Flash and Bones (17 page)

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.

N
OT 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.”