by Kathy Reichs
Two ambulances hit Stanton Territorial at the same time. Fast remained there. Tyne was in a cell at G Division.
And I was at the Explorer, throwing panties and socks into my roll-aboard. I’d called Constable Chalker to thank him for throwing himself into the line of fire to shove me out of the way. He’d said I was welcome.
I was collecting toiletries from the bathroom when I heard a knock. Thinking it was Ryan, I hurried to the door.
Ollie stood in the hallway, a Whitman’s sampler in one hand. “Didn’t think flowers would travel well.” He proffered his gift. “Not Godiva, but selection here sucks.”
“Chocolate is always good.” I took the box.
“You doing OK?”
“I am.”
“You look like someone pulled your life support.”
“Thanks.”
Ollie glanced past me into the room.
“Would you like to come in?” I stepped back.
Ollie entered and dropped into a chair.
“Did you find out how Scar got to Yellowknife so fast?” Not important. But the detail had been bugging me.
“Got a buddy’s who’s a bush pilot. The guy flew him up.”
“What’s happening with Unka?” I asked.
“Stick in the fork. He’s done.”
“Fast?”
“Lost a chunk of one shoulder, but he’ll survive.”
“Is he lucid yet?”
“Oh, yeah. He and Tyne are in a sprint to see who can give it up faster.”
“They’ve turned on each other?”
“The boys are looking to deal. Got to hand it to you, Tempe. You were spot-on. Ruben had nothing to do with the drug hits.”
“What are Fast and Tyne saying?”
“It seems originally, no killings were planned. They were just going to defraud McLeod’s kids out of their mineral rights with the ‘save the caribou’ scam. Snook would donate willingly, and Beck could be induced to do it during one of his drug or alcohol blackouts. The bigger problem was Ruben. Since she wasn’t mentally competent to sign over anything, she had to disappear long enough to be declared dead so her interest would pass to the other two.
“The plan ran off track when this Skipper dude showed up to whine to the review board. He discovered that one of the things Tyne was doing was collecting land claims. He confronted Tyne, and they came to blows. Skipper apparently learned that Beck was one of the people who’d been approached and went to see him. Someone followed, shot him and Beck, then torched the house. Bad crime scene work failed to reveal either a shooting or two vics.”
“But things were back on track.”
Ollie nodded. “Fast and Tyne simply had to wait out the remaining time to have Ruben declared dead, then get the mineral claims from Snook. When Ruben showed up in Yellowknife, they had to make her disappear again. And they were worried about what she could tell you.”
Again the guilt that arises when my inquiries lead to someone being killed. I pushed it aside.
“I still don’t get how they swept that scene so thoroughly.”
“The rain and scavengers did it for them. According to Tyne, after carrying Ruben to his truck, they gathered up what evidence they could see, scattered armfuls of needles, then boogied to turn Ruben into arsenic soup.”
“The morons thought arsenic would speed up decomp.”
“Won’t it?”
“From the Civil War until about 1910, arsenic was the main ingredient in embalming fluids used in North America. The stuff actually preserves tissue by killing the microorganisms that cause putrefaction. It fell out of favor because it’s so toxic. And persistent. Elemental arsenic will never degrade into harmless by-products.”
“Thus the gonzo cleanup at Giant.”
“Exactly. That mine contains over two hundred thousand tons of arsenic trioxide, a dust produced during the gold-roasting process.”
“Bad news.”
“Very. The dust is water-soluble and approximately sixty percent arsenic. The reclamation process involves permanently freezing it in storage chambers.” I’d read that while under medical house arrest.
“What’s that costing us poor taxpayers?”
“Somewhere north of four hundred million. Tyne and Fast planned to get their money’s worth by stuffing Ruben and me into barrels and stashing us in one of the cooling chambers.”
“That’s cold.”
“You’re hilarious.” I rolled my eyes. It did not feel good. “Do you know what the glitch was down in the mine?”
“You’ll love this. The dolts forgot to get a key to open your barrel.”
“Seriously?”
Ollie nodded.
“Here’s something that bothers me,” I said. “Snook’s house was under surveillance. How did Ruben slip out that night without being seen?”
“Rainwater was bouncing the unit between Ragged Ass, Unka, and Castain.”
I thought a moment. “Did Fast say why he came west now?”
“Remember the news article about Ruben’s string of dead babies?”
White. The journalist who’d phoned the ME in Edmonton. Who’d gotten his tip from Aurora Devereaux.
I nodded.
“Fast read the story and phoned Tyne in an uproar just as Tyne was about to call him. When Tyne said Ruben was back in Yellowknife, Fast saw the plan going off track again.”
“Whose brainchild was it in the first place?”
“Fast claims the con was Tyne’s idea. Says he wouldn’t have come aboard if he thought anyone would get hurt.”
“Mr. Tyne gives a different version.”
“On several points. Fast says Tyne killed Skipper and Beck, then torched the house. Tyne lays the shootings and fire on Fast.”
“Honor among thieves.”
“Here’s a question.” Ollie placed his elbows on his knees and leaned his weight on them. “How did McLeod score those claims in the first place?”
I’d thought about that. “Ever hear of Charles Fipke?”
“The guy who discovered diamonds in Canada.”
“In the early days, Fipke was desperate for money, sometimes paid his employees in odd ways. In addition to trucking, McLeod piloted for Fipke. Maybe that was their deal. Or maybe McLeod recognized the value of the sites on his own. We may never know the answer.”
“Think McLeod really found a kimberlite pipe?”
“Snook has experts working on that.”
“She have good advisers now?”
“Rainwater and his uncle have hooked her up.”
I didn’t doubt the pipe’s existence. Rainwater’s uncle had gone gaga over Snook’s fishbowl liner. I was sure the contents of Ruben’s little sack would also ring his chimes. McLeod knew. And had told his daughters to safeguard the proof.
“OK, genius girl. Explain how you linked Fast to Tyne?”
“Remember Ralph ‘Rocky’ Trees?”
“The guy banging Ruben back in Saint-Hyacinthe.”
I told him about the advert flyer for Fast Moving. The photo in the Yellowknifer. “Annaliese Ruben linked to Trees. Trees is Fast’s brother-in-law. The photo tied Fast to McLeod and Tyne.”
“Nice work.”
I thought of another question. “Did you ask Fast if he’s the john Ruben met on the night she left Edmonton?”
“The elusive Mr. Smith.” Ollie snorted in disgust. “Fast admits driving Ruben to Montreal and setting her up in Saint-Hyacinthe. Says she wanted to go. God knows what the slimeball promised her.”
“Who paid her bills?”
“Fast encouraged Ruben to do, shall we say, in-home entertaining. Sent tricks her way. If the income fell short, he and Tyne picked up the slack. Saw it as a business expense. Once Ruben’s claim passed to Snook and Snook signed over the claims to Tyne’s foundation, Ruben was out on her ass. Or worse.”
“Those heartless bastards.”
“Any word on paternity?” Ollie asked.
“Yes.” I’d gotten the call during my d
ischarge from the hospital that morning. “Rocky fathered the infant hidden under the bathroom sink. Because the others are mummified or skeletal, their DNA is degraded, so analysis will take longer. And may never be conclusive.”
“You know what Fast told her?”
I gave a tight shake of my head.
“Apparently, the first kid was stillborn. He’s fingering Tyne for that one, by the way. Not wanting to deal with the inconvenience of doctors or birth control, Fast told Ruben she had a genetic defect so all her babies would die. Said if she ever had another one, she should ignore it, then hide the body where it wouldn’t be found.”
A chaos of emotions short-circuited my tongue. Anger. Sorrow. Guilt. Others I couldn’t label.
I swallowed.
“Ryan and I are going to grab some lunch. You want to join us?”
“Are you and Detective Douchebag—?” He shrugged. “You know.”
“No,” I said.
For a moment Ollie’s eyes sought to reach inside my head. Then he palm-smacked his knees and stood. “I’ll pass.”
I walked him to the door. “Thanks for staying, Ollie. Really. It means a lot to me.”
“Couldn’t have Detective Douchebag blowing the takedown.”
“You and Detective Douchebag make a damn fine team.”
“Fill in the name. I hear that a lot.”
I rose up on my toes and kissed Ollie’s cheek. He tried for a bear hug, but I dodged.
“You know I’d give my left nut for an invite to Charlotte.”
“Sergeant Hasty, I assure you, your nut is safe.”
When Ollie had gone, I finished packing, rolled my suitcase downstairs and out to the Camry, then turned in my room key.
Ryan was at our usual table by the window.
I ordered a club sandwich. Ryan went with a cheeseburger.
We ate in silence. Good silence. Comfortable. Now and then I took one of Ryan’s fries. He snagged my pickle.
I didn’t ask about Lily. Ryan would set the agenda there, share when he wanted. I would listen.
During his visits to the hospital, Ryan and I had dissected every aspect of the past week’s events. Neither of us felt the need to rehash that.
I gazed out the window. So much had happened. Had it really been a week ago yesterday that we’d gathered in Saint-Hyacinthe?
I was dipping a pirated fry in ketchup when movement in the garden caught my attention.
A trash can toppled. Garbage winged out.
I watched idly, expecting an appearance by Rocky Raccoon.
Spindly legs backpedaled from the upended can, dragging a prize I couldn’t see.
I felt a buzz that sent blood rushing to my face.
“Meet you at the Camry!”
Before Ryan could respond, I snatched the bacon from my sandwich and bolted.
* * *
The sole survivor of an odd family stood alone under the sun on a gently sloping hill. Insects boiled around her. Four cavities gaped black and raw at her feet.
Maureen King had told me where to look for Nellie Snook. And of Snook’s plan to bury her kin.
Daryl Beck. Alice Ruben. Ronald Scarborough. I wondered what inscription would mark the common grave of the unnamed infants.
As Ryan and I crossed the cemetery, the smell of grass and turned earth triggered memories of my prior visit to Lakeview.
Snook turned at the sound of our approach. Watched in stoic silence as we drew near.
“How are you, Nellie?”
“OK.”
“Detective Ryan and I want to tell you how truly sorry we are for your loss.”
Snook regarded me, expression resigned. Once again life had not met her expectations. Or had.
“This is a very generous gesture.” I tipped a hand at the graves.
“Blood takes care of blood.”
“When will you be able to hold the funerals?”
“Ms. King will tell me.”
“Please let me know if I can help in any way. You have my number.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean that.”
She nodded. We both knew she would never punch those digits.
“Nellie,” I said softly. “I have something for you.”
I unzipped my windbreaker.
A head poked free, fur tufted and matted with grime.
Snook’s eyes went wide. “Tank?”
The dog’s snout whipped toward Snook. With a yip, he pushed from my chest, landed, and wagged the entire back half of his body.
“Here, boy.” Snook spread her arms.
Tank scampered to her and sprang.
Snook caught the dog and buried her nose in his coat.
A soft pink tongue lapped Snook’s face.
A long moment passed.
Snook looked at me, cheeks moist with saliva and tears. “Thank you.”
“You are most welcome.”
Snook smiled. It was the first time I’d seen her do it.
A heaviness wrapped my heart as we set out for the car.
I felt Ryan’s arm drape my shoulders. My eyes met his.
“Ms. Snook is going to be a very wealthy woman,” he said gently.
“Can any amount of money mend her perception of the world?”
“It can mend its reality.”
I looked a question at him.
“She can spend it to save her beloved caribou.”
I slipped a hand around Ryan’s waist.
“To the caribou,” I said.
Together we walked arm in arm, under that flawless blue sky, on that sunny spring day.
FROM THE FORENSIC FILES OF DR. KATHY REICHS
HYPOTHESES, PLOTS, AND VEGETABLE SOUP
I am a scientist. I am a writer. I tease secrets from the dead. I tease stories from my mind. At first glance the two endeavors seem worlds apart. In many ways they are. Yet I approach a forensic case and a work of fiction in a similar fashion.
Whether analyzing bones at the lab or outlining a Temperance Brennan novel or a Bones TV script on my home computer, the process is like preparing vegetable soup. At the outset, I gather observations, ideas, and experiences—every legume for itself—and then they simmer together in my brain.
Eventually, disparate facts and details connect. A nicked phalange. A cranial fracture. A trip by train. An old woman observed on a beach. Out of brothy chaos, a complex potage is born. A story, with plot, setting, and characters.
Typically, I begin to contemplate Tempe’s next adventure as I am wrapping up the current book. At the time I was finishing Flash and Bones and considering what would become Bones Are Forever, I was involved in three real-life child homicide cases. The victims died at various ages, in different cities, in unknown ways. One was a baby, wrapped in a blanket and left to mummify in an attic. One was a toddler, stuffed in a garbage bag and tossed in a wood. One was a preteen, buried on a riverbank below a bridge. All were girls.
One mother went to jail. One mother went free. To date, no suspect has been arrested in the third murder.
The death of innocents. This trio of disturbing cases gave rise to the dual themes of infanticide and the abuse of children (or the childlike) in Bones Are Forever.
I now had the main elements of my plot. Peas, carrots, and mushrooms swirling in the narrative broth. Next, a dip into the kettle for a setting. Where to send our heroine?
In June 2011, I had the great good fortune to be invited to the NorthWords Literary Festival in Yellowknife, NWT, Canada. In my two decades as forensic anthropologist at the Laboratoire de Sciences judiciaires et de médecine légale in Montreal, I’d often heard talk of the Far North. Until I made my own voyage there that spring, I’d sorely underestimated just how far that “far” really was.
While in Yellowknife, I met some of the most hardy and thermally tolerant souls on the planet. Many were aboriginals. Some were writers, poets, or photographers. Warm and welcoming, all. But the highlight of the trip was the place itself.
Cli
nging to the shore of Great Slave Lake, on the edge of the Arctic, Yellowknife is the polar opposite of my native North Carolina. It is midnight sun and aurora borealis. Moose in the pines. Snow in June. Elk chops in the hotel restaurant.
And Yellowknife’s past is as fascinating as her present. Once home to a prosperous gold-mining industry, the town’s economic derrière now rests firmly and comfortably on diamond mining.
Diamonds on the Canadian tundra? Ridiculous, you say. My reaction, too. But the tale is true. Charles Fipke is the man most responsible for the diamond boom in Nunavut and the Northwest Territories. The founder of the country’s first diamond mine, Fipke has dedicated the past four decades to pursuing the precious stones.
And the citizenry of Yellowknife is well versed on Fipke and his search for bling in the raw. Many know the man personally. Some helped in his pursuit of the sparkly little buggers.
The hotel at which I stayed, the Explorer, served as Fipke’s base from time to time. His bush planes took off from a harbor visible through my window. Lying in bed, in wool socks and sweats, I’d wonder if Fipke once slept in the room I now occupied.
Equally soup-worthy were Yellowknife’s abandoned gold mines with their dark, meandering tunnels and bright yellow barrels of arsenic. It took just one subterranean visit and I was mentally penning a scene for my embryonic book.
Tomatoes. Lentils. Beans. Yellowknife. Tundra. Diamond and gold mines. I had my setting.
Add characters. Stir.
In a fiction series or TV show, the core ensemble carries through from book to book or episode to episode. On the cop front, each Temperance Brennan novel has Andrew Ryan, Luc Claudel, or Skinny Slidell. At the LSJML in Montreal or the ME Office in Charlotte, it’s Pierre LaManche or Tim Larabee. In Bones, there are Booth and the squints at the Jeffersonian. Since I interact with forensic scientists and members of law enforcement through my work, templates for these regulars are ever present in my cerebral stock.
But each story must introduce new personalities. Different good guys and bad guys to keep things lively. From whence these fresh ingredients?
Temperance Brennan is a professor in the Department of Anthropology at the University of North Carolina-Charlotte. So am I. When I need inspiration for a fictional professor, as in Devil Bones, fodder from my fellow academics is there floating in the pot.
