Flash and Bones by Kathy Reichs Page B

Ridge in ’ninety-two and Waco in ’ninety-three shot militia outrage sky-high. When Gamble and Lovette disappeared, the airways were full of anti-government chatter.”
    Williams referred to incidents in which U.S. agents stormed compounds occupied by fringe groups. In each case, people were killed, and those contesting the legitimacy of government were irate.
    “From everything I’ve learned, Lovette was a virulent young man, and Gamble was very young, in love with him, and under his thumb,” Williams said.
    “So the two just slipped underground.”
    “That’s the only theory that makes sense.”
    “Is that really so easy to do?”
    “Rural Michigan, Montana, Idaho,” Williams said. “These crackpots go so far off the grid, no one can find them.”
    One thing bothered me.
    “The investigation lasted only six weeks,” I said.
    “Which is why Gamble thinks it was a sham. But his sister and Lovette vanished so completely from the outset, it was thought they’d probably gone underground. When the trail went cold, the FBI decided to disband the task force and rely on intel.”
    I remembered Slidell’s comment. “You hoped Lovette might lead you to a bigger catch. Like Eric Rudolph.”
    “We considered that.”
    I hiked my purse back onto my shoulder. Which was soaked.
    “Please go in out of the rain, Dr. Brennan.” Williams flicked the maybe-smile. “And thank you for talking with us. Believe it or not, the bureau is as anxious to find out what happened as you are.”
    With that, Williams and Randall hurried to their car and drove off.
    The conversation replayed in my mind as I changed clothes and towel-dried my hair. Had the visit been an attempt to dissuade me from helping Wayne Gamble?
    I’d just slipped on sandals when the phone rang.
    As usual, Slidell skipped the pleasantries.
    What he said stunned me.
    And tripped an anger switch in my brain.

 
    “G ONE ?”
    “Like a long dog.”
    “Gone where?”
    “Snatched by the fart barf and itch.” Slidell’s voice was tight with fury.
    “The FBI seized the entire Gamble-Lovette file?”
    “Right down to the paper clips.”
    “At the conclusion of the inquiry?”
    “No. Right now. Yesterday. Twelve years after the investigation, they came and grabbed the file.”
    “Who authorized that?”
    “All I could pry loose was that word came from high up.”
    “What about Eddie’s notes?”
    “No friggin’ way. They weren’t part of the jacket.” I heard a palm smack something solid. “Got ’em right here.”
    A body surfaced at the landfill on Thursday. Wayne Gamble came to see me on Friday. Shortly thereafter, a twelve-year-old file was suddenly confiscated. What the hell?
    Silence hummed across the line as Slidell and I considered the implications. He broke it.
    “Something stinks.”
    “Yes.”
    “No one fucks with Erskine Slidell.” I’d seen Skinny angry. Often. But rarely with so much emotion.
    “What are you going to do?” I asked.
    “Call you right back.”
    Dead air.
    Fifteen minutes later the phone rang again.
    “You free?” Slidell asked.
    “I could be.”
    “Pick you up in ten.”
    “Where are we going?”
    “Kannapolis.”
    Ethel Bradford taught junior and senior chemistry at A. L. Brown High School from 1987 until her retirement in 2004. She still lived in the house she’d purchased upon landing that job.
    Save for the blasting AC and angry air whistling in and out of Slidell’s nose, the drive from Charlotte to Kannapolis passed in silence. Skinny alternated between drumming agitated fingers and gripping the wheel so tightly I thought he might crush it.
    Though the temperature inside the Taurus was subarctic, the space was ripe with odors. Old Whoppers and fries. Cold coffee. The bamboo mat on which Skinny parked his ample backside.
    Slidell himself. The man reeked of cigarette smoke, drugstore cologne, and garments long overdue for hamper or dry cleaner.
    I was bordering on queasiness and hypothermia when Slidell