Flash and Bones - Kathy Reichs [70]
“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