Virals tb-1

by Kathy Reichs

  Could it be? What to do?

  Obvious. Go find out.

  I opened Twitter and buzzed my crew: CHAT ROOM NOW!

  Then I logged on to our webpage and stared at the screen, waiting.

  Come on. Come on.

  My fingers drummed the desk. Five minutes. Ten. Finally, the gang was convened.

  I posted: Back to Loggerhead tomorrow afternoon. Highest importance! Will explain at school.

  The boys responded quickly, succinctly, and in total accord with each other. Ben typed that returning to the scene of our crime was wildly risky. Foolhardy. Shelton and Hi agreed, Hi using all caps to drive the point home.

  I hadn’t wanted to share my fears online, but their opposition left me no choice. I launched a flurry of posts, firing my suspicions into the ether.

  Finished, I sat with eyes glued to the monitor, awaiting reactions. I needed their support. This was too big to handle alone.

  For a good half minute, zero response. Then Ben and Shelton said they’d think about it. Following an impressive string of profanities, Hi consented to sleep on it.

  Logging off, I felt confident my team would come through. At least I hoped so. What I suspected was simply too terrible to ignore. They’d require more details, sure, and some cajoling, but, in the end, they’d trust my judgment. After all, I was the niece of Dr. Temperance Brennan. I knew certain things.

  In the dark, under the covers, the implications of my theory horrified me.

  Don’t be right!

  Had I ever wished that before?

  But we had to go back.

  Had to dig.

  Had to check for a grave.

  CHAPTER 21

  Brian Limestone was anxious.

  Though puzzling, his instructions had been clear all those years ago. So far back he’d almost forgotten. Almost.

  He’d advanced in the hierarchy since that day, his first on the job. Indeed, Limestone felt he had a decent shot at head librarian when old lady Wilkerson hung up her bookmark.

  The old biddy must be two hundred by now, he thought wryly. Surely she’ll kick it soon. Then me. My chance.

  The library was closed and locked. Limestone had just finished re-shelving materials dislodged by the day’s scholars.

  Time to follow orders.

  Descending three flights, Limestone used an old brass key to let himself into a small basement office. The room was dusty from disuse, empty but for a single filing cabinet. He unlocked the rusty relic and pulled a folder from the bottom drawer.

  Fifteen years earlier, Brian Limestone had sat in this room with the man he’d been hired to replace. Fenton Dawkins was a strange old coot, possessive and distrusting. Limestone had sensed the reluctance with which Dawkins had revealed his secret.

  The deal was simple. An unknown benefactor paid a yearly, thousand-dollar stipend to the research librarian of the public library’s main branch. Should the fact of this bonus ever be disclosed—to anyone—it would cease to exist.

  A single duty came with the money: vigilance concerning a specific name.

  Katherine Heaton.

  Should anyone ask about Ms. Heaton, Limestone must obstruct the party in any manner possible. In addition, should such inquiry occur, he must return to this office and open a sealed envelope for further instruction.

  That’s all.

  Limestone had agreed without hesitation. Free cash was free cash.

  So there he sat, holding the magic packet. With a firm hand Limestone tore open one side and removed a single slip of paper.

  Nine digits. Typed, not handwritten or computer printed. Recognizing the obvious, Limestone returned to the main desk and dialed the number.

  A male voice answered on the third ring.

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Brian Limestone. I’m research librarian at the Charleston Public Library.”

  Limestone waited.

  Dead silence.

  “Years back I was tasked with calling this number should a certain event ever transpire. Today it happened.”

  Still no response.

  Limestone glanced at the phone’s display, assuring himself that the call hadn’t disconnected.

  Get it over with, he thought. No big deal.

  “Three students visited the library, one a young lady named Tory Brennan. I failed to catch the other names. The children were asking about a Katherine Heaton.”

  Limestone laughed nervously. “Does that make any sense to you?”

  Another pause, then a soft click.

  Dial tone.

  “Hello?”

  Limestone waited a beat, then slammed the receiver. “Nuts!”

  Having fulfilled his obligation, Brian Limestone trashed the phone number and headed home to his cats.

  CHAPTER 22

  The next day, school seemed endless. I couldn’t shake my suspicion that something was buried on Loggerhead. I tried to concentrate, but time and again my thoughts circled back to the ghastly possibility.

  Before catching the morning ferry, I’d checked on Coop. He still looked dreadful, the proverbial “sick as a dog.” I told myself to stay positive. But I had to admit. Things didn’t look good.

  We were down to our last IV bag and had no hope of obtaining others. Antibiotics were also running low. Everyone had tried, but the puppy continued to vomit what little he ate. Coop needed to turn a corner, and soon, before he weakened beyond his ability to recover.

  Mind burning with worry, I was thoroughly distracted during biology. Jason and Hannah were quiet, but I could tell their patience had worn thin. I tried to shake the negative vibes. We had work to do.

  “Sorry guys,” I mumbled, “I’m out of it today. What were you saying?”

  Jason snorted. “Out of it? You’ve been staring at nothing for the last half hour. If you didn’t usually do 90 percent of the work, I’d be outraged.”

  “It’s okay,” said Hannah, understanding as always. “But we need to get through this. We have to present our results next week.”

  “I know. My bad. Where do we stand?”

  Our project was to compare human DNA to that of several animal species to determine which are our closest relatives.

  “Neck-deep, by my count.” Jason sighed. “Let’s face it. We’re going to have to work . . .” His eyes closed in dramatic agony. “. . . On the weekend.”

  Hannah giggled. “Looks like it. Let’s exchange phone numbers.”

  It felt strange, storing Hannah Wythe’s digits in my cell. She was popular, cool, admired by all. Strange, and oddly like trespassing.

  Self-confidence at an all-time high, eh Tory?

  “I’ll take the cystic fibrosis gene,” said Jason. “That section compares humans to chimps, gorillas, and orangutans. My money’s on the chimps.”

  “I can handle the bone-growth protein sequences,” I said. My menagerie would be pigs, rabbits, and sheep.

  Hannah nodded agreeably. “That leaves me with Leptin counts for cows, dogs, and horses.”

  The bell rang, sounding our release.

  “My house on Sunday?” Jason was already headed to the door. “We can go over results and plan the presentation.”

  “Okay.” Hannah and I responded as one. Jinx.

  The day continued to drag. At lunch Hi and I met at our usual spot, out the cafeteria’s back door and across the lawn, on a small stone bench. I ate a cucumber and cream cheese sandwich. Hi worked on a veggie panini.

  I was bagging my wrapper when I saw Jason walking our way.

  “What the hey, Tor?” Hi murmured under his breath. “Popular jock approaching. I doubt he’s looking for me.”

  “Relax.”

  “Tory, I just thought of something!” Jason called.

  “First time for everything,” whispered Hi.

  “Shh. Jason’s nice.”

  “Nice. Right. Watch, he won’t even acknowledge me.”

  Flopping to the grass in front of the bench, Jason cocked his chin at Hi. “What’s
up, man?”

  “Nothing, bro.” Hi, playing it cool. “Chillin’.” He leaned back, hands laced behind his head.

  Jason refocused on me. “You’ve got an iPhone, right?”

  I nodded, curious where this was going.

  “Great! Download iFollow.” He displayed the icon on his own cell. “It’s a free GPS communications app.”

  “Okay.” Sounded easy. “Do I need to join anything?”

  Jason nodded. “Join the group: Bolton Lacrosse. Password: state-champs.”

  I installed, and joined. With me, the group had seven members.

  “Hit Locator,” Jason said.

  I did. A city map appeared, with seven glowing circles bunched together at the school’s address.

  “See those dots?” Jason asked. “That’s us. When we’re logged in, our orbs will appear on the map wherever we go. Pretty slick, huh?”

  “Definitely,” I agreed.

  I meant it. I intended to start a separate circle for my crew. But why did Jason want me to join his lacrosse group?

  Jason pulled up the features page. “Now that you’ve linked in, we can text, chat, share documents, that kind of stuff. Exchanging project info will be a snap. Hannah’s already in.”

  Ah. Schoolwork.

  “Tory, not you too!”

  Chance Claybourne could move so quietly it was almost creepy. I hadn’t heard him approach.

  “Not another information junky?” Chance stood behind Jason, a tut, tut expression on his perfect face. “Why do people persist with this ‘new app’ madness? Privacy is dead.”

  “You’ve got a cell too,” Jason retorted.

  “True.” Chance produced a mobile probably hot during the Clinton years. First term. “My father wants me at a moment’s notice, so I’m cursed with this vulgar device.” A wink came my way. “Three missed calls this morning.”

  Chance’s phone clearly lacked Internet capability, computer functions, or even an MP3 player. Hell, the thing didn’t even have a liquid crystal display. It belonged in a museum.

  “The current phone obsession is a disease,” Chance said. “Everyone’s gone mad, typing to themselves all day long like mindless robots.”

  Guilty. If I misplace my iPhone for fifteen minutes, I get the shakes. Call me a technology addict, but I feel naked without it. Hi looked downright offended.

  “I’ve heard this rant before,” Jason cracked. “You prefer painting messages on the walls of caves.”

  The bell ended further debate on the pros and cons of modern communication.

  “Until the next.” Chance rolled a wave as he and Jason ambled off.

  “You’re beginning to attract some real whack-jobs, ” Hi said when the two were out of earshot.

  “Mm-hm.” On their own, my eyes followed Chance.

  “At least they didn’t blow me off. Gotta give them credit.”

  “Bro? ” I teased.

  “He caught me off guard.” A touch defensive.

  Heading inside, I shook the scene from my mind. We had a job to do soon. Perhaps a gruesome discovery to make.

  Focus. Forget Chance Claybourne.

  Just a few more hours to kill.

  CHAPTER 23

  Disembarking the Charleston-Morris ferry, we raced to our homes to change. The temperature and humidity were cranking again, and I looked forward to sliding into a T-shirt and shorts. Besides, ties and blazers aren’t haute couture for digging up graves.

  By the time the gang regrouped on the common, Mr. Blue’s ferry was fast disappearing across the harbor. Coast clear. We hopped into Sewee and headed to Loggerhead.

  The tide was out, so we couldn’t take the shortcut through the sandbars. That added fifteen minutes, but Ben wouldn’t risk grounding the boat. Not after his mishap in Schooner Creek.

  Today we anchored off Dead Cat Beach. Shelton’s idea. A western landing put us closer to Y-7’s clearing. Equally important, we avoided any potential encounter with Karsten at the main dock.

  I waded ashore, canvas duffel balanced on my shoulders. My second gift from Aunt Tempe. Admittedly, excavation tools are a peculiar present to a newfound niece. But my aunt, by all accounts, is a peculiar woman.

  The gift scored a direct hit with me. Tempe seemed to get me without even trying. Better than Kit, that’s for sure.

  Once on land, we hunted for the main trail exiting Dead Cat. The boys were being helpful, carrying the buckets and other bulky gear. But I detected an undercurrent of impatience. They didn’t want to be on Loggerhead, were taking me largely on faith.

  At school I’d laid out my theory, referencing the satellite photos. The guys granted that I wasn’t crazy, but I suspected they were mainly humoring me. Fair enough. They came. That’s what mattered.

  “There,” was all Ben said before disappearing into the trees. We hurried to follow him onto the path.

  Minutes later we located the smaller, north-bearing trail. We hiked in silence through dense forest until spotting the clearing. Y-7 and her troop were nowhere in sight.

  From the field’s edge, the signs that had roused my suspicions were barely noticeable. The ground slump, visible as a subtle shadow in the center of the clearing, was no more than six feet in diameter. Small wonder it hadn’t registered on our first visit.

  Moving close to the depression, I saw other indicators of decomposition. The vegetation was thicker and composed of multiple plant species. The rest of the clearing was nothing but grass. Some leaves appeared more waxy than normal.

  “I wish we had a cadaver dog,” I said.

  “A what?” Shelton asked.

  “A dog trained to alert on the smell of human decomposition. Some body dogs are expert at locating skeletons, even really old ones.”

  “Gross,” Ben said.

  “While you’re at it, wish for ground penetrating radar, surface probes, and a metal detector,” said Hi. “Back order on those toys, too.”

  “Then we do it old school.” Shelton flexed one twig arm. “Manpower!”

  I examined the depression to determine how big our excavation needed to be. Then, after a visual scan, I removed all surface debris from a ten-foot square.

  Next, I created a simple grid by pounding four wooden stakes into the ground and running string between them, forming an outer perimeter. After unfolding a portable sifting screen, I pulled collapsible shovels from my bag and handed them to my reluctant recruits.

  “You macho men can offload topsoil into buckets,” I instructed. “I’ll screen. At the first sign of staining we’ll switch to trowels.”

  “Staining?” asked Ben.

  “Any change in soil color, texture, or composition could mean a body’s nearby. If you spot any discoloration, call out.”

  Hi raised a hand.

  “Yes?”

  “This sucks.”

  “Got it. Dig.”

  We removed the first eighteen inches in roughly an hour. The guys scooped, I sifted through quarter-inch mesh screening, watching closely for bone fragments, bits of clothing, jewelry, anything not native to the earth.

  The conversation went something like this:

  “This blows.” Shelton.

  “I said that.” Hi.

  “You said it sucks.” Shelton.

  “Same concept.” Hi. “When can I work the screen?”

  I didn’t bother responding.

  They shoveled.

  I sifted.

  Two more hours took us down another two feet. Nothing.

  I started to feel foolish. The boys grew crankier.

  The heat and humidity weren’t helping. Nor was the fact that a call had gone out to every biting insect native to the Lowcounty. Maybe some outsiders.

  I was slapping a mosquito when I heard something odd: silence. Looking up, I confronted three grumpy faces. Interest in excavation had dropped to zero.

  Hi spoke first. “I don’t want to bitch, but this isn’t working. Three and a half feet down and we’ve got zilch.”

  �
�There’s nothing here,” Ben said.

  “It was a good gamble.” Shelton braced to climb out of the pit. “No shame in that.”

  “Fifteen more minutes?” I implored. “Please? I have this gut feeling. We could be close.”

  “Fifteen. One-five.” Ben picked up his shovel.

  Shrugging, Shelton followed suit.

  Hi shot an are you kidding? look my way.

  “Hi, switch with me,” I said. “You sift; I’ll dig.”

  He nodded and we exchanged places.

  We’ll go to four feet. That’s it.

  As I dug, emotions kaleidoscoped inside me. Relief? Disappointment? Embarrassment?

  While a part of me wanted to be right—to show the others I wasn’t insane—another part wasn’t totally unhappy that I’d struck out. Yes, I wanted to solve the mystery of Katherine Heaton. But I had no desire to unearth a murdered human being.

  Then I saw it. A dark oval materializing in the soil by my feet.

  Switching to a trowel, I dropped to my knees and began slicing thin layers of dirt. The oval darkened. Grew.

  More slicing.

  Sensing my excitement, Ben and Shelton stopped to watch.

  Slice.

  Slice.

  Tick.

  My trowel nicked something solid.

  I grabbed a brush and, moving ever so gingerly, swept overlying dirt from the surface of the object.

  A musty scent rose from the earth. Ancient. Organic.

  A chill traveled my spine.

  I brushed gently. Shapes emerged. Tiny cylinders arranged in a familiar pattern.

  Heart hammering, I stared.

  “Okay, that’s fifteen.” Hiram dropped the bucket he’d been sifting. “I’m bushed.”

  Still I stared. So did Ben and Shelton.

  “Tory?” Hi ventured. “You upset? No one’s blaming you or anything. If I’d read more about bodies, I might’ve thought the same thing.”

  Still I was speechless.

  “Hey, Victoria Brennan!” Hi shouted. “What’s what?”

  A cloud crossed the sun, casting shadow over the small space in which I knelt. Crickets chirped from hidden places. Sweat glued my shirt to my back.

  Nothing penetrated. My mind was locked onto the tiny brown objects before me.