Page 96 of The Bone Code

It took seven minutes to make a reservation.

Ryan offered to drive me to YUL.

Vislosky said she’d meet me at BNA.

Aviation miracle. Both legs went well. I made my connection in Detroit, no sprint, no sweat. Landed in Nashville early at 4:07.

Vislosky was parked in the cell-phone lot when I texted.

We set out, following directions provided by Waze. I use Jane’s voice. Vislosky had chosen some dude who sounded like a ballet student in London. No telling taste.

The programmed address was on a narrow, unmarked stretch of asphalt off a little-used two-lane blacktop cutting east from Tennessee Highway 251, in an area known as Bullfrog Hollow. Five minutes after making the final turn, the ballet dude reported that our destination was on the left. A rusty mailbox agreed. Painted on one side was the nameFrance.

Vislosky rolled to a stop, and we both scanned our surroundings.

It was one of those rural places that is neither farm nor country estate. No barn, shed, or outbuilding of any kind. No chickens or cows. No John Deere waiting to plant or sow. Just a modest house surrounded by fields.

The one-story bungalow had lime-green siding, white trim, and a canary-yellow front door. The porch was wood and permitted to do what it liked.

A gravel path bisected a discouraged-looking swath of grass in front. A matching driveway bordered the lawn to the east. An old red pickup sat at its far end.

I looked to Vislosky. She nodded. We both got out.

Weeds crawled the shoulder and ditch flanking the asphalt. To either side of the home, barbed wire enclosed something dry and brown with very tall stalks. Stunted pines disrupted the evenly planted rows, too stubborn to die or too deeply rooted to justify the effort required for removal.

We paused, listening.

Wind feathered the crops with a soft rustling sound. Somewhere out of sight, a crow cawed. Far off, water gurgled. Otherwise, all was quiet.

“That a river we’re hearing?” I asked.

“The Cumberland’s just yonder.” Nodding toward the fields.

“Did you say yonder?”

“It’s Tennessee. Ready?”

I nodded.

“Let’s go meet Digger.”

The crow went silent at the sound of our slamming doors.

Vislosky strode up the gravel path, boots crunching, eyes roving, watching for signs of life and taking in detail. I followed, doing the same.

The air smelled faintly of pine, wet rocks, smoke, and autumn leaves. Gnats dive-bombed my face, surprising given the coolness of the day.

Vislosky and I stopped at the bottom of the stairs, swatting at bugs.

“Hello?” she called out.

No answer.

“Mr. France?”

Same response.

We climbed to the porch and stepped to either side of the door. Vislosky knocked. Hard.