Bones of the Lost

by Kathy Reichs

  “I hear you.”

  “I checked the Article 32 charge sheet, saw that Gross’s middle initial was H. Henry. Then I confirmed that his mother was born Marianna Story. John-Henry Gross was the nephew of John-Henry and Archer Story. After that, it all started tumbling.

  “Gross was on his fourth deployment to Afghanistan. I compared the photo I’d found in my backpack to the one I’d taken of the hit-and-run victim. Our Jane Doe’s hair had been bleached, but it was definitely the same kid. Also in the shot was Khandan, the girl who spoke to me at Bagram. When I looked carefully, I could identify a distinct rock formation behind the village of Sheyn Bagh.”

  “The place you dug up the bones.”

  “Yes. That’s when it all made terrible sense. The man I had helped at Camp Lejeune had in fact murdered Aqsaee and Rasekh. Aqsaee had seen Gross take Ara away. When Aqsaee recognized Gross at the cordon-and-knock he ran toward him yelling ‘Ara,’ not ‘Allah.’ Gross panicked and used the firefight to gun him down, Rasekh as well.”

  “You think this kid Khandan slipped the Polaroid into your backpack?”

  I nodded. “Shortly after she approached me we spent time sitting side by side in a bunker.”

  “Who snapped it?”

  “We may never know that.”

  “How’d Khandan come to have it?”

  “No idea. But she must have treasured that photo. She’d put the thing in a plastic sleeve.”

  I was about to ask a question when Slidell beat me to it.

  “How’d Ara come to have John-Henry Story’s US Airways club card?”

  “Has Archer commented on his brother’s involvement with the massage parlors?”

  “He claims to know shit.” Dripping with disgust. “But Mrs. Tarzec said John-Henry had been a regular customer.”

  “Maybe John-Henry dropped the card. Maybe Ara lifted it from him. For whatever reason, she kept it.”

  “Good thing. That hunk of plastic was our first leg up.”

  For a beat we both gnawed on that. Then, “You sure Story died in that fire?”

  “Larabee reviewed the entire file,” I said. “He still feels confident about the ID.”

  For several moments we watched orange tendrils twist and curl behind the filigreed brass. Charlie used the interlude to squawk one of his favorites.

  “I want your sex!”

  Slidell’s eyes stayed on the flames. I felt compelled to explain.

  “It’s a line from an old George Michael song.”

  “Tell me this.” Slidell looked my way. “How’d you know to go to that warehouse?”

  “An inspired guess, really. Larabee found a sliver of ivory embedded in Ara’s scalp. Not many uses of ivory these days, but it was once common on piano keys. Impact against a keyboard explained the patterned injury on Ara’s shoulder.”

  Slidell hitched his shoulders. And?

  “The FBI report listed difluoroethane among the ingredients in the smear on Ara’s purse. Difluoroethane is a propellant added to aerosol paints.”

  Again the shoulders.

  “The warehouse across from John-Henry’s Tavern was supposed to be converted into lofts, but the project never went forward. So it was empty. The day we talked to Sam Poland, I saw an old piano on the loading dock.”

  “Spray-painted with graffiti.” Slidell snapped a finger and pointed it at me. “Not bad, doc. And by the way, that’s the last time you go swanning off after one of your hunches without me. I’m the detective. You’re the anthropologist.”

  “Noted.”

  Slidell nodded sharply, as though he’d scored a point.

  “Ara must have been at the warehouse the night she died,” I continued. “As Majerick tried to force her into his truck, she probably struggled and her head and shoulder struck the piano.”

  My mind flashed an image of the Huma-Majerick silhouette wrestling in the dark. Another of a hatted corpse.

  “Rockett was never part of the trafficking, was he?” I asked.

  “Dew’s getting the whole story, but it looks that way.”

  “Why did he lie about knowing John-Henry?”

  “The guy was a dick, but he probably suspected something. He was a customer at the Passion Fruit, must have noticed that the girls didn’t speak English. He had to wonder where they came from.”

  Slidell slipped the faux Ray-Bans onto his nose.

  “We’re gonna need you to write all this up.” He gestured at my cast. “When you’re good.”

  I smiled and lifted both hands. “No problem. I’m amphibious.”

  Either Slidell missed the reference to the Charles Shackelford amphibious-ambidextrous gaffe, or he didn’t get the humor. I let him out with a promise to e-mail a statement.

  When Slidell had gone, a shocking realization struck.

  Dirty Harry hadn’t once chastised, ridiculed, or laughed at me.

  An hour later, Dew showed up. He was wearing a black suit, blue tie, and eye-blistering white shirt. Still no fedora.

  Dew and I assumed the same chair and sofa positions as during my visit with Slidell. Unlike Skinny, Dew sat ramrod straight with heels together, enormous hands cupping enormous knees. He declined my offer of coffee or tea.

  Dew had the following to report.

  Early in his second deployment, John-Henry Gross hooked up with a French private security contract worker named Jean Pruet. Pruet had spent six years in Afghanistan, and, over that period, deposited almost $2 million in a Swiss account. Pruet was returning to Europe, and, for a fee, rolled his network over to Gross.

  The scheme was far from original. But it was lucrative.

  Central to the operation was an Afghan national named Maroof Hayel, the man I’d seen reprimanding Khandan the day she approached me at the Bagram shops. Hayel was Khandan’s father and Ara’s uncle.

  Hayel recruited young girls by promising them, or their parents, jobs in the United States. He drew mostly from the slums of Kabul, Charikar, and Jalalabad, but also from villages in the surrounding provinces.

  Hayel was paid $200 for each girl he delivered. A Photoshop whiz kid in Kabul supplied false passports and visas at $40 a pop. The girls were escorted from Khwaja Rawash Airport in Kabul to Washington Dulles by an Afghan woman named Reja Hamidi. Each ticket cost around $1,600.

  The girls were met by Mrs. Tarzec or one of her counterparts and driven to various locations in North Carolina. John-Henry Story paid his nephew $50,000 for each “employee” supplied, no questions asked.

  “Counting round-trip tickets for Hamidi, Gross’s outlay was less than five thousand dollars per girl.” I couldn’t keep the loathing from my voice. “Placing his profit at roughly forty-five thousand dollars per transaction.”

  “Yes. Pruet had made approximately the same sending them to France.”

  “Sweet Jesus. How could someone sell his own flesh and blood?”

  “In Ara’s case, it was ‘her.’ ”

  “Sorry?” I didn’t get Dew’s meaning.

  “Ara’s mother turned her over to Hayel.”

  “She sold her own daughter?”

  The snowy cotton stretched, eased as Dew inhaled then exhaled slowly.

  “Ara’s mother is a woman named Gulpari. At age seven Gulpari saw her mother raped by Taliban fighters. When Gulpari’s father tried to intervene, the men shot him.

  “Following the rape, the dishonored widow was shunned. With no prospects for remarriage, she kept her daughters, Gulpari and Noushin, clothed and fed by begging and performing menial tasks.

  “At fourteen, Noushin was sent to marry a man in a neighboring village. The man’s family worked the girl sixteen hours per day and forced her to sleep in their unheated barn. When Noushin was caught trying to escape, her husband and father-in-law held her down and doused her with acid. Two days later, Noushin managed to return to her mother’s house. She died of infection resulting from her burns. Gulpari was twelve.”

  Dew stared at his hands as he continued.

  “
Gulpari was raped by the Taliban at age fifteen. Like her mother, she was spurned by the village and treated with scorn. Ara was born on Gulpari’s sixteenth birthday.”

  “Gulpari wanted a better life for Ara.” Barely trusting my voice.

  Dew nodded, still looking down. “When Hayel talked of jobs in America, Gulpari believed him. He was her brother. Why would he lie?”

  “Hayel sold Ara to Gross.”

  “For two hundred dollars.”

  I got up to stir the embers. Pointless, but I needed to move. To divert the anger and grief threatening to overwhelm me.

  “After John-Henry died, did Archer continue with business as usual?” When I’d returned to my chair.

  Dew cleared his throat. Twice. Met my eyes.

  “Of the sixteen girls currently in ICE custody, two were brought into the country after Archer assumed management of the various Story enterprises, including SayDo.”

  “How does he explain that?”

  “Mr. Story claims to know nothing of his employees’ histories. And he vehemently denies any knowledge of prostitution at his establishments, forced or otherwise.”

  “You buy that?”

  The pink-lemonade face darkened. “I believe the government’s star witness is being less than forthcoming. But, thanks to you, our investigation has shifted focus. We will learn more. Much more.”

  “What about Dominick Rockett?”

  Dew was quiet a moment, probably deciding what best to say.

  “The mummified dogs will be returned to Peru. Mr. Rockett’s files have been confiscated to check for information on other illegally trafficked antiquities.”

  “Dom Rockett never smuggled human beings.” I’d given that question a whole lot of thought.

  “It seems not.”

  “Rockett met John-Henry Story through his nephew?”

  “Mr. Rockett and Lieutenant Gross served together in Desert Storm. Perhaps out of pity, perhaps at his nephew’s urging, John-Henry hired the disfigured vet. Rockett was compensated in part with shares in the company. At least that’s the version Archer Story gives.”

  “What did Rockett do for S&S?”

  “Whatever needed doing. Driving. Security. Hiring contractors and workers for maintenance and repair. Rockett also sold articles at S&S flea markets, items legally imported from South America.”

  “Rockett had no involvement with SayDo?”

  “It looks that way.”

  “But CC Creach saw him at the Passion Fruit.”

  Dew raised both palms, dropped them back to his knees. “Due to his condition, Mr. Rockett enjoyed limited access to women.”

  Delicately put.

  “Why did Rockett make the trips to Texas?” I asked.

  “He was assisting Story in the closing of his car dealerships. John-Henry was selling off inventory, and, occasionally, delivery was required. Rockett would fly to Texas and drive cars wherever they needed to go.”

  “What was Rockett doing at the warehouse last Thursday?”

  “According to Mrs. Tarzec, he showed up at the Passion Fruit that evening very agitated and wanting to look around. She told him no one was there. He demanded the truth about the girls, said he knew they were trafficked because the cops had told him. Then he asked where they’d been taken. When threatened at gunpoint, Mrs. Tarzec revealed the location. After Rockett stormed off, she phoned Majerick.”

  “Rockett went looking for Gross. Or maybe he just planned to free the girls. Either way, he’d had enough. He died trying to undo at least some of the evil.”

  “I believe you are correct.”

  “What will happen to the girls now?”

  “That must be worked out. If they are deported back to Afghanistan, there is an NGO-run shelter in Kabul for victims of trafficking.”

  “Will Ara’s body be returned to Sheyn Bagh for burial?”

  “If funds allow.”

  “I’m happy to help if money is an issue.”

  A sad promise kept.

  “Your offer is very generous, Dr. Brennan. I’ll do all in my power to assure that is not necessary.”

  Dew smiled sadly.

  “We accomplish what we can. But, worldwide, human trafficking generates billions of dollars annually. Think of this. A gram of cocaine or heroin can be sold only once. A human being can generate income for years. Did you know that North Carolina is the eighth most likely state in the U.S. for trafficking to take place?”

  “At least the problem is gaining attention.”

  “Yes. It is. But the picture is still bleak. In December of 2012, the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime published a global report on trafficking in persons. Almost one third of all trafficking victims are children. Two thirds are girls.”

  Dew rose to his feet with Baryshnikov grace.

  “On a more positive note, one hundred and fifty-four governments have now ratified the UNDOC Trafficking in Persons Protocol, and eighty-three percent of countries now have a law that criminalizes trafficking in persons that is in accordance with the protocol.”

  Dew really did speak as though reading aloud.

  “Including the U.S.,” I said.

  “Yes. United States Code Title 18, Section 1591 stipulates severe penalties for anyone involved in human trafficking, and, as you no doubt know, North Carolina also has very strong laws. The difficulty comes in catching the traffickers because victims are so powerless and afraid.”

  “It’s a start,” I said.

  “It’s a start,” Dew agreed.

  Wishing me a speedy recovery, Dew departed.

  That evening it was Pete. His ninety-pound fruit basket had arrived on Saturday, so he came bearing Chinese takeout and at least one of everything sold at Dean and DeLuca.

  As I watched him stock my pantry and fridge, I wondered why Summer was elsewhere. Didn’t ask.

  While Pete opened little white cartons, I set two places at the table. Then we helped ourselves to brown rice, seafood lo mein, cashew chicken, and eggplant in garlic sauce.

  Way to go, Pete. My Baoding favorites.

  Over dinner, we discussed Katy, Majerick, Rockett, the Story brothers, D’Ostillo, Ara and her mother. And of course John-Henry Gross.

  “I’m sorry I dragged you into the whole mess, sugarbritches.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “It seems impossible that Hunter has a nephew capable of such cruelty. He’s such an ethical person.”

  “John’s behavior is no reflection on Hunter.”

  A few beats passed. When Pete spoke his voice was taut.

  “John Gross dishonored his oath. And shamed the Corps.”

  “Gross was an aberration. He shamed himself, not the Corps. When Eggers made accusations, the Corps played it by the book, did Gross no favors. The command investigated and prosecuted in an honest and forthright manner.”

  Pete’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t disagree.

  “I mean it. The Marine Corps dealt with Gross’s actions in Sheyn Bagh in a straightforward way. As did I in looking at the bones of his victims. Eventually Gross’s involvement in trafficking would have come to light. And the same impartial process would have kicked into gear.”

  “Hopefully with better results.”

  “Ironic, isn’t it?”

  Pete tipped his head.

  “Rockett and Gross. The man who seemed a monster was the one with a conscience. The man who seemed a patriot warrior had venom in his veins.”

  We talked about Katy. About the fact that the military had reversed its traditional stance and was now opening frontline combat positions to women.

  Seeing I found the subject less than calming, Pete changed tack.

  “So this troll Blanton was actually harmless?”

  “Just one weird dude.”

  “What was Blanton’s beef with Welsted?”

  “Just didn’t like each other.”

  “What’s with the cockatiel?”

  “He’s visiting.”

  “Where�
�s the birdcat?”

  “Holler ‘lo mein.’ He’ll be here in the flick of a whisker.”

  Thursday night, I’d closed Birdie in the closet when digging out the erasable board. Consumed by the firestorm swirling in my brain, I’d mistaken his scratching for sounds outside the annex. By the time I got home, the cat had been captive for hours. Since that distressing misadventure, he’d ventured downstairs only to eat.

  Or maybe it was Charlie. The two had never really bonded.

  Pete shouted. In seconds Birdie padded through the door.

  Pete placed noodles and shrimp on a saucer, smiled as he watched the feline scarf it up. Then the smile faded. When Pete spoke again, his voice carried a tone I hadn’t heard before.

  “That night.” Pete stopped to regroup. “I came here Thursday night. You were outside on the walk.”

  Ryan. The embrace. Headlights sweeping the drive, continuing past.

  “That was you?”

  Pete nodded.

  “Why didn’t you stop?”

  “You were with someone.”

  I said nothing.

  Pete studied his napkin as though he’d never seen one before. Then his eyes rolled up to mine.

  “I’ve called off the wedding.”

  I chuckled. “As I predicted. Wait a few—”

  “I’ve broken our engagement.”

  “What?” I hadn’t expected that.

  “The marriage wouldn’t have worked. I’ve known that for a while. When I saw you with—” Pete raised a hand. “It wouldn’t have worked.”

  “Where’s Summer?”

  “Gone back to her place.”

  “How is she?”

  “Not happy.”

  “Oh, Pete. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s better this way.”

  Pete dropped the upraised hand onto my good one. Our eyes locked. His thumb began stroking my skin.

  The moment became embarrassingly long.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Slipping free of Pete’s grasp.

  “You already have.”

  Pete left me sitting in my chair, staring at half-empty cartons of my Chinese favorites.

  As I got up to clear the table, a sudden thought struck me. Had Pete filed the divorce papers? Was he at long last officially my ex?

  When finished with the dishes, I went up to my room. Lying in bed with Birdie, I thought about loss.