Fire and Bones (Temperance Brennan #23)

Chapter 30

CHAPTER 30

Two fitful nights of dark, convoluted dreams. A man’s lifeless form sending red Rorschach blossoms onto grimy black-and-white tile. An old woman crumpling like an unstrung puppet. A skinny man running hard beyond pollution-smudged glass. Grim-faced EMTs. Rolling gurneys. Ambulances and police cruisers flashing red-blue. Red-blue. Red-blue.

Two anxious days of checking my phone. Lunging for the thing every time it rang.

Finally, the calls I nervously awaited. Good news on two fronts.

Deery was out of danger. Lipsey would survive.

A bullet had entered each in the fleshy part of the upper chest, hooked a turn at the clavicle, and exited near the base of the neck. Neither projectile had struck a major vessel.

Weird parallels, but some significant differences. Deery’s trajectory was front to back, his wound superficial. Lipsey’s path was back to front and deeper, resulting in more extensive damage.

Good news on three fronts, actually.

Ryan called the night of the events in Lipsey’s greenhouse. Asleep in my bed at Ivy’s house—thanks to an ER doc’s pharmaceuticals and the silencer on my phone—I failed to answer.

I listened to Ryan’s message the following morning.

Tempe, you won’t believe what an idiot I am. I was so faché that you canceled on me, I tagged along last minute on a fishing trip to Lac Mabille with a couple of SQ buddies. When I finally cooled down, we were so far off the grid there was no signal and the plane didn’t return for five days. Je suis désolé, ma chérie. I’m back in Montreal. Call me. S’il vous pla?t.

His frenzied bilingual sincerity brought tears to my eyes.

Or maybe that was due to an Ambien hangover.

Whatever.

I’d phoned Ryan as fast as my fingers could tap the digits. We’d had a sappy it-was-my-fault-no-it-was-my-fault conversation. He’d described his flight to Goose Bay, his subsequent hydroplane landing on the lake, the eighty-four trout they’d caught. Those parts sounded like fun. The blackflies and mosquitoes, not so much.

Unsure how current Ryan was, I’d recounted all the developments of the past two weeks. The Foggy Bottom fires. The four upstairs vics. The yellow Camry leading to the Stoll brothers. Susan Lipsey’s rant implying that, as part of her vendetta against the Warrings, she’d directed her grandsons to torch the buildings and carry out the drive-by. Ronan Stoll accidentally shooting his grandmother in the greenhouse.

Ryan listened without interrupting or indicating that he already knew some of what I was telling him. When I’d finished, he cursed in complicated Québecois, as expected. Asked if I was truly unhurt, as expected. I said I was fine.

A long moment, then Ryan queried my progress on the tiny subcellar lady. The odd segue surprised me. A quick change-up to allow him to quash his anger at learning that I’d been in danger? I admitted that, sadly, I’d learned nothing more about her identity or manner of death.

“Why now?” he asked after a pause.

“Why now what?” Ryan had lost me.

“Lipsey’s mother was killed eighty years ago. What set her off now?”

“According to Ronan—”

“The grandson.”

“Yes. According to him, Lipsey has held a lifelong grudge. He and his brother were raised on anti-Warring vitriol and he himself is convinced the Warrings had a vendetta against their family. Three weeks ago, he and Roy got an eviction notice because their landlord had sold the building that houses their business. Relocation meant they’d take a disastrous financial hit.”

“Let me guess. Lew Warring bought the property to add to his W-C portfolio.”

“Bingo. Roy or Ronan shared the bad news with Grandma, who is bipolar and had recently gone off her meds. She snapped. The twins had been brainwashed sufficiently and were angry enough about having to move that they went along with her scheme for revenge. But only in part. Thinking the Foggy Bottom buildings were empty, they agreed to set the fires, planning to cause only minor damage.”

“They killed Lew Warring?”

“Ronan says they meant to merely scare Warring and then lie to the old lady. Something went wrong, and their target ended up dead.”

“Do you think the Warrings actually did repeatedly harm Lipsey and her family? Did Lew actually buy that building specifically to evict the twins? Or was it all paranoia?”

“We’ll probably never know. But Lipsey believed it and managed to persuade her grandsons.”

Ryan asked if I was still in Washington. I told him that I was, and apologized because I had to stay until Ivy returned or the chinch was retrieved. The latter required some explanation.

I asked Ryan if he’d ever been to the bonsai museum. He replied in the negative. Saying that was a serious breach in his personal development, I suggested he meet me in DC.

I said I’d call Ivy for an update on her ETA as soon as we’d disconnected and offered to book us into a romantic hotel. He explained that he was committed to helping clean his share of the four-score fish but promised to fly to DC on Friday.

So.

First things first. Clearing my getaway date.

Ivy answered quickly.

“Tempe. Lucky girl.” In the background, the same grinding machinery and shouted commands.

“Why so?” I asked.

“You’re in the middle of the action and I’m stuck in West goddam Virginia.”

“Isn’t the rescue going well?”

The story was still national news. To date the kid had been down in the mine for four days. Packets of food and water were being lowered to him. Blankets. A first aid kit. A two-way radio that the kid was using to communicate with those up top.

“A team is drilling a parallel shaft, but one thing after another keeps going wrong.”

“The boy seems in good spirits.”

“He is. But his parents are in serious need of controlled substances. What’s up?”

“I’m wondering when Chuck’s owner will be coming to collect him.”

A long moment passed. A moment I guessed Ivy was using to structure an unpopular response.

“I was going to ring you about that.”

I waited, apprehensive.

“My friend’s father—the friend who owns Chuck—has taken a turn for the worse. The doctors think this could be it.”

“That was fast.”

“Cancer is a mean bastard.”

“It is.”

“She’s worried about Chuck but doesn’t know exactly when she’ll get home.”

“What about Ben?”

“I’d ask him, of course, but he’s out of town for the rest of the week. And a chinchilla really would trigger his allergies.”

“When will you be back?”

“Here’s the thing. The network liked my on-site reporting, so they’ve asked me to do a series on abandoned mines, the hazards they pose to the environment, to public safety, that angle. Did you know there are over forty-eight thousand abandoned coal mines in the US?”

“I didn’t.” A sinking feeling was overtaking me.

“This could be my big break, Tempe.”

Where had I heard that before?

“Ryan is flying to DC to join me the day after tomorrow,” I said. “We’d like—”

“Of course!” Chirpy as a sparrow in a sprinkler. “You’re both welcome to stay at my house for as long as you like.”

“Perhaps you could find—”

“Words can’t express how much I appreciate this. Chuck texted this morning to tell me he adores you. Said that in his fantasy life he’d live with you always.”

“How’s that work, what with the tiny claws and all?”

“He uses gloves with touch-screen tips.”

“Uh-huh.” Rolling my eyes, though no one could see.

“You’ll need to buy more food. I owe you, girl.”

“You do.”

Sibley Memorial Hospital has been serving the sick and injured in our nation’s capital since 1890. Staff and patients from those early days would be gobsmacked at the size of the complex today.

A multi-pavilioned, red brick and glass Goliath, Sibley sprawls above the intersection of MacArthur Boulevard and Loughboro Road, in Northwest DC, not far from the American University campus. The parking garage is the size of an airport terminal.

I pulled in shortly after eleven. Found a spot after circling upward so high I feared a nosebleed. Sharing an elevator with an obese woman holding an unruly toddler, two nuns, and a kid trying—with limited success—to control a bouquet of balloons, I descended, crossed to the portico-shaded walkway, and entered the main building.

The tiled lobby gleamed with an enthusiasm equal to that at the ME’s office. People waited in gray vinyl chairs, drinking soda, slumping, or fidgeting impatiently. Signs routed patrons to the cafeteria, gift shop, business office, and myriad medical departments. Pediatrics. Urology. Radiology. Oncology.

An information counter faced the glass doors through which I’d entered. The receptionist, an elderly woman wearing lipstick the color of a baboon’s butt, offered a smile whose brightness rivaled that of the flooring.

I gave her Deery’s name.

As her fingers worked a keyboard the smile dissolved.

“I’m so sorry, miss, but that patient is cleared for visits only by family and police officials.” Looking genuinely regretful.

“Oh, no.” Feigning devastation. “May I have these sent up to him?” Raising the nosegay of daisies and tulips I’d purchased for such a possibility.

“Of course. Let me have them.”

Baboon Lips reached out and I handed the flowers to her.

I stepped away, then turned back as if suddenly struck by an afterthought. As I hoped, she’d written a room number on a Post-it and stuck it to the florist’s green outer wrapper.

Room 716.

Exiting the elevator on the seventh floor, I needed no direction. Halfway down the corridor, past a station occupied by nurses and orderlies indifferent to my presence, a uniformed cop sat on a folding chair reading a copy of that day’s Post .

I walked toward him, my reflection winking in the small rectangular windows of at least a dozen closed doors. Hearing heels clicking his way, the cop turned his head, then pushed to his feet. His name tag said F. Rassmussen.

After checking my ID, F. Rassmussen pulled out his phone, scrolled, then looked up puzzled.

“You’re not on my list, ma’am.” Tone neither friendly nor unfriendly.

“Seriously? It must be a mistake. They gave me his room number downstairs at reception.” A stretch, but close.

“You’re family?”

“Mm.”

One long, dubious look, then F. Rassmussen nodded and stepped aside.

“Leave it ajar.”

Half expecting a “don’t try anything funny” follow-up, I opened the door and went into the room.

Deery was propped up in bed dozing. A bulky construction of gauze and tape wrapped one side of his neck, forcing his head left at an awkward angle. A needle infused liquids into a vein in one wrist.

Not wanting to wake him, I settled into the single visitor chair. Scrolled through recent emails and texts on my mobile.

Every now and then I glanced up to watch lines jump their erratic zigzag patterns on a machine monitoring Deery’s vitals. Oversized hands and feet aside, he wasn’t a large man. But somehow his body looked smaller than normal. Shrunken. Maybe it was an illusion created by the cast-off glow of the screen.

Time passed.

Muted hospital sounds drifted in through the cracked door. A gurney or cart rattling by in the hall. An elevator bonging its arrival. A speaker paging a code or a name.

Inside the room, just Deery’s steady breathing and the soft pinging of the sensors.

“What time is it?”

“Almost noon.” His words startled me. “How are you feeling?”

“Fit as a fiddle. Weren’t but a scratch.”

“I’m glad to hear that. When can you leave?”

“Waiting on paperwork. They don’t release me by three, I’m pulling a runner.”

“Mm.”

“Raise me up more.” Twirling a finger at the controls clipped to the bed rail.

“Are you sure? Maybe I should call a nurs—”

“Raise it.”

I did.

When fully elevated, Deery gestured that I drag my chair closer to him. I did that, too.

“So Granny was driving the train.” Deery’s voice was strong, but his mouth moved stiffly.

“She was.”

“Where is the old bat?” he asked, obviously referring to Lipsey.

“One floor up. The docs say she’ll make it. The ambulances brought you both here because the hospital in Mount Airy was pushed to its limits with the victims of a multi-vehicle crash.”

“And the scumbucket grandsons?” Harsh for Deery, who rarely cussed.

“Still in the wind. Their pictures are everywhere and there’s a BOLO out on the Camry. It shouldn’t take long to net them.”

Deery nodded.

I was about to elaborate when the door swung wide, and a nurse pushed a cart into the room. On seeing me, she tensed.

“How did you get in here?”

Having no good response, I said nothing.

“This patient is only cleared for authorized visitors.” Face obsidian hard. “Out with you, now.”

“Of course.”

I stood.

“I’m here’cause I’m a cop,” Deery barked to my retreating back. “Not cause the wound is bad.”

Back in my car, I did a Google search for nearby pet stores. Found many, including Doggy Style, The Big Bad Woof, and Howl to the Chief. Struck out repeatedly when I called to inquire about chinchilla chow.

With one exception. The place wasn’t exactly around the corner, but at least Chuck wouldn’t go hungry. Punching the address into my navigation system, I headed toward 7th Street.

Twenty minutes after leaving Sibley Memorial I pulled to the curb outside of a Petco. I’d just shifted into park when my eyes registered a scene that kicked my pulse up a notch.

Sweet Jesus on a pancake.

Was I mistaken?