Page 105 of The Bone Code
“Can you spot any handles to suggest the far northland?”
Vislosky referred to Pickle’s parting comment, the words that had gotten my adrenals pumping. Harmony Boatwright had told Mama Gertie that she’d befriended a Canadian girl in the MMM.com chat room.
“Not yet,” I mumbled, attention focused on usernames and messages.
diggitydogappeared to be in New Haven.violetdawnposted that s/he was pressing the Albuquerque PD to dig up the neighbor’s garden.foreversearchingandneverletgowere arguing the merits of cadaver versus tracker dogs.neverforgetandalwayslookingwere discussing decomposition rates in water.leftbehindwas suicidal, andbabysnowflakeanduptheantywere talking him or her down.
I was still concentrating when I felt the car turn, then stop. I looked up. Vislosky had pulled into a Burger King.
“Don’t know about you, but this bad girl needs fuel.”
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Eight forty-five.”
I hadn’t eaten since downing a quick bagel at the Montreal airport. Suddenly, I was starving.
My fries were cold and greasy. The Whopper was a Whopper. But delivery was quick, and we were out in twenty minutes.
“How do you feel about driving through the night?” Vislosky asked.
“Not enthused.”
“Motel?”
“You don’t need to be back?”
“It’s Veterans Day, you know.”
I’d totally forgotten.
“And I took another twenty-four off.”
“You made this trip on personal time?”
“You got a problem with that?”
“No.” Thinking that despite the snippiness and sarcasm, maybe Vislosky wasn’t so bad after all.
The next exit offered a place called the Music City Inn. The sign featured red neon letters and a blue musical staff with green treble clef and orange notes. Digger would have approved.
The office was nondescript, with dingy glass facing the parking lot and knotty pine behind the counter. The kid who checked us in was at least twelve years old and in need of a dermatologist.
Vislosky and I took our keys, which were attached to guitar-shaped wooden plaques, and followed a walkway to our rooms. My Rollaboard didn’t appreciate its bumpy ride over the cracked cement.
Despite my exhaustion, sleep took its time coming. My overwrought neurons offered up images of bedbugs. Of luminol-lit crime-scene pics, bedspreads and mattresses glowing with bodily fluids.
Full disclosure. As a result of my job, I am motel-phobic.
The neurons also offered up zillions of questions.
Was the younger victim in the Charleston container Harmony Boatwright?
Could Boatwright’s cyber-pal be her companion in death? The girl whose DNA linked her to the 2006 Montreal vics?
According to Pickle, Boatwright connected with the Canadian girl through MMM. Did the two ever meet in person? Communicate directly, perhaps by email, text, or phone?
Like Boatwright, the Canadian girl was searching for a missing mom. Was her mother the woman in the Montreal container?
