear from you. Figured you’d be completely jammed up with the situation at the Speedway.”

“They’ve turned me into a goddamn traffic cop!” Galimore sounded furious. “The bastards won’t let me anywhere near the garage area. Did you know there’s some question Gamble died by accident?”

“Yes.”

“Hallelujah! Everyone’s in the loop but the head of security!”

“Williams and Randall were here.”

“The freaking FBI. This happened on my patch. And what do I get to do? Freaking crowd control!”

“You going to break down now?”

“What?”

“It’s manly and all. But I’m not good with tears.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Getting in touch with your feminine side.”

For a moment I heard nothing but background noise. Then Gali-more chuckled. “You’re a real wiseass, you know that.”

“Yes. Why did you call?”

“While my people play mall cop, I’m going to do some real police work. You want to meet Craig Bogan?”

I did.

Gamble’s cranial fragments wouldn’t be ready for analysis for twenty-four hours. I had no other cases.

Hawkins would disapprove. Ditto Slidell.

Screw Hawkins and Slidell.

“I’m at the MCME,” I said. “Where shall I meet you?”

“Right outside. I’ll be there in thirty.”

I disconnected and dialed again.

This time the anger was pointed at me.

“What the hell are you thinking?”

“Good morning, Detective. Going to be another hot one out there.”

“Cotton Galimore is a slime-spewing, amoral, bastard of a scumbag.”

I had to give Slidell credit. His prose was creative.

“Don’t hold back,” I said.

“You’ve got no business breathing air with that freak show. He’ll use you, then ditch you like a snotty tissue.”

“Perhaps I’m using him.”

“Galimore’s a booger that you can’t flick off.”

“That was good. The way you expanded the metaphor.”

“What?”

“Why did you call?”

“The impending gang war turned out to be a cheating ex taking revenge on the love of his life. Killed her and the boyfriend, put the lady’s brother in the ICU.”

It is one of the most common causes of violence against women. The man threatens. The woman asks for protection, maybe gets a restraining order. Big help. The cops finally step in when Mr. Tough Guy actually batters or kills her. Every time I hear of a case like that, I feel the same outrage and frustration.

“If I can’t have you, no one can,” I said, voice coated with disgust.

“Yeah. Noble. Anyways, I’ve got a little downtime now, so I plan to check out the car Gamble and Lovette drove off in the night they disappeared.”

“The ’sixty-five Mustang described by Grady Winge.”

“Yeah. I’m thinking there couldn’t have been many of those. Wish I had the original damn file. I’m probably reinventing the wheel.”

“Are DMV registration records kept that long?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Any mention of the car in Eddie’s notes?”

“That’s where I plan to start.”

I told Slidell about Larabee’s autopsy results. And about the abrin found in Wayne Gamble’s coffee.

“What the hell’s abrin?”

I provided a quick overview. Slidell saw the connection right away. “Like the shit what killed the landfill John Doe.”

“We don’t know if the man died of ricin poisoning. He’d also suffered head trauma.”

“Guess you could say that about Gamble.”

“But it’s not just the abrin,” I said.

I told Slidell about Gamble’s calls to me, about his anxiety, and about his decision to confront the person tailing him.

“So the FBI’s thinking Wayne Gamble got iced. Why?”

“I don’t know. But there’s more.”

I relayed what Williams had shared concerning Ted Raines.

“The feebs are fingering Raines?”

“No one’s suggesting that Raines killed Gamble.”

“Then what’s the link?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re saying that a lot.”

I hesitated, decided it was better to have everyone on the same page. Leaving out the part about the shotgun, I described the encounter with Eugene Fries.

“I’m telling you. Galimore is a snake.”

“Let it go.”

Angry air whistled in and out of Slidell’s nose for several seconds. “Who would have threatened this guy Fries?”

“I’ve no clue. But they made an impression.”

“Who’s wrong? Fries or Winge?”

“Yes.”

A beat.

“You think one of them lied?”

“I don’t know. But I think Owen Poteat may have.”

I walked Slidell through my interpretation of Rinaldi’s coded note.

“Sonofafrigginbitch,” he said.

“Sonofafrigginbitch,” I agreed.

GALIMORE ARRIVED BEARING CHICK-FIL-A. HIS SHIRT WAS wrinkled and sweat-stained under the arms. His eyes were puffy, his cheeks unshaven. Not the sexy unkept look Bruce Willis sometimes features. The up-all-night-and-grungy version.

Though the food was good, Galimore’s mood was not.

We ate in tense silence.

When I asked our destination, I got one word. Weddington.

As I bunched and rebagged my sandwich wrapper and waffle-fries carton, I considered briefing Galimore on the autopsy, the abrin, and the other info obtained from Williams and Randall.

Not yet.

“What does Bogan do?” I asked.

“I already told you.”

“Indulge me.”

“He grows vegetables.”

“You look like you didn’t get much sleep.”

“I’m fine.”

“I spoke with Slidell this morning.”

“Always reason for rejoicing.”

“He questions your motive for looking at the Gamble-Lovette case after all these years.”

Galimore snorted.

“It wouldn’t hurt to talk to him.”

“I’d rather take a punch to the balls.”

Okay, then.

Galimore turned from Providence onto Weddington Road, which soon veered southeast. Through my window I watched malls and subdivision entrances slide past. I pictured the pretentious homes beyond the flawlessly quaint signs, each trying to be Tudor, or Tuscan, or Provençal. A few years back the area had been farmland. Where had all the countryside gone?

Eventually we entered a stretch of woodland. Galimore made a right, then another, then a third into a driveway. An engraved wooden placard announced our arrival at CB Botanicals.

Through a stand of pines, I could see a bungalow, beyond it a greenhouse. Beside the greenhouse was a small pond.

The bungalow was old but well kept. The siding was blue, probably the kind that never needed painting. The door was red, the gutters and window trim white.

The gardens bordering the house were lavish with color. I recognized some flowers. Phlox, daisies, lilies, begonias. Most I didn’t.

A kid was up on a ladder, pulling leaves from a gutter along the house’s right side. He had wires coming from both ears and didn’t look up at the sound of our car.

Galimore and I got out and followed a walk bisecting a luxuriantly green lawn. The air smelled of jasmine and fresh-cut grass. From somewhere, I heard the tic-tic of a sprinkler.

Galimore thumbed the bell. A muted chime bonged inside the house.

Seconds passed. Galimore was reaching out again when the door swung inward.

The woman was tall and weighed approximately the same as my purse. She wore black spandex shorts and an oversize tee atop a black sports bra. Which was not needed. She held a plastic water bottle in one hand.

“Yes?”

Galimore flashed some sort of badge, quickly jammed it back into his pocket.

“Sorry to disturb your workout, ma’am. We’re looking for Craig Bogan.” Sunny as could be.

“Why?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

“Then so are his whereabouts.”

Galimore beamed a megawatt smile. “My bad. Let’s start again.” The woman took a long slug from the bottle. “You think my tits are saggy?”

“Far from it.”

“Craig does.”

“Then Craig needs corrective lenses.”

“He needs more than that.” The woman stuck out a hand. “Reta Yountz.”

They shook so forcefully, Reta’s bracelet jumped like a string of ladybugs doing a conga.

“Craig would be Craig Bogan?” Galimore asked.

Reta nodded.

“Your husband?”

“Jesus, no. We just live together.”

Reta tipped her head to one side and opened her lips ever so slightly. Her face had a sheen of perspiration that made her cheeks shine.

“Maybe I’ll get a boob job.” Looking directly at Galimore.

“A totally unnecessary expenditure.” Looking straight back.

I fought an impulse to roll my eyes.

As Galimore worked his charm, I studied Reta. Her hair was pulled carelessly up and held back by an elastic band. I guessed her age at around forty.

“We’d like to ask your boyfriend a few questions.” Galimore was oozing charisma. “Nothing big.”

“You’ll come back and see me afterwards?” Reta used the hem of the tee to wipe her throat, exposing a rock-hard midriff.

“You can count on it.”

“He’s in the greenhouse.”

The greenhouse was one of those glass and metal affairs that, from a distance, look like the skeleton of an actual building. This one was much larger than I’d expected, big enough to accommodate a couple of small planes.

When we entered, the heat and humidity felt like a living thing. The air was heavy with the smells of fertilizer, loam, and compost.

Overhead, the glass walls arched into a high dome. Underfoot, the ground was covered with gravel.

Rows of wooden planters shot the length of the building, each outfitted with pipes that ran upward into more pipes that I assumed were a central irrigation system. Baskets hung from hooks. Pots sat on the floor.

There was so much flora I could almost hear the photosynthesis going on around me. I knew some easy ones. Basil, impatiens, ferns, geraniums. The rest were a leafy green mystery.

We both looked around. Bogan was nowhere in sight.

Galimore called out, got no response.

When he called out again, a voice bellowed from beyond an open door at the greenhouse’s far end. We walked toward it between stands of toddler azaleas. Already my hair was lank and my shirt was sticking to my back.

The owner of the voice was in a small room that appeared to function as some sort of prep area. He was kneeling beside a barrel and, on hearing our approach, swiveled, trowel in one hand.

Bogan’s hair, once red, was now salmon-gray. Rosacea made it hard to tell where his pink face ended and his scalp began.

From Bogan’s greeting, I guessed the greenhouse had few walk-in customers.

“Who the hell are you?”

Galimore did the quick badge-flip thing. “We have a few questions for you, Mr. Bogan.”

“Questions about what?”

“Your son.”

“You have news of my son?”

“No, sir. We were hoping you might.”

I noticed a tremor in Bogan’s hand as he lay down the trowel. Double-gripping the barrel rim, he slowly pulled himself to his feet.

The word “flamingo” popped into my mind. The coloring. The spindly legs. Bogan’s upper body seemed far too bulky for his lower limbs to support.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Cotton Galimore. My associate is Dr. Temperance Brennan.”

Bogan bounced a glance off me but asked no follow-up question.

“We’ve been looking into the disappearances of Cindi Gamble and your son, Cale.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bogan’s eyes narrowed. “Do I know you?”

“I was on the task force back in 1998.” Galimore left it at that.

Bogan seemed to consider, let it go. “The police have reopened the case?”

Galimore did not correct Bogan’s misinterpretation that he was still on the job. “Last week a body was found in a landfill next to the Charlotte Motor Speedway. You may have seen media reports.”

“I don’t follow the news.” A nod in my direction. “What’s her connection?”

“Dr. Brennan examined that body.”

Bogan turned to me. “Was it Cale?”

“I think it’s unlikely.”

“But you don’t know.”

“Not with complete certainty.”

Bogan opened his mouth. Before he could speak, music burst from my purse.

Apologizing, I withdrew a few steps, dug out my mobile, and clicked on.

And immediately regretted ignoring the caller ID.

“Sweet baby Jesus, Tempe. My life’s going to hell in a hand-basket.”

“I can’t talk now, Summer.” Hand-cupping my mouth.

“I’m going to die. I really am. No person on this earth—”

“I’ll help you later.”

“When?”

“Whenever.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“You really cross-your-heart will?”

“Yes,” I hissed.

Behind me, I heard Bogan ask, “You on some sort of personal crusade?”

“Nothing like that,” Galimore said. “I just always felt we left that investigation a little too soon.”

Outside the glass, the pond looked flat and gray, a pewter disk compressed by the afternoon’s oppressive heat and humidity.

“Say it,” Summer whined.

“Yes.”

“Say you promise.”

“I promise.”

“I’ve completely given up on Petey. I don’t like passing judgment on other people’s taste. But if you take my meaning—”

“I have to go.”

I was turning back to the others when something velvety brushed my elbow.

A tarantula image replaced the flamingo.

My instincts acted without clearance from my higher centers.

My hand flew up.

The mobile shot skyward, then augured into the gravel at Galimore’s feet.

“I’ll get it. I’m already covered with cow flop.”

Before I could respond, Bogan scooped up the iPhone, stepped to a sideboard, and wiped each surface with a rag. “Good as new.” Handing it back.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Daytona’s manners need improving.”

At my confused look, Bogan pointed to a straight-back wooden chair beside the door. On it, a black cat sat grooming itself, one leg shooting the air like a Ziegfeld girl’s.

“It’s sticky in here,” Bogan said. “Let’s go to my den.”

We walked single-file, Bogan, then Galimore, then I. Daytona abandoned his toilette to bring up the rear.

The house’s interior was dim. And at least a zillion degrees cooler than the greenhouse.

The front door opened into a small foyer. Beyond, on the right, stairs rose to a second floor. Nothing fancy. No carved spindles or sweeping handrail. Just treads and banisters screwed into the walls.

Through the ceiling came muted thuds I assumed were footfalls on a treadmill. I had to credit Reta. She was booking.

Bogan led us down a central hall past amateur watercolors hung in cheap plastic frames. A landscape. A bowl of fruit. A gaudy bouquet.

In a few short steps we reached a kitchen, and the hall made a ninety-degree turn.

“I’ll get some sodas.” A skinny finger pointed to an open door. “Y’all go in there.”

Galimore and I went left as directed and entered what had to be Bogan’s den.

I could only stare in amazement.

THE ROOM HELD A SCRUFFY LEATHER COUCH AND MATCHING chair, a battered oak coffee table, and a flat-screen TV the size of a highway billboard. The rest of the room was a testimonial to NASCAR.

Display cases and shelving lined the walls, all crammed to overflowing. Above the cases hung framed posters, photos, and memorabilia. Freestanding items filled every unoccupied inch of floor space.

It was doubtful the Hall of Fame had more on exhibit.

My eyes roved the assemblage.

A hunk of asphalt carved into the numeral 3 and labeled as coming from turn one at Daytona. A life-size cutout of Denny Hamlin. A hunk of red sheet metal with some driver’s name incised into the surrounding plastic casing. Autographed trading cards. Commemorative coins in velvet boxes. Flags. Sweatshirts. Caps. Die-cast models of hundreds of cars.

I guessed some of the items could be valuable. A black-and-white print that looked at least fifty years old. Team suits that seemed way out of date. A car door with the number 24 painted on the outside.

“Can you believe all this shit?” Galimore was equally stunned.

“The man is a fan,” I said.

“More like a fanatic.”

I crossed to look at some of the poster-size photos. Jimmie Johnson, kissing the ground after winning the 2007 Brickyard. Jeff Gordon, making a pit stop. Tony Stewart, raising an index finger at Watkins Glen.

I checked the old picture. It showed a man wearing goggles and high boots straddling an old-fashioned motorcycle.

“You know who that is?” Bogan was standing in the doorway holding three cans of Pepsi.

I studied the scrawled signature. “Erwin Baker?”

“Erwin ‘Cannonball’ Baker won the first race ever held at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. That was in 1909, when the track was brand-new. Cannonball cycled back and forth across the country more than a hundred times, later served as commissioner of NASCAR. The guy was a legend.”

Bogan held out a Pepsi. I took it.

“That was before the fancy-pantsification of stock car racing. Before diversification.” He elongated the second syllable to show his disdain.

“Sorry?”

“Back in the day everyone knew whose sport it was. And drivers were tough.”

“They’re not tough now?”

“Back then men were men.”

“Mister, we could use a man like Herbert Hoover again.” Without mirth. I didn’t like the vibe I was getting.

“What?’

“Never mind.”

Bogan gave Galimore a Pepsi, then dropped into the chair and threw his bird legs over one arm.

Galimore and I sat on opposite ends of the couch. Almost immediately he slipped his cell from his pocket, clicked on, and spoke into it.

“Hold on.” To us. “Sorry. Got to take this.” Galimore set down his soda and stepped out into the hall.

“You’re here because Wayne Gamble got himself killed, right?”

“I thought you didn’t keep up with the news,” I said.

“I don’t. I watch racing. Gamble’s an item because of the Coca-Cola 600. Stupak’s a favorite. Was a favorite.”

“Did you know Wayne Gamble?”

“Knew his sister.” Bogan popped the tab on his can. “What do you want from me?”

“Your thoughts on what happened to your son.”

“I’ve got none.”

“Tell me what you remember.”

“Diddly-squat. I hardly saw Cale once he hooked up with Cindi Gamble. Why ask me now? You’ve got my statement.”

“Just trying to see if anything may have been missed. Did you try to find Cale on your own?” I opened and sipped my Pepsi. It was warm, but I wanted Bogan to feel at ease.

“I contacted everyone I could think of. Trouble was, I didn’t know much about the kid’s life. The only thing he and I ever shared was NASCAR.”

“You and Cale were estranged,” I said.

“He blamed me for his mother’s death. Like I could have prevented it? The woman was an alkie and a crackhead.”

“Do you believe your son left the area voluntarily?”

“Yeah. I can believe that.”

“Why?”

“He and his girlfriend were all caught up in that movement.”

“The Patriot Posse.”

“Look, Cale had been living on his own for six years.” Defensive. “He was twenty-four. I had no control over who he hung out with. Not that I disagreed with everything they were saying.”

“Do you know Grady Winge?” I asked.

“Isn’t he the guy who saw Cale and his girlfriend driving off in a ’sixty-five Petty-blue Mustang?”

“Yes.”

Again, jazz erupted from my purse.

“I’m so sorry. I thought I’d switched it to vibrate also.”

“Blame Daytona.”

I reached in and flicked a button. When I sat back, Bogan was eyeing me oddly.

“Grady Winge?” I asked.

“I knew Winge to shoot the breeze. We talked gardening a couple of times. But I don’t leave home to watch races anymore.” He gestured at the TV. “Got a better seat right here.”

“What about Eugene Fries?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Fries was a concession-stand worker at the Speedway in 1998.”

“That narrows it to a couple hundred people.”

Galimore rejoined us. Again apologized for the interruption.

I let him take over.

“Talk about Cindi Gamble.”

Bogan screwed his lips to one side and shook his head.

“You didn’t like her?”

“Wasn’t much to like or dislike. The word I’d use is ‘ordinary.’ But she had some crazy-ass ideas.”

“Such as?”

“The little girl wanted to drive NASCAR.”

“Why was that crazy?”

“Cindi Gamble was as likely to drive NASCAR as I am to swim naked with Julia Roberts.”

“She did well with Bandoleros.”

Bogan snorted derisively. “I saw a couple of those races. That gal couldn’t steer her way around a toilet bowl. Cale could outdrive her any day of the week.”

Daytona chose that moment to stroll in and jump onto Bogan’s lap.

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude. But I’ve got bougainvillea needs fertilizing.”

I looked at Galimore. He nodded.

I hit Bogan with my standard closer. “What do you think happened back in ’ninety-eight?”

Bogan shrugged.

“At the time, did you agree with the task force finding?”

“Who was I to disagree?”

“Do you still accept it?”

Bogan stroked Daytona for a while before answering.

“All those years, I kept waiting for a call, a letter, a telegram, anything to let me know that my son was alive. Every time I returned to this house, I checked the answering machine. Every time the mail arrived, I looked for Cale’s handwriting. It became an obsession. Pointless, but I couldn’t help myself. Then one day I stopped.”

Bogan drew air into his nose, slowly released it. Then he looked me straight in the eye.

“I don’t know what happened back then. Cale took off to marry his girlfriend? Went into hiding? Got himself killed? You tell me. I gave up trying to figure it out.”

“Herbert Hoover?”

Galimore and I were back in the car.

“I thought Bogan was going all Archie Bunker,” I said.

“You’re far too young to remember All in the Family.”

“Save the enchantment for Reta.”

“You think Bogan’s a racist?”

“Did you hear how he pronounced ‘diversification,’ as though it were a dirty word?” I hooked quotation marks in the air. “‘Back in the day everyone knew whose sport it was.’ Give me a break.”

“The man likes cats.”

“A point in his favor. I also think Bogan’s a homophobe.” More quote marks. “‘Men were men’? Did the dolt really say that?”

“The line was good enough for Archie and Edith.”

“I know there are rumors, but has anyone in NASCAR actually come out?”

“Evan Darling. He’s a Grand-Am driver. But most stay deep in the closet.”

“If Bogan’s attitude is typical, I can see why.”

“There’s a growing fan base among the gay community. Quite a few websites. Gaytona.com. Queers4Gears.com. GayWheels.com.”

“Who knew?”

“You talked to Bogan more than I did. What was your take?”

“His grief over losing Cale seemed genuine. But his view of Cindi Gamble doesn’t square with what I’ve heard from others.”

“What others?” Galimore turned north onto Providence Road.

“J. D. Danner, the leader of the Patriot Posse. Danner thought Cindi had a good shot at driving NASCAR.”

“Maybe Bogan was biased. Don’t parents always think their kids are better athletes or artists or whatever compared to everyone else’s kids?”

“Maybe.” I thought a moment. “A teacher named Ethel Bradford said Cindi was highly intelligent. And Lynn Nolan, a high school friend, described her as scary-smart.”

“Bogan wasn’t saying Cindi was dumb. He was saying she was dull.”

I remembered Galimore’s phone interruption. “I hope your call wasn’t bad news.”

“It wasn’t good. There’s a feeding frenzy going on at the Speed-way. I’ve got to get back.”

I checked my watch: 3:20. No wonder I was hungry. There was nothing at home. I’d have to stop for groceries.

Suddenly I remembered something that had fallen through the cracks.

“Lynn Nolan mentioned another of Cindi’s friends. Maddy Padgett. Slidell was going to try to locate her.”

“Did he?”

“I forgot to ask him. When he called, we just talked about the Mustang.”

We wound through town, my thoughts buzzing like wasps in a bottle. So many loose ends. So many unanswered questions.

“Did I tell you that Lynn Nolan thought Cale was abusive to Cindi?”

Galimore turned to me, surprise on his face. “Oh yeah?”

“She thought she spotted bruising on Cindi’s arms.”

“No shit.”

“I think we should talk to Maddy Padgett.”

“We can do that.”

We were almost to the MCME when I remembered the call I’d ignored.

A red dot indicated voice mail.

I tapped the icon and listened.

And felt the tiny hairs on my neck go upright.

I SUCKED IN MY BREATH.

Checked the list of incoming calls.

“Shit.”

Sensing agitation, Galimore glanced my way.

With a shaky finger, I rejabbed the icon.

Listened again.

“Jesus.”

“What’s going on?”

I hit speaker while extending the phone in Galimore’s direction.

The voice was low and deep, the message short.

“You’re next.”

“Play it again,” Galimore ordered.

I did.

“Again.”

We listened to the same two words. Still the meaning was unclear. “Is he saying ‘you’re next’? Or is he saying ‘your next’ and then getting cut off?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Don’t be a smart-ass.”

Galimore was right. I was being a jerk. It’s the game face I wear when frightened.

“If this is a threat, I intend to take it seriously.”

“Thanks, Hulk.”

“Christ, Brennan. Check the number.”

“The call logged in as unknown.”

“Do you recognize the voice?”

“No. Does it sound like the same guy who threatened you?”

“I can’t be sure. But here’s what you’re going to do.”

“I react poorly when people use that opener.”

“Go home. Arm the security system. Stay there. I’ll contact you when I’m done kicking ass at the Speedway.”

“Can I admit strangers if they’re really polite?”

My surgical strike for groceries ended up costing two hundred and forty bucks. But I had provisions to take me into the next millennium.

While I placed cans and boxes in the pantry, fruit in a bowl, and veggies and dairy products in the refrigerator, Birdie chased empty bags across the floor. Periodically, he’d roll to his back and claw the plastic with four upraised paws.

I ate a carton of yogurt, a peach, and two Petit Écolier cookies. Then I went upstairs to peel off my sweaty clothes and shower with my impulse purchase of pomegranate energizing body cleanser.

When I returned to the kitchen, pits, stems, and tiny globs of pulp littered the floor. Great. The little bugger had eaten three cherries and mangled four more.

While waiting for Galimore, I decided to see what I could scare up on abrin. An hour on the Internet taught me the following.

Abrus precatorius goes by many common names, including but not limited to Jequirity, Crab’s Eye, Rosary Pea, John Crow Bead, Precatory Bean, and Indian Licorice.

The plant is a slender perennial climber that twines around trees, shrubs, and hedges. Its leaves are long and pinnate-leafleted. Its seeds are black and red and contain the toxin abrin.

Though native to Indonesia, Abrus precatorius is now found in many tropical and subtropical areas of the world, including the United States. When introduced to new locales, the species tends to become weedy and invasive.

Known as Gunja in Sanskrit and some Indian languages and Ratti in Hindi, Abrus precatorius is used as a traditional unit of measure, mostly by jewelers and Ayurved doctors. The seeds are valued in native jewelry for their bright coloration. In China, they are a symbol of love. In Trinidad, they are worn to ward off evil spirits.

Jewelry-making with Abrus precatorius is considered dangerous work. Death by abrin poisoning has resulted from finger-pricking while boring the seeds for beadwork.

Symptoms are identical in abrin and ricin poisoning. But abrin is more toxic by almost two orders of magnitude.

Abrin is a macromolecular complex consisting of two protein subunits termed A and B. The B chain facilitates abrin’s entry into a cell by bonding to certain transport proteins on the cell membranes. Once inside, the A chain shuts down protein synthesis.

I was eyeballing pictures of the assassin legume when my iPhone started bouncing across the table. I’d forgotten to switch it from vibrate.

“You’ll never guess what I caught.”

“Scabies,” I said.

“What the hell’s scabies?”

“I’m good, Detective Slidell. How are you?” Why couldn’t the guy ever open with a greeting?

“I was up, so I caught your NASCAR pal.”

It took me a moment to translate. “You’re working the Wayne Gamble investigation?”

“Concord asked for help in sorting the thing. You been watching the news? It’s a shitstorm.”

“Galimore said a lot of media were camped out at the Speedway.”

Slidell did the throat thing. At mention of the media? Of Gali-more?

Disregarding Slidell’s censure, I recounted my visit with Craig Bogan.

“And?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the guy keeps a spare bedsheet in his closet.”

“Meaning?”

“I think he’s a bigot.”

“Who don’t he like?”

“Anyone who’s not white and straight.”

“Uh-huh.”

I described the phone threat. If it was a threat.

“Where was Galimore?” Stony.

“Right there with me.”

As the words left my lips, I realized that was wrong.

“So what are you doing?”

I knew Slidell was referring to the call. Chose not to acknowledge.

“Researching abrin,” I said.

“You know what you are, Doc?”

“Crafty on the Internet.”

Slidell clucked disapproval but let it go.

“Looks like Gamble was doing some research of his own.”

I waited for him to explain.

“Grady Winge talked about a ’sixty-five Mustang, right?”

“Right.”

“I found a folder in Gamble’s trailer. He’d traced every ’sixty-five Mustang registered in the Carolinas back in ’ninety-eight.”

“Through NCIC?”

“Hell, no. That’s just for people on the job. You gotta take a class, get a user name and password. It’s mandated by the FBI. If the system was open to every Tom, Dick, and Harry—”

“What about DMV records?”

“No.”

“So how did Gamble do it?”

“Maybe he had inside help. Maybe he requested the original file and was given access. Before some FBI spook snatched the bloody thing, of course.”

“Did Eddie put anything in his notes?”

“Yeah. He tracked down eighteen ’sixty-five Mustangs tagged in North and South Carolina. Ran them all. Fifteen came up legit. The other three owners he could never locate.”

“But Gamble found them.”

“One car belonged to a dead woman. Her daughter-in-law ponied up for a tag every year without even asking questions. The dead lady no longer lived at the Raleigh address listed on the paperwork. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“Where was the Mustang?”

“Rusting in a storage shed.”

“The second car belonged to a collector with a Myrtle Beach address. Same deal. The guy’s assistant relicensed annually, not knowing the thing was sitting in a warehouse somewhere with no wheels and no engine. The owner was living in Singapore.”

“So his contact information was also useless.”

“The third car belonged to a retired army sergeant. He’d moved the vehicle to Texas but kept the South Carolina plate. When Eddie tried to call, the line had probably been disconnected.”

“So those three owners were effectively lost to the system back in ’ninety-eight.”

“Yeah. But Gamble found them. And all three are dead ends.”

“Like the other fifteen.”

“You’ve got it.”

“How could such a unique vehicle remain untraceable?”

“Good question.”

“Could Winge have been wrong?”

“He was very specific.” I heard paper rustle. “At the Speedway, he told us it was a ’sixty-five Petty-blue Mustang with a lime-green decal on the passenger-side windshield.”

I felt a tickle deep in my brainpan. What?

Slidell shifted gears. “Your gut about Owen Poteat was right on target. In ’ninety-eight the guy was up to his eyeballs in debt. He hadn’t worked in three years, and he’d dropped a ton fighting the little missus over custody. The poor bastard took out loans, eventually sold his house. Still lost his kids. Never again found gainful employment.”

“But somehow he had twenty-six thousand to invest in their college educations.”

“Winning lottery ticket?”

“What are the odds?”

After we disconnected, I spent a little more time on my laptop. And learned a few more disturbing facts.

Abrin is a yellow-white powder that can be released into the air as fine particles. If released outdoors, it has the potential to contaminate agricultural products.

Abrin can be used to poison food and water.

The fatal dose of abrin is approximately seventy-five times smaller than the fatal dose of ricin.

I checked another site. Got a figure. Did some math in my head.

Holy crap.

Abrin can kill with a circulating amount of less than 3 micrograms.

At seven p.m., I broiled a flounder filet and shared it with Birdie. Preferring a mayo-based sauce, he passed on the slaw. Or maybe he just dislikes storebought salads.

I then worked through my in-box.

Several e-mails concerned casework. A pathologist at the LSJML needed clarification on a report. A prosecutor in Charlotte wanted to schedule a meeting. LaManche wondered when I’d return to Montreal.

Others offered the deal of a lifetime. A Rolex watch for fifty bucks. Access to unclaimed funds in an African bank. A cleanser that would make my skin glow like that of a Hollywood star.

Katy was thinking of quitting her job to spend a year in Ireland. She had an offer to tend bar at a pub in Cork. Great.

Ryan had sent an uncharacteristically long message describing his latest therapy session with Lily. He was dismayed at the amount of anger his daughter seemed to harbor. Against him for being absent during her childhood. Against Lutetia for hiding from him the fact of her existence—and for recently abandoning her to return to Nova Scotia.

He wrote that he was discouraged, homesick, and missed my company. The tenor was so heartbreaking, it drilled a hole through my sternum.

But Ryan’s message wasn’t as sad as the one penned by Harry. Recently, my sister and I had received shocking news not dissimilar from that which had altered Ryan’s world.

Harry’s son, Kit, had fathered a child the summer he was sixteen and in Cape Cod at sailing camp. For reasons that would forever remain a mystery, the child’s mother, Coleen Brennan, of an unrelated branch of the clan, had not disclosed to her summer love that he had a daughter.

Victoria “Tory” Brennan was now fourteen. Upon the sudden death of Coleen, Tory had relocated from Massachusetts and was now living with Kit in Charleston.

Harry had a granddaughter. I had a grandniece.

Harry was furious about all the lost years. And despondent over the fact that Kit, wanting to give Tory time to adjust, wouldn’t yet allow his mother to visit.

I was dialing Harry’s number when the front bell chimed. Thinking it was Galimore, I put down the handset and went to the door.

It wasn’t my worst nightmare.

But it was close.

PETE AND SUMMER WERE STANDING CLOSE BUT NOT TOUCHING. Both looked tense, like people waiting in line. Summer held a Nieman Marcus bag by its string handle.

Pasting on a faux smile, I opened the door. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Summer looked like the question stumped her.

“You sure you want to do this?” Pete sounded uncomfortable.

“Sure.” Oh, no. “Come on in.”

Pete was wearing flip-flops, khaki shorts, and a Carmel Country Club golf shirt. Summer had on wedge sandals, a silk tank, and designer camouflage pants that would have unnerved Patton.

Summer swanned straight to the dining room and parked the bag on the table. Pete and I followed.

“Can I get you anything?” I asked. Cyanide and Kool-Aid?

“Merlot would be nice if—”

“We won’t be here that long.” Pete shot me an apologetic grin. “I know you have more important things on your mind.”

“See, Petey. That’s your problem. Our wedding is important. What could be more important?”

Finding a cure for AIDS?

Summer began lifting items from the bag and organizing them into clusters. Napkins. Swatches of fabric. Silver picture frames. A glass container that looked like a giant lab flask.

“Now. The tablecloths will be ecru. The centerpieces will be made up of roses and lilies arranged in these vases.” A cherry-red nail ticked the flask. “These are the napkin possibilities.”

She fanned out the stack. The choices included pink, brown, silver, green, black, and a shade that I took to be ecru.

“And these are the options for the fabric that will drape each chair back.”

She arranged the swatches side by side below the lucky napkin finalists. Over her back, Pete’s eyes met mine.

I crooked a brow. Seriously?

He mouthed, “I owe you.”

Oh, yeah.

Summer straightened. “So. What do you think?”

You don’t have the sense God gave a corn muffin.

“Wow,” I said. “You’ve done a lot of work.”

“Indeed I have.” Summer beamed a smile that could have sold a million tubes of Crest.

How to maneuver the minefield?

Psychology. No chance muffin brain would catch on.

“How would you describe the floral arrangements?” I asked.

“Kind of pink and yellow. But very understated.”

“So you want simple.”

“But elegant. It has to make a statement.”

“Clearly green is out.”

“Clearly.”

As Summer snatched up the first reject, I raised my brows to Pete.

“Very funny,” he mouthed.

“Do you like a monochromatic look?”

Summer regarded me blankly.

“Things being the same color.”

“I like more punch. Ah. I see what y’all mean.”

The ecru napkin disappeared into the bag.

“Stark contrast?”

“Not so much.”

“Then black is probably wrong.”

“Totally.”

Black. Gone.

“An earthy look?”

“Not for summer.” She giggled. “Not me. The season.”

“Then forget brown.”

Gone.

That left silver and pink.

“Are you leaning toward one of the patterns?” I asked.

“I love this one.” She stroked a swatch with ghastly pink swirls on a cream background.

I remembered the outfit she’d worn on her last visit.

Bingo.

I laid the pink napkin artfully across the swirly swatch of fabric.

“Yes!” Summer clapped in glee. “Yes! Yes! I agree! See, Petey? You just have to use good taste.”

Petey held his applause.

“Now.” Summer arranged the four silver frames in a row. “Every place setting will have one of these. So the guests know where to sit. Then they keep it as their gift. Clever, right?”

“Um.”

“Which is your favorite?”

“They’re all very nice.”

As Summer pointed out the minutiae that set each frame apart, I noted that she took longer with one than the others.

“I like the dotted border,” I said.

“So do I! Tempe, we are so much alike, we could be sisters!”

Behind his fiancée’s back, Petey winced.

Summer was gathering her samples when my mobile sounded. Excusing myself, I stepped into the kitchen.

Area code 704. Charlotte. I didn’t recognize the number.

Preferring a sales pitch for funeral plans to further interaction with Bridezilla, I clicked on.

“Temperance Brennan?”

I heard a car horn in the background, suggesting the caller was outside.

“Yes.”

“The coroner?”

I felt my scalp tighten. “Who is this, please?”

“You got Eli Hand at the morgue.”

The voice was muffled, as though coming through a filter. I couldn’t tell if it was the same one that had uttered the menacing two-word voice mail.

“Who is this?”

I heard a click, then three beeps.

“Damn!”

“Everything OK?”

I whipped around.

Pete was watching me, his face tight with concern. I was so freaked I hadn’t heard him enter the kitchen.

“I”—I what?—“got an unexpected call.”

“Not bad news, I hope.”

“No. Just—” Adrenaline made it feel like crickets were trapped in my chest.

“Unexpected,” he finished for me.

“Yes.”

“You can remove the phone from your ear.”

“Right.”

“I want to thank you for”—Pete jabbed a thumb over one shoulder toward the dining room door—“that.”

“You’re welcome.”

“She’s really very bright.”

“You’ve got to have a penis to hold that view.”

Pete raised his brows.

I responded in kind.

“How’s Boyd?” I asked.

“Talks about you constantly.”

“I miss him.”

“And the Chow feels likewise. He’s crazy about you.”

“That dog is an excellent judge of character.”

“Recognizes rare qualities that others fail to appreciate.”

I’d no idea what to respond. So I said nothing.

Pete studied my face for so long, the moment grew awkward.

“Guess you should be moving along,” I said.

“Guess so.”

“I doubt you’ll be enjoying a chatty evening.” I smiled.

“Perhaps not a bad thing.” Pete didn’t.

Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise? I knew Pete. And he sounded unhappy.

Back in the dining room, Summer had been joined by Birdie. The cat was on a chair, batting at a napkin she was dangling above him.

I narrowed my eyes at the little turncoat.

He gave me the cat equivalent of an innocent look.

“Good luck,” I said as they made their way down the front steps.

I meant it.

As soon as they’d gone, I phoned Larabee. He’d just returned home from a ten-mile run.

“Do we have someone at the morgue named Eli Hand?”

“Not to my knowledge. Who is he?”

I told him about the call.

For a full thirty seconds no one spoke.

“You don’t suppose—”

Larabee finished my sentence. “—it could be a tip about the landfill John Doe.”

“That was my first thought.”

“How do we find out about Hand?”

“Do you have contact information for Special Agent Williams?”

“Hold on.”

I heard a thunk. After a brief pause, Larabee returned and read off a number.

“You think Williams will know something?” he asked.

“I think he’ll know a lot.” “Keep me looped in.”

Williams answered on the second ring.

I identified myself.

If my call surprised him, he didn’t let on.

“Eli Hand,” I said.

The silence went on for so long, I thought we’d been disconnected.

“What are you asking me?” Williams’s tone was flinty.

“Was Eli Hand John-Doeing it at our morgue?”

“I can’t comment on that.”

“Why not?”

“Why are you asking about Eli Hand?”

“I got an anonymous tip.”

“From what source?”

“See, that’s the anonymous part.”

“How did you receive this tip?” Terse.

“On my mobile.”

“Was the phone able to capture the number?”

I gave it to him.

“Who is Eli Hand?”

“I’m not at liberty—”

“With or without any of that famous FBI cooperation, Dr. Larabee and I will find out who Eli Hand is. Or was. And we will find out if Hand turned up dead in a barrel of asphalt in the Morehead Road landfill. Should that prove to be the case, Detective Slidell will find out why.”

“Back the attitude down a notch.”

“Then give me some answers.”

“I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”

Next I phoned Galimore.

Got no answer.

Between the anonymous threat, Summer’s idiocy and Pete’s gloominess, the call about Eli Hand, Williams’s arrogance, and Galimore’s disappearing act, sleep was elusive when I went to bed.

My mind kept juggling pieces, repositioning and twisting to make them interlock. Instead of answers, I ended up with the same questions.

I knew from Williams’s reaction that the landfill John Doe would turn out to be Eli Hand. Who was he? When had he died? Why did his body show signs of ricin poisoning?

Abrin was found in Wayne Gamble’s coffee. How had it gotten there? Surely Gamble had been murdered. By whom? Why?

Cale Lovette had associated with right-wing extremists. Had they helped him vanish? If so, how had he managed to skim under the radar all these years? Had they killed him?

Descriptions of Cindi Gamble did not jibe. Was she smart, with NASCAR potential, as Ethel Bradford, Lynn Nolan, and J. D. Danner suggested? Or dull, a poor driver, as Craig Bogan said? Was she in love with Cale Lovette? Or terrified of him?

Accounts given by Grady Winge and Eugene Fries disagreed. Was one of them simply in error? Was one of them lying? Why?

Had Owen Poteat actually seen Cale Lovette at the Charlotte airport ten days after he disappeared from the Speedway, or was this deliberate misinformation? If so, why? Had someone paid him? Who?

Ted Raines was still missing. Raines had access to ricin and abrin. Was Raines involved at all?

I kept trying to find a connection. Just one. That connection would lead to another, which would lead to another. Which would lead to answers long overdue.

When I finally drifted off, my rest was fitful. I woke repeatedly, then dozed, dreaming in unrelated vignettes.

Birdie, walking on a table set with glassware and swirly pink fabric. Galimore, driving a blue Mustang with a green sticker on the windshield. Ryan, waving at me from very far off. Slidell, talking to a man curled up in a barrel. Summer, teetering down a sidewalk in skyscraper heels.

When I last checked the clock, it was 4:23.

EXACTLY THREE HOURS LATER THE LANDLINE JOLTED ME AWAKE.

“You good?”

“I’m fine.”

“Last night turned ugly.” Galimore sounded like he’d logged less sleep than I had.

“I’m a big girl. I’m fine.”

“You hear back from that tool?”

“No. But I heard from someone else.”

I told him about the Eli Hand call and about my conversation with Williams.

“You’re going to stay put, like I said, right?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m waiting for a call from Oprah.”

“You should put together an act. Maybe take it on Comedy Central.”

“I’ll think about that.”

“But not today.”

“Not today.”

Galimore sighed in annoyance. “Do what you gotta do.”

“I will.”

I was making toast when the phone rang again.

“Williams here.”

“Brennan here.” Sleep deprivation also makes me flippant.

“The number you gave me traced to a pay phone at a Circle K on Old Charlotte Road in Concord.”

“So the caller could have been anyone.”

“We’re checking deeds for properties located within a half-mile radius.”

“That’s a long shot.”

“Yes.”

“Who’s Eli Hand?”

“Due to your recent involvement in the situation, I’ve been authorized to share certain information with you and Dr. Larabee. May we meet this morning?”

“I can be at the MCME in thirty minutes.”

“We’ll see you then.”

It was take two of the previous day’s scene. Larabee was seated at his desk. The specials were side by side in chairs on the left, facing him. I was to their right.

Williams began without being asked.

“Do you remember Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh?”

Williams was asking about a 1980s Indian guru who moved several thousand followers onto a ranch in rural Wasco County, Oregon, and established a city called Rajneeshpuram. The group eventually took political control of the small nearby town of Antelope and renamed it Rajneesh.

Though initially friendly, the commune’s relations with the local populace soon soured. After being denied building permits for expansion of Rajneeshpuram, the commune leadership sought to gain political control by dominating the November 1984 county elections.

“The bhagwan and his crazies wanted to win judgeships on the Wasco County Circuit Court and elect the sheriff,” I said. “But they weren’t certain they could carry the day. So they poisoned restaurant salad bars with salmonella, hoping to incapacitate adverse voters.”

“Exactly,” Williams said. “Salmonella enterica was first delivered through glasses of water to two county commissioners and then, on a larger scale, to the salad bars. Seven hundred and fifty-one people got sick, forty-five of whom were hospitalized. The incident was the first and single largest bioterrorist attack in United States history.”

“I remember,” Larabee said. “They finally nailed the little creep right here in Charlotte. It was national news.”

Larabee was right. Back in the eighties, few in the country had heard of a quiet southern city called Charlotte other than for its school integration and mandatory busing. The arrest conferred notoriety, and the citizenry got a kick out of it. We Bagged the Bhagwan T-shirts did a booming business.

“In 1985 a task force was formed, composed of members of the Oregon State Police and the FBI,” Williams continued. “When a search warrant was executed, a sample of bacteria matching the contaminant that had sickened the town residents was found in a Rajneeshpuram medical laboratory. Two commune officials were indicted. Both served time in a minimum-security federal prison.”

Williams looked pointedly at me. “A third disappeared.”

“Eli Hand,” I guessed.

Williams nodded.

“Hand was a twenty-year-old chemistry major at Oregon State University. In the spring of 1984 he fell under the influence of the bhagwan, dropped out of school, and moved to Rajneeshpuram.”

“Just months before the salad bars were spiked.”

“Hand was suspected of having helped orchestrate the poisonings. Following the bhagwan’s arrest and deportation, Hand left the commune.”

“And came east?”

“Yes. Convinced his spiritual master had been persecuted, Hand grew increasingly disillusioned with the government. He spent time in western Carolina, eventually joined a group of right-wingers called the Freedom Brigade. When that fell apart, he drifted to the Charlotte area, in time hooked up with J. D. Danner.”

“And his Patriot Posse.”

“Yes.”

“So the FBI had Hand under surveillance?” Larabee asked.

“We were tracking a lot of people back then. Intel had it that Hand and his buddies hid Eric Rudolph for a while.”

“Where is he now?” I knew the answer to that.

“Hand slipped off the grid in 2000.”

“You never found him again,” I said.

“No.”

“But now you have.”

Williams gave a tight nod. “An odontologist says it’s a match.”

That surprised me. “You found dental antemorts?”

“Hand’s mother still lives in Portland. Eli had an orthodontic evaluation when he was twelve. She still had the plaster casts and X-rays. The odont said it was enough for a positive.”

“Hand’s prints weren’t in the system?” Larabee asked.

“He’d never been arrested, served in the military, or held a job that required a security clearance.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “The FBI suspected Hand and the Patriot Posse were planning a bioterrorist attack like the one in Oregon, this time with ricin.”

“Yes.”

“That’s why you were treading eggshells back in 1998.”

“We couldn’t risk setting them off.”

“But it never happened.”

“No.”

“How would Hand get hold of ricin?” Larabee asked.

“We think he may have been producing the toxin himself.”

“Ricinus communis grows in North Carolina?”

“Easily.”

We all thought about that.

“So how did Hand end up in a barrel of asphalt?” I voiced the question in everyone’s mind.

“Accidentally poisoned himself? Fell on his head? Got taken out by his pals? We honestly don’t know.”

“What happened to Cale Lovette and Cindi Gamble?” I asked.

“Same answer.”

“Was either of them working inside for the bureau?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Uh-huh.”

I held Williams’s eyes with mine. He didn’t blink.

The small office filled with tense silence. When Williams broke it, his voice was elevated a microdecibel. It was as excited as I’d seen him.

“The long shot paid off, Dr. Brennan.”

“Sorry?” The quick segue lost me.

Williams cocked his chin toward his partner.

One word and I knew why Randall spoke so rarely. His voice was high and nasal, more suited to a Hollywood hairdresser than an FBI agent.

“Alda Pickerly Winge has owned a home on Union Cemetery Road in Concord since 1964. The property is less than a quarter mile from the Circle K from which the call was placed to your mobile last night.”

I felt centipedes crawl my arms.

“Alda is related to Grady?” Stupid. I knew the answer to that one, too.

“He is her son.”

“You think Grady Winge called in the tip on Eli Hand?”

“Winge’s truck is currently parked at his mother’s house. We believe it has been there all night.”

“Who’s Grady Winge?” Larabee asked.

“A Speedway maintenance worker who saw Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette argue with a man, then enter a car shortly before they disappeared.”

Again the troublesome tickle in my brainpan.

What?

“A ’sixty-five Mustang,” Williams added.

Suddenly, the tickle exploded into a full-blown thought.

I shot upright in my chair.

“A ’sixty-five Petty-blue Mustang with a lime-green decal on the passenger-side windshield. That’s what Winge told Slidell and me at the Speedway last Monday. Can you check his statement from 1998?”

The specials exchanged one of their meaningful glances. Then Williams lowered his chin almost imperceptibly.

Randall got up and went into the hall. In moments he was back.

“A ’sixty-five Petty-blue Mustang with a lime-green decal on the passenger-side windshield.”

“You’re sure that’s what he said?”

“That was his statement verbatim.”

“What are the chances a witness would use the exact same words and phrasing so many years apart?” I was totally psyched.

Williams appeared to consider that. “You think Winge made up his story? Practiced it to be sure he’d get it right?”

“It would explain why the Mustang could never be traced. Think about it. A car that rare?”

“Why would Winge lie?”

No one had an answer.

“Slidell says Winge is as dumb as a bag of hammers,” Larabee offered.

“He’s not a smart man,” I agreed.

“Why tip you about Eli Hand?” Williams asked.

“Maybe Winge was involved in Hand’s death and is feeling guilty,” Larabee tossed out.

“After more than a decade?” Williams sounded skeptical.

“He claims to have found Jesus,” I said.

“You believe him?”

I shrugged. Who knows?

“Maybe Winge was involved in what happened to Gamble and Lovette.” Larabee was hitting his stride. “Maybe he killed them. Maybe he killed Wayne Gamble because the guy was figuring things out.”

We all went still, realizing the implications of that line of reasoning.

Might Winge think I was figuring things out? Had he left me the threatening voice mail? Might he be planning a similar “accident” for me?

“We’ve got Winge under twenty-four-hour surveillance,” Williams said. “If he changes his socks, we’ll know about it.”

Williams stood.

Randall stood.

“Until this is resolved, I’m going to ask the CMPD to run units by your town house on an hourly basis.”

“Do you really think that’s necessary?”

“Better safe than sorry.”

Williams stuck out a hand. “Nice job on the Mustang catch.”

“Thanks.”

We shook. Randall did not join in.

“Perhaps it’s best if you lay low for a while.”

What the flip? First Galimore, now Williams.

I made a noncommittal sound.

“I’ll phone if anything breaks,” Williams said.

That call came very, very soon.

GALIMORE RANG AT NINE-TWENTY. THE WEEKEND’S RACES were fast approaching, and the media were growing hysterical for information on Wayne Gamble’s death. He couldn’t leave the Speedway for any reason.

Galimore sounded so rushed, I didn’t take time to mention that the landfill John Doe had been identified. Or to explain how that had come about.

Slidell phoned around ten. I filled him in on recent developments. He promised to locate Maddy Padgett once he got done checking documents and a PC confiscated from Wayne Gamble’s trailer.

Williams’s call came at eleven-fifteen. I was in the stinky room gluing cranial fragments. Wayne Gamble’s partially reconstructed skull sat in a bowl of sand at my elbow.

Williams sounded out of breath. “About the time we were leaving the MCME, Winge got into his truck and drove from his mother’s house to the Stephens Road Nature Preserve. You know it?”

“It’s between Mountain Island Lake and Lake Norman, right?”

“Exactly. Stephens Road cuts off Beatties Ford Road, winds past a housing development, then dead-ends in some fairly dense forest.”

A voice called out.

“Hang on.”

The air went thick, as though Williams had pressed the phone to his chest. In seconds, he was back.

“Sorry. Winge parked and walked into the woods. Agents found him about fifty yards north of the road. He was on his knees and appeared to be praying.”

I felt my heart rate kick up a notch.

“The agents called me. They described an area of ground slump at the spot where Winge was kneeling. I instructed them to detain Winge and ordered a cadaver dog to the site.”

My grip tightened on the receiver. I knew what was coming.

“The dog alerted at the depression.”

“What’s happening now?”

“CSU is on the way.”

“So am I.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

The sun was low by the time the bones were fully uncovered. One skeleton lay on top of the other, the arm bones intertwined, as though the victims were embracing in death.

The grave was shallow, dug quickly, filled with haste. Standard. And Winge, or whoever had done the burying, had made the usual mistake of the uninformed. Instead of leaving the fill mounded over the pit, he, she, or they had stomped it flat. With the passage of time, soil compression had led to the telltale slump.

The temperature and humidity had been so high all afternoon, the forest seemed to be rendered lifeless. Trees, birds, and insects held themselves still and silent.

The dog had remained. Her name was Clara. Clara’s handler had walked her past our excavation periodically. She’d scent, then sit, tongue dangling, saffron rays of sunlight tinging her fur.

Slidell had arrived shortly after I’d staked out a square and set up a screen. He’d watched silently as I instructed the CSU techs on how to trowel and sift dirt. They worked sluggishly, immobilized by the stifling heat.

When I asked Slidell why he was there, he said his sergeant was viewing the Wayne and Cindi Gamble deaths as related. He’d been told to hustle Gamble’s laptop to the geek squad and get his ass to the burial site. From now on he was out of rotation, assigned strictly to their cases.

We’d sealed the scene with sawhorses and yellow tape, but it hadn’t been necessary. The heat and the remoteness of the location had been enough. No one had come to gawk as we went through our macabre routine.

The remains we assumed to be those of Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette lay on the surface now, zipped into two pitifully flat body bags.

I sat in a patrol unit on Stephens Road, sipping water from a plastic bottle. The radio crackled, and the usual motion swirled around me. I’d come to do my job, to be a professional. But I was finding it hard.

Had it really been less than a week since I’d learned of Gamble and Lovette? It seemed so much longer. I felt I knew them. I’d been so hopeful. Now the verdict was in. Death.

I tried to keep my brain blank. I didn’t want to replay the scene of the soil-stained bones emerging as the layers of dirt were peeled off. To visualize the skulls grinning up from the trench. To see the small round holes centered in the occipital bones.

I’d recognized the earrings instantly upon seeing them in the screen. Small silver loops with race cars dangling from one edge.

I pictured the little oval face. The pixie blond hair.

Push it away.

You didn’t kill her, I said silently to Cale Lovette. You probably tried to save her.

I’d supervised the excavation, done preliminary bio-profiles on the skeletons. Then Slidell had taken charge of the scene.

I watched him emerge from the trees now. He conferred with Williams, then turned and walked in my direction.

Hitching a pant leg, Slidell squatted next to the car, one hand on the open door’s armrest. His face was raspberry, and perspiration soaked his hair and armpits.

“Not the outcome we were looking for.” Slidell’s voice was a bit husky.

I said nothing.

Slidell reached behind his back and yanked a hankie from his pocket. His palm left a small saddle of perspiration on the vinyl armrest.

“You find anything down there with them?” he asked.

“Her earrings. Zippers. Some moldy shreds of clothing.”

“Shoes?”

“No.”

Slidell shook his head.

“You think they were killed here?” I asked.

“Hard to say. They could have been forced to take off their shoes. Or their bodies could have been transported from somewhere else.”

“They pick up anything with the metal detector?”

“Nothing useful.” He knew I was asking about bullets or casings.

Behind Slidell, I could see two attendants carrying a stretcher. Together, they transferred both body bags to the morgue gurney and buckled the black straps.

When I looked back, Slidell was studying my face.

“Can I get you something? More water?”

“I’m good.” I swallowed. “Did Winge do it?”

“Dumb-ass keeps mumbling he’s sorry. Over and over. Sounds like a confession to me.”

“Why?”

“I’ve never been able to understand how these mutants think. But trust me. We’ll get everything he knows out of him.”

The heat in the car was like hot syrup against my skin. I got out and lifted my hair to feel the breeze on my neck. There was none.

I watched the morgue attendants slam and secure the van doors.

And felt a sob build in my chest. Fought it back.

I spotted Williams walking toward us. He says one thing to me and I’ll rip his goddamn lips off, I promised myself. I meant it.

Williams spoke to Slidell. “We about done here?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s Winge?”

“Being booked.”

For a few moments the three of us stood in self-conscious silence. Sensing strong emotion, the men didn’t know how to act, what to say. I didn’t feel like helping them out.

Avoiding my eyes, Slidell addressed Williams. “Meet me downtown. We’ll grill this cocksucker.”

On the drive home, my eyes burned and my chest heaved intermittently.

Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.

Somehow, I didn’t.

A bubble bath and a change of clothes did wonders for my body.

My spirits remained in the cellar.

Slidell’s visit did nothing to lift them. Maybe it was his BO. More likely his report on Grady Winge.

“The prick’s stonewalling.”

“What do you mean?”

“He won’t talk. Keeps his eyes closed and his lips moving, like he’s praying.”

“What did he say about the graves?”

“You listening to me?”

“You must have other interrogation techniques.”

“Right. The rubber hoses slipped my mind.”

“What about a psychologist?”

“We reminded Mr. Winge of the popularity of capital punishment in this state. Now we’re letting him ponder that.”

An image of the two skeletons fountained up in my mind. I felt anger and sadness. Pushed them away.

“Now what?”

I asked. “I’m going to squeeze Lynn Nolan a little harder. This time pop her at home.”

“Why?”

“I want to know more about the guy Lovette was talking to at the Double Shot.”

“You think Nolan was holding back?”

“Let’s just say I want another run at her.”

“Did Williams tell you the FBI confiscated the Gamble-Lovette case file?”

“No.”

“He virtually admitted it.”

“Yeah?”

I described my aha! moment regarding the statements Winge gave in ’ninety-eight and on the previous Monday.

“Randall made a call, confirmed that Winge’s wording was identical. He must have had someone check the original file.”

“Those arrogant pricks.” Slidell’s jaw muscles bulged, relaxed. “Don’t matter. That sonofabitch is guilty and he’s going down. The question is, who else?”

“Where does Nolan live?” I asked.

“The old hometown. Kannapolis.”

It was obvious Slidell hadn’t been home. His BO was strong enough to put down a horse. The prospect of a car ride together was not appealing.

“You’re going now?”

“I thought I’d have a couple beers first, maybe catch a movie.”

The clock said 9:20.

I desperately craved sleep.

“Hold on.” I hurried to the study and grabbed my purse.

I’d overestimated the drive time. But underestimated the aromatics. By the time we got to Kannapolis, I craved another hot bath.

Nolan lived in a faux-colonial complex that looked like it had taken five minutes to construct. Her apartment was in the middle building, on the upper of two floors. Her unit and three others were accessed by the same iron and concrete staircase.

Slidell and I climbed to her door and rang the bell.

Nolan answered almost at once. She was wearing very little, most of it black and transparent.

“Did you forget your key, silly?”

Upon seeing us, Nolan’s face fired through a series of reactions. In a heartbeat, her expression went from bewilderment to recognition and finally settled on fear.

“What are you doing here?” Hopping behind and peeking around the door.

“Is this a bad time, Mrs. Nolan?”

“Yes it is.” Nolan was looking past us toward the staircase at our backs.

“There are just a few small points I don’t understand.” Slidell was doing Columbo.

“It’s late. Can’t we do this tomorrow?” The woman was nervous as hell. “I’ll come downtown or whatever you want.”

In the lot below, a car door slammed.

Nolan’s expression morphed to terror.

Footsteps ticked up the treads.

“Don’t come here!” Nolan called out. “Go back!”

Too late.

A man’s head appeared above floor level.

At first I wasn’t sure.

Then I was.

The man froze, then reversed and thundered down the stairs.

Slidell bolted after him.

I could only stare in confusion.

WITH HIS WEAK JAW AND LONG TEST-TUBE NOSE, TED RAINES did in fact resemble a bottlenose dolphin. Adding to the effect, at the moment his forehead and cheeks were shiny and gray.

Raines was slumped across Nolan’s sofa. Slidell stood glaring down at him, face sweaty and flushed. Both men were breathing hard.

Nolan and I were across the room in cheesy Kmart armchairs. She’d thrown a fuzzy blue robe over the naughty lingerie.

“What the fuck are you thinking?” No more Columbo. Slidell was furious.

Raines just kept panting.

“Do you know how many people are looking for you, you dumb shit?”

Raines’s head turtled down between his shoulders.

“Your wife’s got every cop shop in Dixie hunting your bony ass. BOLO dispatches are out in three states.” Slidell was so keyed up, he’d slipped into police code. Be On the LookOut.

“Stop harassing him.”

Slidell swiveled to face Nolan. “You got something to say?”

“Ted’s wife is not a nice person.”

“That so?”

“Ted needed some time out.”

“Time out?”

Slidell closed in on her with two angry strides. Nolan shrank back, as though fearful of a blow.

Across the room, Raines seemed to collapse inward even more.

“Time out? That what you call this?” Slidell flapped an angry arm between Nolan and Raines.

“You’re scaring me.”

“Be scared. Be very scared.”

“We haven’t done anything illegal.”

“Yeah? Well, you and lover boy are about to experience a busload of shit coming down on your heads.”

“We’re in love.”

“That’s so sweet I may puke.”

“It’s true.” Petulant. “Besides, we haven’t hurt anyone. Why are you being so mean?”

“Please don’t blame her.” Raines was still sucking air.

Slidell whipped around. “She thinks I’m mean? I’ll tell you what’s mean, you worthless piece of shit. Disappearing without a bump in your thoughts to enjoy a little poontang with Miss Sex Kitten Slut over here. Letting your wife and kid wonder if you’re dead in a ditch, and letting a hundred police officers spend time searching for you.”

“You can’t talk to us like that.” Nolan’s fingers were twisting her robe sash so tightly the knuckles bulged white.

“Ever hear of alienation of affectation? Maybe we should all query Mrs. Raines. See if she thinks anyone’s been hurt.”

I cringed at Slidell’s mangling of the legal term, but said nothing.

“Ted’s going to ask for a divorce,” Nolan said. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Raines now looked like jelly on the couch.

“Ted?”

Raines’s gaze remained pointed at his knees. Slidell charged back across the room and jabbed a finger at him.

“While you’re here sharpening your Captain Winkie skills, you don’t give a flying fuck what kind of shitstorm you might be causing?”

Slidell’s face was now the color of claret. I thought it best to lower the intensity.

“Just for the record. How did you two hook up?”

Perhaps seeing it as safer ground than the topic of litigation, Nolan fielded my question.

“Ted’s a research assistant on a project that studies how poisons get blown around by air. The company I work for does sort of the same thing. You know. You were there.”

I nodded.

“Last January CRRI sent me to work the exhibit booth at a conference in Atlanta. Ted was there with his team. We met in the hotel bar.”

“And fell in lust.” Slidell’s voice was thick with disgust.

“It’s more than that.”

“Touching.”

“Where’s your husband?” I asked.

“Afghanistan.”

“We’ll order a medal to hang in your window,” Slidell snarled.

Nolan crossed her arms on her chest and puffed air through her nose, a look of blank insolence on her face.

“OK, lover boy.” Slidell finger-flicked the top of Raines’s head. “Let’s talk poison.”

Raines looked up, features gathered in a look of puzzlement.

“Let me tell you a little story.” Slidell had regained his breath, and his tone was now dangerously calm. “Two bodies turn up at a morgue. One tests positive for ricin. The other’s got abrin on board. As we both know, your average Joe can’t lay his hands on stuff like that.”

Raines’s eyes narrowed in uncertainty. Or perhaps he was considering answers to create the best possible spin.

“Fast-forward. A guy’s in the wind. Gets busted. Turns out this guy has access to abrin and ricin. You see where I’m going, Ted?”

“What are you saying?”

“I hear you’ve got a real interesting part-time job.”

“What does that have—”

“That’s a mighty big coincidence. You working with biotoxins.”

“You’re suggesting I killed someone?”

Slidell just looked at him.

“That’s insane.”

“Is it?”

“Who are these dead people?”

“Eli Hand and Wayne Gamble.”

Beside me, I heard a sharp intake of breath.

“I don’t know either of them. Why would I poison total strangers?”

“You tell me.”

“The substances I work with are strictly controlled. You can’t just waltz out of the lab with a jar in your pocket. Every gram of powder, every fricking red seed has to be accounted for.” Raines’s voice was taking on an edge of alarm. “Call my supervisor.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“Do you?” Slidell asked.

“I didn’t do anything!” Shrill.

“Why are you in Charlotte?”

Raines’s eyes bounced from Slidell to Nolan and back. He answered with a nervous snigger, conspiratorial, guy to guy. “Look, man. I was just getting a little on the side.”

“Bastard!”

I eased Nolan back into her chair.

“Your girlfriend knew Wayne Gamble.” Slidell kept his eyes on Raines as he spoke to Nolan. “Didn’t you, Mrs. Nolan?”

“What?”

“You gonna tell him? Or should I?”

“I knew his sister. Like, centuries ago. Wayne was just a kid.”

“Sweet God in heaven.” Raines flopped back like a rag doll, hands covering his face.

Slidell peeled his glare from Raines and turned it on Nolan. “You aware Gamble’s dead?”

“While Ted was getting a little….”—she spat the phrase at Raines—“we weren’t exactly keeping up with the news.”

“You don’t look real upset.”

“I haven’t seen Wayne Gamble since he was twelve years old.”

“Tell me what you overheard at the Double Shot.”

Slidell’s change of direction seemed to confuse her.

“I already did.”

“Tell me more.”

“Like what?”

“Describe the guy that was talking to Cale Lovette.”

“Kind of tall and thin. Old.”

“How old?”

Nolan shrugged. “Probably not as old as you. It was hard to tell because he was wearing a hat.”

“What kind of hat?”

“Like a baseball cap. Red with a big number above the brim. Oh. And it had a button pinned to the side. The button had a picture of a cowboy hat.” Nolan smiled, pleased with the brilliance of her recall.

I’d seen a hat like that. Where? Online? At the Speedway?

“What was the tenor of their conversation?” Slidell asked.

“Huh?”

“Friendly? Heated?”

“Like, they didn’t look happy.”

“What were they saying?”

“I already told you this.”

“Do it again.”

Nolan crossed her legs, raised her toes, and pumped one foot as she searched her memory.

“OK. The old guy said that thing about poisoning the system. Then Cale said something about it being too late. It was going to happen. Then the old guy said something about knowing your place.”

We waited out an interval of rapid foot pumping.

“When I passed them again, Cale was telling the old guy to, like, quit carping. Then the old guy told Cale not to act so holy. Then something about a bloody hatchet. But there was a lot of noise. I couldn’t really hear that part.”

“Go on.”

“Then I went back to the booth and sat with Cindi.”

“And?”

“She was all in a wad because Cale was taking too long, so she walked over there. Cale put his arm around her waist. That was nice. But it was creepy the way the old guy looked at her.”

“Creepy how?”

“Cold.” Nolan’s eyes did the saucer thing. “No. More than that. Like he hated her guts.”

“Then what?”

“The old guy said something. Then Cale said something, all in the guy’s face, like he was really mad. Then the old guy stormed out.”

“When Cale came back to the booth, did you ask him who he was talking to?”

“He said a jackass he wished he’d never laid eyes on.”

“You didn’t pursue it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Ask again.”

“Cindi told me to let it go. I mean, she didn’t, like, say it. She gave me this look, and I knew what she meant. I’m not stupid.”

Yes, I thought. You are irrevocably stupid.

“Honest to God, that’s all I remember,” Lynn whined. “I’m tired. I need to go to bed.”

“How come you never mentioned this man’s hostility toward Cindi before tonight?”

“Because no one ever asked me about, you know, what happened after. Just what they were saying at the bar.”

I looked at Slidell. Your call.

“OK, honeymooners. Here’s what’s gonna happen.”

When Slidell laid down the usual “don’t leave town” spiel, Nolan shot to her feet and pointed at Raines.

“Fine. But I want this jerk out of my apartment. Mr. Get a Little on the Side is not staying here.”

So much for true love.

En route to the Annex, Slidell and I shared impressions.

“They’re both moral invalids.”

“Yeah,” Slidell agreed. “But Raines doesn’t feel right for Gamble or Hand.”

“Where was he living when Hand went into the landfill?”

“Atlanta.”

“And what motive would he have for wanting Wayne Gamble dead?”

“Exactly. But I’m still going to give the dirtbag a real close look.”

“Nolan’s description of the old guy doesn’t fit Grady Winge,” I said. “Or J. D. Danner. Perhaps Eugene Fries, but he claims to be a victim.”

“I plan to squeeze Winge first thing in the morning.”

As we pulled in at Sharon Hall, a CMPD cruiser was pulling out. Slidell flicked a wave. The cop behind the wheel returned it.

“Guess we don’t need stepped-up patrols no more.”

“You’re convinced Grady Winge killed Cindi and Cale?”

“You kidding? You saw him at that grave site.”

“All that proves is that he knew where the bodies were buried.”

“Then why’s he so goddamn sorry?”

“What about Wayne Gamble?”

“Trust me. In a few short hours, Winge will be singing like a marching band.”

Slidell’s linguistic misadventures never ceased to amaze.

“The term is alienation of affection,” I said. “It’s a charge against the third party, not the spouse.”

“Yeah. Well, I hope the wife cleans Nolan’s shorts.”

The clock read two-ten when I dropped into bed.

In the brief period before my brain shut down, I replayed what Nolan had said.

Who was the man arguing with Cale Lovette? What system did they intend to poison? A water system? Where? Obviously they hadn’t done it. Or hadn’t done it effectively. Such an attack would have been big news.

Something bugged me.

The hat? Where had I seen a cap like that?

Had Nolan read the man correctly? Had he truly regarded Cindi Gamble with malice? If so, why? Or had the look meant something else?

And what was the bit about a bloody hatchet?

Then I was out.

WHILE I SLEPT, MY BRAIN PLAYED WITH SOUNDS.

Two phrases.

Bloody hatchet.

Maddy Padgett.

Suddenly I was wide awake.

Was that what Nolan had overheard? Were Cale Lovette and the old guy talking about Maddy Padgett?

The clock said six-twenty.

Too early to call.

Too jazzed to sleep.

I threw on a robe and went downstairs. Birdie opened one eye but didn’t follow.

While Mr. Coffee cranked up to perk, I turned on the TV.

The local news was all about NASCAR. Qualifying for the Coca-Cola 600 had taken place the previous night. Jimmie Johnson had won the pole and would go off from the inside starting position. Kasey Kahne would share the front row.

Though farther back than predicted, Sandy Stupak had also won good position. And big surprise, the tragic death of Stupak’s jackman, Wayne Gamble, was no longer the lead B-story.

The secondary headliner was the weather. Periodic strong winds, thunder and lightning, and all-day rain were predicted for Saturday, so the Nationwide Series race had been moved up to Friday night. Unprecedented, but a necessary precaution to avoid cancellation and complicated rescheduling.

The new tertiary headliner was a big-ass crater.

As Speedway management was scrambling to make the accelerated timetable work, they learned that, overnight, a sinkhole had opened on the edge of the dirt track. Measuring forty feet long and thirty-five feet deep, the thing was a monster. Fortunately, no one had been injured.

The sinkhole’s location made it unlikely that the evening’s Nationwide Series event would be affected. Safety inspectors were on site. Officials had yet to announce if the race would begin at the newly designated time.

As I filled my mug, an officious expert presented this postmortem. The Charlotte Motor Speedway was built over an abandoned landfill, and thirty-five feet below the surface, an old drainpipe had deteriorated. In his opinion, the cave-in was the result of recent heavy rains, the burst pipe, and instability of the landfill substrate.

In awed tones, an anchorwoman explained that such incidents are not without precedent. Backed by footage of packed grandstands, she described a pothole that had delayed a Daytona 500 for hours.

Birdie strolled into the kitchen as I was pouring my second cup of coffee.

At seven, I finished my third.

Wired on caffeine, I dialed.

“Slidell.” Gruff.

“Did I wake you?”

“Nah. I’m waiting for room service.”

Easy, Brennan.

“Where are you?”

“Grabbing some java. I’ve been working Winge for over an hour.”

“Is he talking?”

“Oh yeah.”

“What’s he saying?”

“Call my pastor. You’re gonna love this. The Reverend Honor Grace.”

“Did you call him?”

“I’m not in the mood for a gospel lesson.”

“Did you ever locate Maddy Padgett?”

“Cindi Gamble’s high school pal.”

“Yes.”

“Hang on.”

I heard Slidell’s chair squeak, a drawer open, more squeaking.

“Madelyn Frederica Padgett. Guess Padgett wasn’t as crafty as Nolan at bagging Mr. Right.”

“She’s still single?”

“Eeyuh. Works as second engineer for Joe Gibbs Racing. Not sure what team. Maybe Joey Logano.” He read off a Charlotte address.

“Do you have a phone number?”

“Just a landline.”

I jotted it down.

“I’m going to squeeze Winge till he caves. Even if it takes all day and all night.”

“You know what troubles me?” I said.

“What’s that?”

“How could Winge get abrin to spike Wayne Gamble’s coffee?” I pictured the holes in the back of the skulls dug from the nature-preserve grave. “And why would he do that? Cindi and Cale were both shot execution-style.”

“Shrewd questions. For which I intend to get answers.”

Maddy Padgett had a voice like my grandma Daessee, smooth and Southern as fatback gravy.

I apologized for the early hour, then gave my name and reason for calling. “I’d like to talk to you about Cindi Gamble.”

“How did you get this number?”

“From a Charlotte PD homicide detective.”

“Homicide?”

“Yes.”

“Finally.”

“What do you mean?”

“Honey, you tell me.”

“I’d like to meet with you. Today, if possible.”

“You follow NASCAR?”

“Sure.” Sort of.

“You heard they moved the race forward to tonight?”

“Yes.”

“And now there’s a freakin’ sinkhole.”

“Yes.”

“The new start time is causing major-league havoc, so Joey wants me at the Speedway all day. Garages open at nine. We’ll be fine-tuning the car all morning. Joey’s got an autograph session from one to two. Qualifying takes place at three, followed by a crew-and-driver meeting at the media center at six. The drivers are introduced at seven, then the Nationwide flag drops at eight. If it drops. What a nightmare.”

“It’s urgent that I speak with you.”

I held my breath, hoping she wouldn’t blow me off.

“I could give you a half hour around nine-thirty tonight.”

“Tell me where.”

“Come by Joey’s garage. I’ll arrange for a hot pass.”

She gave me the location and we disconnected.

I phoned Galimore’s mobile to tell him I’d be at the Speedway that night. As usual, he didn’t answer the phone.

What the flip? Was he monitoring calls, ignoring mine? Or was he just too busy to pick up?

I considered dialing Galimore’s office, instead left a message saying I’d be in the Nationwide garage area at nine-thirty.

After dressing, I went to the MCME to analyze Wayne Gamble’s reconstructed skull. I noted in the file that all fracture patterning was consistent with failure due to rapid loading caused by compression between the Chevy’s front end and the concrete wall.

I also updated the dossier on the landfill John Doe, adding that a positive identification had been made by the FBI based on dental records.

After lunch, I ran to SouthPark Mall to buy a birthday present for Harry. Then I returned home, washed several loads of laundry, and read the new issue of the Journal of Forensic Sciences.

At six I ate a dinner of lamb chops and peas. Then, out of ideas, I did a little more research on abrin. Printed out a few articles. Stuffed them in my jeans pocket in case I ended up having to wait for Padgett.

Throughout the endless day, I listened for the phone to ring. It didn’t. No Galimore. No Slidell. No Special or Special.

I also checked the clock. A lot. Each time, ten to twenty minutes had passed.

By seven, I was climbing out of my skin.

I decided to head to Concord early to see what all the fuss was about.

A mauve dusk was yielding to thunderheads mounding like enormous eggplants. The evening was electric with the feel of an impending storm.

The Speedway was another Hatter’s tea party of noise and turmoil. The sweaty, buggy air reeked of hot rubber, exhaust, sunbaked flesh, and fried food. Amplified announcements barely carried over the ear-splitting whine of engines screaming around a mile and a half of asphalt.

My pass was waiting at the gate, as promised. Again I was taken to the infield by golf cart.

Slidell had been wrong. Maddy Padgett didn’t work for Joey Logano’s #20 Home Depot team. She was employed by a Nationwide Series driver named Joey Frank.

Joey as in Josephine.

Frank drove the #72 Dodge Challenger for SNC Motor Sports.

The race had begun at eight, as scheduled. Members of Frank’s pit crew were listening to headphones, calling out adjustments, and frantically positioning gear. They looked like an army of droids in their red and black jumpsuits and black caps.

I spotted one form that seemed smaller than the others, maybe female. S/he was under a plastic canopy, inspecting a set of precisely stacked tires, each wider than my shoe size and devoid of tread. Not exactly “stock.”

Not wanting to be in the way, I walked down pit row and peered through a gap between garages. The track looked surreal under its squillion-megawatt lights, the grass too green, the asphalt too black. The grandstands appeared as startling rainbow swaths. Crammed to capacity. I guess the word got out.

The race had been halted because of debris on the track. The cars waited two abreast, engines thrumming, hounds straining at their leashes to reengage in the hunt.

I’d never seen so much product promotion. On the vehicles, the uniforms, the enormous billboards surrounding the track. And I’m not talking one sponsor per team. Every door, hood, roof, deck lid, side panel, and person was plastered with dozens of logos. For some I couldn’t see the connection to auto racing. Tums? Head & Shoulders? Goody’s Fast Pain Relief? Whatever. One thing was clear. No one would confuse a NASCAR speedway with St. Andrews or Wimbledon.

The cars looked similar to the ones I’d seen in the Sprint Cup garages, maybe a little shorter. And they lacked the little shelf that projected from under the place where a front bumper would wrap a regular car. They also lacked the wing-looking thing the cup-series cars had, back where a car for street usage would have a trunk.

After a while I got the hang of the board indicating laps and driver positions. Why the crowd cheered or booed remained a mystery to me.

Just before nine-thirty, I returned to Frank’s garage. A light rain had begun falling. The gracile figure was still under the canopy. Alone.

“Maddy Padgett?” I asked from six feet out.

The figure turned.

The woman’s skin was the color of fresh-brewed coffee. Her eyes were huge, the pupils brown, the sclera white as overbleached cotton. Shiny black bangs curved from the brim of her cap to her eyebrows.

“No autographs now.” Waving a distracted hand.

“I’m Temperance Brennan.”

“Oh. Right.” Quick glance at her watch. “OK. Let’s do this. But it’s got to be quick.”

“How’s she doing?” I asked.

Padgett smiled. “We’ll win the next one.”

“Tell me about Cindi Gamble,” I said.

“Have you found her?”

“Yes.”

“Is she…?”

My look was enough.

“And Cale?” Afraid of the answer.

“Yes.”

Padgett gave a taut nod. “On the phone, you mentioned homicide.”

“Both had been shot.”

Padgett went utterly still. Light sneaking under the plastic sparked droplets of rain on her shoulders and cap

“Do the cops know who did it?”

“A suspect has been arrested.”

“Who?”

“A man named Grady Winge.”

“Why did he kill them?”

“Winge’s motive remains unclear.”

“Cindi could have done it, you know.”

“Driven stock cars?”

“Been a NASCAR superstar. She had … ” Padgett curled her fingers, seeking the right word. “Flash!”

“That’s a racing term?”

“My term.” She smiled ruefully. “Cindi could make love to a car, could sweet-talk all that horsepower into doing whatever she wanted. And she was developing style. Yeah, she had flash. The fans would have worshipped her.”

“Cale’s father disagrees.”

“Craig Bogan.” Padgett snorted derisively. “There’s a piece of work.”

“You don’t care for him?”

“I haven’t seen that jackwagon in over a decade. Thank the Lord.” Padgett tilted her head, throwing shadow from the cap’s brim across her features. “Bogan hated me.”

“Why was that?”

Padgett hesitated. Then gave me the full force of her big brown eyes.

“Sin of sins. I slept with his precious son.”

“YOU WERE CINDI’S FRIEND.”

“Yes. I was.”

“Yet you betrayed her by sleeping with her boyfriend.” I struggled to sound nonjudgmental.

“Awesome, huh?” “More than once?”

She nodded.

Thunder rumbled, long and low.

“Lord almighty, I hope this weather won’t cause a delay.”

“How did that play?” I asked.

“It wasn’t grand romance, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“What was it?”

She sighed. “The usual. I was sixteen. Cale was older, seemed worldly and sophisticated. We were both horny as hounds in heat.”

“Did Cindi know?”

“I don’t think so. She was a trusting person. Very sweet.”

“But not putting out.” Despite my resolve, disgust filtered through.

“You’re right. I was a world-class bitch.”

Rain was drumming the plastic canopy now. Padgett poked her head out, looked up at the sky, then at her watch.

“Bogan learned that you and Cale were cheating on Cindi,” I guessed.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Does that really matter?”

Probably not.

“He resented you because he cared for her.”

Padgett looked at me as if I’d said warthogs could fly. “How much effort have y’all put into this investigation?”

“I’m new to the case.”

Padgett assessed me for a long moment. “Craig Bogan hated Cindi Gamble as much as he hated me. Maybe more.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t understand.”

She spread her arms. “What do you see?”

“Ms. Padgett—”

“Seriously.” She held the pose.

Though the jumpsuit was far from slimming, I could tell Padgett’s body was fit and trim. She wore a string of red beads around her neck, probably coral. The subtle touch of femininity showed a flair for fashion that I’ve always admired but never possessed.

Padgett’s makeup was understated and skillfully applied. And completely unnecessary.

“You’re a beautiful woman—” I began, slightly embarrassed.

“Black woman.” She dropped her arms to her sides. “A beautiful black woman.”

“You’re saying Craig Bogan is a racist?”

“The man is a Neanderthal.”

As I’d suspected.

“And Cale wasn’t?”

Padgett shook her head. “Honey, I’m not kidding myself. Wasn’t then. There was no way Cale was going to put a ring on my finger. And my game plan didn’t involve settling for a high school dropout. We were both just sowing our oats.”

Rain was coming down hard. As Padgett continued, I pulled a windbreaker from my purse and slipped it on.

“But it wasn’t totally sex. Cale and I talked. I came to understand his way of thinking. He started out buying in to his old man’s racist horseshit. Why wouldn’t he? As a kid, he’d been brainwashed. And Bogan had a wicked temper. It was good Cale put distance between them.”

“You’re saying Cale became more liberal after getting away from his father?”

“He took up with me, didn’t he?”

“Why the change?”

Padgett didn’t hear my question. She was listening to an announcement coming over the loudspeakers.

“Son of a buck.” She kicked the tires in irritation. “They’ve raised the red flag.”

“The race is on hold?”

“Yeah. I’m going to have to cut this short.”

“If Cale wasn’t a white supremacist, why did he belong to the Patriot Posse?”

“He was quitting. I told all this to the cops back then.”

“Which one?”

“Big guy, dark hair.”

“Detective Galimore?” I felt a tickle of apprehension.

“I don’t remember the name.”

“Help me understand. You’re saying Bogan hated you because you’re black. What did he have against Cindi?”

“You didn’t catch my second meaning?”

I was lost.

“Black. Woman.”

“You’re saying Bogan hates women?”

“Only us uppity ones.” Delivered with an over-the-top black-girl cadence.

“Meaning?”

“Females who defile the hallowed and sacred.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Padgett. I’m not following you.”

“I can’t speak for now, but back when I was seeing Cale, Craig Bogan lived and breathed NASCAR. Went to all the races. Schmoozed all the drivers. Decked out like a honky fool in all the gear. I think he landed the contract here because he never went home.”

Padgett’s eyes shone with an emotion I couldn’t define. I didn’t interrupt.

“Bogan was obsessed with NASCAR staying true to its roots. The redneck cracker opposed even the tiniest suggestion of change, despised anything or anyone who might”—she hooked finger quotes—“pollute the system.”

“The ladies and the less than white.”

“You’ve got it, girlfriend.”

“Bogan disliked the idea of Cindi driving NASCAR.”

“Loathed the very thought of it.”

“How did Cale feel?”

“He was resentful that Cindi could afford to participate in Bandoleros and he couldn’t.” She smiled at the irony of an old memory. “Made me happy. While Cindi was at the track in Midland, Cale and I were free to get it on.”

“Did you ever see Cale act abusive toward Cindi?”

Padgett shook her head. “He was nuts for that girl. Even as he was screwing me, Cale was crazy in love with Cindi.”

I was about to ask another question when the #72 Dodge roared into its pit. Padgett yelled to be heard over the noise of the engine.

“I’ve got to go.”

“Can we talk again later? I’m willing to wait.”

“Come back when the race ends. Joey won’t be hitting Victory Lane after this one.”

“Where?”

“At the hauler. We’ll be loading up.”

Pulling my hood over my head, I walked back to the gap where I’d stood earlier. Thunder and lightning were putting on quite a performance. Strong winds were whipping the rain into horizontal sheets.

Many fans had abandoned the stands for cover. Those who remained in their seats huddled under umbrellas or sat swaddled in brightly colored plastic ponchos.

Some drivers were still on the track. Others, like Frank, had opted for pulling into the pit.

I looked around for a dry spot to wait out the storm. Seeing few options, I decided to seek sanctuary with Galimore.

As before, he didn’t answer his mobile.

Annoyed, I resolved to find the security office on my own.

As I walked, head down, shoulders hunched against the downpour, disjointed data bytes ricocheted in my brain.

Slidell was certain Grady Winge had murdered Cale Lovette and Cindi Gamble and buried their bodies in the nature preserve. But what motive did Winge have? And why would he kill Wayne Gamble? To cover up his earlier crime? Gamble hadn’t died from abrin. He might have eventually, but had someone decided his death needed to be immediate?

Winge had the IQ of a brussels sprout. How had he gotten his hands on abrin? And why use it? Cindi and Cale had been shot, not poisoned.

Eli Hand had been poisoned. With ricin. But had that killed him? Larabee’s autopsy had also revealed head trauma.

Did Hand accidentally poison himself while experimenting with ricin? Were he and other crazies planning to use the toxin in some sort of terrorist assault? Was that what Cale Lovette and the old guy were discussing at the Double Shot?

Winge had access to the track, the barrel, the asphalt. Was he also responsible for Hand’s death?

Had Cindi and Cale discovered that Winge killed Hand? Was that why he shot them?

Had Winge truly been born again? If so, did his conversion spring from guilt?

Waterlogged fans crammed every shelter and filled every canopied or awninged foot of dry ground. At least a hundred huddled under the portico at the Media Center. Dozens had crawled under picnic tables outside concession stands.

Seeing a foot of space between a woman in a tissue-thin Danica Patrick tee and a shirtless old geezer in nothing but cutoffs, I darted under the overhang of a cinder-block restroom building. Thunder boomed as I dialed Slidell’s number.

Sweet Mother of God. Didn’t people answer their phones anymore?

Fine.

I punched 411. Made my request.

A robotic voice provided a number. Even dialed it for me.

“Reverend Grace.” The voice sounded a thousand years old.

“Am I speaking with Honor Grace?”

“Yes, ma’am. Are you troubled? Is your soul in need of salvation?”

“No, sir. Are you aware that a member of your congregation has been arrested for murder?”

“Oh, my, my. Oh. Who is this, please?”

I identified myself, then cut off inquiry into the specifics of my authority by asking if a Detective Slidell had called.

“No. But I’ve been ministering to the sick all day and have yet to check my answering machine.”

“Are you familiar with Grady Winge?”

As I spoke, the Danica Patrick girl waved madly and shrieked, “Oh my God! Oh my God! Artie!”

“Are you all right, miss?” Grace sounded worried.

“I’m at the Speedway. Some fans are very energetic. Grady Winge?”

“Of course. Brother Winge has been a member of my church for many years. Is it he who is accused of this sin?”

“Can you comment on Winge’s whereabouts on Tuesday night?”

“Without reservation. Brother Winge was right here with me.”

I felt a chill that didn’t come from the rain.

“You’re certain?”

“Brother Winge comes every Tuesday to help prepare for Wednesday prayer meeting. This week I was taken ill. I don’t know if it was something I ate or a bug—”

“Winge was there for how long?”

“He arrived at six, as is his habit, and stayed all night. It wasn’t necessary. I was well by morning. But I was very thankful for his presence. The Lord does work—”

“Thank you, sir.”

I clicked off and pressed the phone to my chest. Beneath my curled fingers, my heart pounded.

Grady Winge hadn’t murdered Wayne Gamble.

Gamble’s killer was still out there.

I closed my eyes. Breathed deeply.

Did that mean Winge hadn’t shot Cindi and Cale? If not, who had?

Water ran from the eaves and ticked the gravel at my feet. People jostled and joked around me.

Wayne Gamble was killed at Stupak’s garage. Who could get past the barriers surrounding the Sprint Cup garage area?

Suddenly the whole wet world tilted.

Galimore had access to the entire Speedway complex.

Hawkins distrusted Galimore. Slidell hated him. Veteran cops suspected him of impeding the Lovette-Gamble investigation back in ’ninety-eight. But what involvement would Galimore have had with ricin or abrin? Was Galimore in league with others?

Galimore had been missing when I received the threatening call on my mobile at Craig Bogan’s house. He’d been missing when Eugene Fries put a gun to my head.

He was missing now. Had been since yesterday morning.

I remembered Padgett’s comment about Cale Lovette quitting the Patriot Posse. She said she told a cop back then. A big guy with dark hair.

Had that statement made its way into any report?

The chill spread through my body.

I STOOD PARALYZED WITH INDECISION. IF THE KILLER WAS STILL free, was I in danger? I continued to puzzle over Galimore. Ricinabrin would not be his thing, but had he been protecting others? As a member of a group? As a hired hit man?

That made no sense. Had he simply colluded years earlier to protect the shooter? What was going on today? Was there a new plot in the works that Gamble was going to stumble upon?

Meanwhile, the rain. Where to go?

The security office. Galimore might be there, but so might others. Besides, he knew where to find me. He was not likely to snatch me from his own office.

My sneakers were soaked. My jacket was molded to my torso and head. Though the night was warm, goose bumps puckered my neck and arms.

“Oh, shit.” Slurred, from my right.

The Danica Patrick girl was swaying drunkenly. Dropping her can of Miller High Life, she doubled over and moaned.

I tried shifting left. The shirtless guy was right at my shoulder.

Lightning streaked. Thunder cracked.

Vomit hit the ground at my feet.

Any place was better than here.

Lowering my head against the deluge, I set out for Joey Frank’s hauler.

I was halfway down the Nationwide row when my iPhone vibrated.

Finally. Slidell returning my call.

I stepped between two enormous transporters and dug the phone from my pocket. Tugging my sleeve as low as possible for protection against the rain, I raised the device to my ear.

“Brennan—”

Something ticked my exposed fingertips.

Instinctively, I shook my hand to dislodge the insect.

My thumb accidentally hit the disconnect button, ending the call.

I punched redial. My finger slipped on the wet screen. I noticed that my skin was burning where I’d been stung.

Shoving the phone inside my jacket, I wiped moisture off the screen with my shirt.

I heard movement to my left, glanced sideways. The upraised hood blocked my peripheral vision.

I was dialing again when footsteps squished in the muddy grass. Hurried. Close.

As I raised my head, a viselike arm wrapped my throat.

The phone flew from my hand.

My head was yanked backward. Something snapped in my neck. Rain pummeled my upturned face.

I struggled.

Rapid breathing in my ear blocked all other sounds. A noxious blend of oily hair, wet nylon, and stale cigarette smoke filled my nostrils.

Terrified, I kicked back with one heel. Connected.

The arm tightened, squeezing my trachea and cutting off air.

I gagged. Clawed.

I saw rain slicing diagonally across the sky. An antenna. A light on a pole.

Dark spots.

Lightning sparked.

Then the world went black.

The rain had stopped. Or had it?

Overhead I heard pinging, like nails hitting tin.

My mind groped for meaning.

I was inside. Under a roof.

Where?

How long had I been here?

Who had brought me to this place?

Angry vessels pounded the inside of my skull.

My mind offered only disconnected recollections.

Synapse: A narrow gap between haulers. Footsteps in the dark.

I raised my head.

My stomach lurched. I tasted bitterness and felt a tremor beneath my tongue.

I eased back down.

I smelled loamy earth. Vegetation. Felt cold hardness beneath my cheek.

Synapse: A body pressed tight against my back.

A real-time sensation intruded. Heat on my right ring finger.

I moved my hand. Tested the surface on which I lay.

Solid. Sandpaper-rough.

Concrete.

Synapse: A chokehold squeezing my throat. My fingers clawing, my lungs desperate for air.

I breathed deeply.

Opened my eyes.

Saw nothing but variations on darkness.

Using both palms, I raised one shoulder and shifted my hips.

Before I could sit, nausea overwhelmed me. I hung my head and threw up until my stomach muscles ached.

When I’d finished, I backhanded my mouth, rolled, and rose to all fours.

And vomited again until I could only spit bile.

I sat back on my haunches, listening.

Over the drumming rain, I heard what sounded like grinding gears, the thrum of an engine. Muffled by walls.

And another sound. Soft. Barely audible.

A moan? A growl?

Close.

Dear God!

Some other being shared my prison!

I felt a flutter in my chest, as if my heart had broken free and was beating at my rib cage.

I strained my ears. Heard no movement. No further sign of another presence.

Was I mistaken?

I rose to my knees and waited for my eyes to adjust. The only break in the inky blackness was a hairline strip of gray at floor level off to my left. Too little light to dilate my pupils.

I got to my feet. Paused again.

My gut cramped once more, but there was nothing left to purge.

Arms extended, I inched blindly toward what I hoped was a door.

My fingertips soon brushed something hard and smooth. Metal. Vertically ribbed.

I stepped to my right. The steel ribs now ran horizontally.

I felt around, found a discontinuity. Traced it up, over, down to the floor. A rectangle.

Aiming my shoulder at what I assumed was the rectangle’s center, I lunged.

Metal rattled, but the door held.

I tried again and again until my shoulder ached. Then I dropped to my back and kicked with my feet.

My efforts were useless. I hadn’t the strength of a toddler, and the door was metal.

I lay on the floor, limbs trembling, breath rasping in and out of my lungs.

My mouth was a desert. My head pounded. My gut was on fire.

Get out! Find the bastard who put you here!

The orders came from deep in my brain.

I rose again on rubber legs.

Dizziness sent the world spinning and triggered new nausea.

When I finished dry-heaving, I lurched forward once more.

And followed the wall. In ten feet, it met another. At the intersection, on the floor, slumped large plastic sacks.

I pressed my thumb to the nearest. The contents felt heavy but grainy, like oatmeal. I drew my nose close. Sniffed. Smelled a mixture of soil, clay, and dung.

Turning ninety degrees, I edged through the dark.

Two feet from the corner, a shovel hung from a hook roughly a yard above my head. Beside the shovel was a pitchfork. Then a hoe, another spade, a hand tiller, a hedge clipper, and a pruner. Below the tools were three coiled hoses.

My mind processed. An outdoor storage shed. Galvanized steel. One door. Bolted from the outside.

Tears threatened.

No!

The shed’s interior was relatively cool. I knew that wouldn’t last. When the rain stopped and the sun rose, the heat inside the windowless metal box would become unbearable.

Move!

Eight feet down, the second wall met a third.

I made the turn.

I’d taken two steps when the toe of my sneaker nudged an object on the floor. I prodded with my foot.

The thing felt firm. Yet yielding.

Familiar.

Another image fired up from my gray cells.

A corpse.

I shrank back.

Then, heart pounding, I squatted to examine the body.

I WORKED MY WAY UP THE TORSO TOWARD THE THROAT.

It was a man. His chest was broad, and his cheeks were rough with stubble.

I pressed my fingers to the flesh beneath his jaw.

No sign of a pulse.

Again and again I shifted my hand, searching for the throb of a carotid. Or jugular.

Nothing.

The man’s flesh felt cool, not cold. If he was dead, it hadn’t been for long.

Sweet Jesus! Who was he?

With trembling hands, I braille-read the facial features.

Shock sent adrenaline firing through me.

Galimore!

Breath frozen, I pressed my ear to his chest. A faint murmur? The rain was so loud, I couldn’t be sure.

Please God! Let him be alive!

I shivered. Then felt scalded.

My thoughts splintered into even tinier shards. Nothing made sense.

Galimore had not locked me in the shed. If he was a murderer or had partnered with a murderer, what was he doing here himself? Was he dead?

Galimore and I had a common enemy.

Who?

A wave of dizziness forced me down to my bum. I slumped back against the wall. Muddled words and images tumbled through my mind.

Two skeletons embracing in a makeshift grave. Two skulls with bullet holes centered at the back.

Grady Winge praying in the woods. Sitting at a table in the Speedway Media Center.

A ’sixty-five Petty-blue Mustang with a lime-green decal on the passenger side. Winge said it in ’ninety-eight. Repeated the exact phrase over a decade later.

Maddy Padgett standing by a pile of tires.

Padgett had been Cale Lovette’s lover. She was black. Lovette planned to quit the Patriot Posse.

A neon-lit bar. Slidell, yanking a man by his beard.

A cheesy Kmart apartment. Lynn Nolan wearing a tacky negligee.