The Bone Code

by Kathy Reichs

  By midnight, my tea was cold, and a headache was tickling my frontal lobe. I was about to call it quits when I stumbled onto a shot of the Digger France Band playing in a place called Shady Sam’s. A banner behind the stage announced that the night’s show was part of a reunion tour and gave the year as 2015.

  Folks hadn’t aged well. Digger and his beard were thinner. No more binders. His hair, faded to salmon, appeared to be losing ground to male-pattern baldness.

  Patrons sat below the crude stage, their faces obscured by poor lighting and the rear-facing camera angle. What caught my interest was a small form at a front-row table. A girl with short, spiky hair dyed cotton-candy pink.

  I tried zooming in. The scene went blurry.

  Could the pink-haired kid be Digger France’s granddaughter? Is that why the child was taken to a saloon? To see Gramps play?

  A person sat to the kid’s right, but only one arm and shoulder were visible. The limb looked fairly slim but not definitively so. Was her companion a woman? Her mother?

  Reenergized, I plunged back into the game, this time using keyword combos related to the reunion tour and to Shady Sam’s. Minutes later, I found the girl again, this time perched on a stool offstage at a place called the Dirty Rabbit.

  The camera, focused on the band, had caught the kid in profile. She sat with chin on knuckles, elbows on knees. Her nose was long and straight, her eyes mere shadows. Her hair sparked like rosy dandelion froth in the cast-off glow of the stage lights.

  The girl looked about thirteen years old. I ran the numbers. That tracked.

  Like Digger, the kid was wearing a tee. Zooming in, I was able to read the lettering: Amity House. Underneath those words was a stylized graphic of people holding hands. Below the graphic, a smaller font looped in a semicircle: Harmony. Hugs. Help.

  A quick search revealed that Amity House was a youth shelter in Nashville. I navigated to its website.

  Operating since 1979, Amity House described itself as a crisis center providing support for homeless and runaway children ages seven to seventeen. The facility was able to house twelve kids. Youth could stay as long as three weeks while they and their families worked on resolving issues. Residents were expected to take care of the shelter and one another. Additional services included a twenty-four-hour crisis hotline and walk-in crisis support.

  I linked back to the photo taken in the Dirty Rabbit. Studied the girl in the wings, pulse humming.

  Did I finally have a lead? Had the kid with the candy-floss hair stayed at Amity House? Called their hotline? Was she a volunteer at the shelter? Would they have her name?

  Was she Digger France’s granddaughter?

  Sullie Huger’s distant cousin?

  The younger vic in the Charleston container?

  Should I phone Amity House?

  Big no there. Selfish to tie up staff in the wee hours should a kid need help.

  One thing was certain.

  I couldn’t wait to talk to Vislosky.

  I sent the image to the printer. Was about to collect it when my mobile indicated an incoming text.

  At one in the morning?

  I checked the screen.

  Anne.

  I read her message.

  Are you awake?

  I am.

  You’re going to love this.

  ?????

  I found her.

  Amelia Earhart?

  The mask lady.

  No way.

  Can you get online?

  It’s where I live.

  I set down the phone and poised my fingers over the keys.

  Anne provided a link. I navigated to the website.

  And stared.

  Shocked.

  Not shocked.

  22

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 11

  A didgeridoo blasted me awake.

  Cursing my new choice of ringtone, I fumbled to answer.

  “Temperance Brennan.”

  “I know.” Background noise suggested Vislosky was again in her car. “My dime.”

  “I was expecting to hear from you last night.” Jesus, Brennan. Don’t antagonize her!

  “Things were happening here.”

  “Did you find France?”

  “I did. Dammit. Hang on.”

  Vislosky put me on hold for a lifetime.

  I was alone in bed. Clicking to speakerphone, I noticed that the digits on my screen said 7:14.

  “France owns property outside Nashville,” Vislosky said after reconnecting. “A house with a couple of acres off Highway Two Fifty-One.”

  “Is he living there?”

  “My contact in the Nashville PD says utilities are in France’s name. No phone. No internet.”

  “But is he actually there?”

  After a brief, censoring pause, “My buddy did a drive-by. Ran the plate on a truck parked in the drive. The vehicle is registered to France.”

  “Hot damn.”

  “Fucking A.”

  I told Vislosky about the girl with the cotton-candy hair. About the tee pointing to Nashville.

  “You’re liking this kid for our vic?”

  “She ticks a lot of boxes.”

  “Seems so.”

  I heard a honking horn.

  “Are you in your car?” I asked.

  “I like face-to-facers. Allows me a good read.”

  It took me a second. “You’re driving to Nashville?”

  “Ye olde Music City.”

  “I want to be there.” What the hell? Did I?

  “How’s that work?”

  “I book the next flight out.”

  After a pause, “When?”

  “Give me ten minutes.”

  I threw back the covers and hurried to the kitchen. Ryan was eating toast with cream cheese, raisins, and granola on top. Bird hadn’t quite emptied his bowl.

  I asked if they’d mind playing bachelor for a few days. Both were good with the idea.

  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 name France.

  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 Cumbe
rland’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.

  A dog went berserk.

  A moment, then a voice spoke over the frenzied yapping. “Goddammit, Axel. I’m gonna kick your scrawny butt from here to tomorrow.” Then, louder, “Hold on out there.”

  The dog squealed, then began to whimper. After its cries receded, locks rattled, and the door opened.

  Though even older and thinner, Digger France lived up to his online image. He wore jeans and a faded tee featuring an American flag. No shades, and the beard was now a scruffy goatee.

  “Yes?” Scraggly brows raised in question.

  “Digby France?”

  “Ain’t heard that handle in years.”

  “Digger?”

  “That’s me. But you be looking for autographs, I don’t do that no more.” Not unfriendly but not offering a hand.

  “I’m Detective Vislosky.” Flashing her badge.

  France glanced at the shield, then his eyes lifted to me.

  “Dr. Temperance Brennan,” I said, flashing nothing.

  France crossed bony arms on his bony chest. “That jerklord Jensen send you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I haven’t had a drop in over five years, so he can kiss my skinny patootie.”

  “Very commendable, sir,” Vislosky said. “But that’s not the purpose of our visit.”

  “Oh?”

  “May we come inside?”

  “Don’t normally have callers.”

  “Do you have a granddaughter, Mr. France?”

  I watched his face closely. Noticed a twitch in his right lower lid.

  “Why you askin’ that?”

  Vislosky kept her gaze steady on France.

  A beat, then Digger sighed and stepped back. “Don’t mind Axel. He’s all holler and no foller-through.”

  A short, dim hall made a right midway down its length and opened onto a small living room. The decor was startling.

  The walls were apple-green. Chartreuse pillows accessorized a poppy-red couch flanked by orange leather recliners. The coffee and end tables were teal. A rainbow braided rug covered the floor.

  The art consisted mostly of posters featuring the Digger France Band, each inside a garishly bright plastic frame. Interspersed with the posters were pictures of Jesus.

  An aquarium the size of the Great Barrier Reef stretched the length of one wall. I recognized a spotted clown fish, a bicolor blenny, a lot of purple tangs.

  A fuchsia guitar hung over a fireplace at the far end of the room. The hearth and bricks were painted a shocking carnation-pink.

  The kaleidoscopic onslaught was almost overwhelming.

  “Your home is stunning,” I said.

  “Always had a hankering for color but don’t see it so well.”

  Somewhere farther back in the house, a dog whined and scratched frenetically.

  “Might as well turn Axel loose. If not, he’ll just keep up his carping.”

  “Of course,” I said. No, I thought.

  France gestured Vislosky and me onto the couch. As we settled, he disappeared through the door by which we’d entered. I heard hinges squeak, then claws scrabbling on wood.

  A nanosecond later, Axel fired into the room. If pressed to guess the dog’s parentage, I’d say chihuahua and wolverine. A round of hysterical barking and yelling, then France dropped into a recliner. Axel hopped onto his master’s lap, circled, then sat and eyed us with trembling contempt.

  “What’s this about my granddaughter?”

  I’d printed the photo taken at Shady Sam’s. Vislosky indicated that I should lay it on the table.

  “Is that her?” she asked.

  France glanced at the picture, then did an angled jerk of his chin. “This about me taking a minor to a tavern?”

  As per Vislosky’s directive, I remained silent while she did the questioning.

  “Can you tell us about your granddaughter, sir?”

  “What are you wantin’ to know?” Guarded.

  “Perhaps we could start with her name?”

  “Harmony.”

  “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”

  Before France could object, Vislosky pulled out her mobile, thumbed the screen, and centered the device between us.

  “First off, are you acquainted with a man named Aubrey Huger? Goes by Sullie?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Thank you. Your granddaughter’s name is Harmony France?”

  “Harmony Wren Boatwright.”

  “That is a truly lovely name,” I said.

  France didn’t acknowledge my comment.

  “Is she your only grandchild?” Vislosky asked.

  “She is.”

  “Harmony is your daughter’s child?” I noted Vislosky’s use of the present tense.

  “Her mama’s long gone.” Leaning toward the phone and speaking slowly. “That’d be Bonnie Bird Boatwright.”

  “Is Bonnie still living in Nashville?”

  “Bonnie Bird,” France corrected. “Not likely. No one’s seen her since Harmony turned thirteen.”

  “Your daughter’s whereabouts are unknown to you?”

  “Don’t make me happy, but that’s a fact.” France crossed one scarecrow leg over the other. Axel popped to his feet, yipped in annoyance, then resettled. “Best this way. Bible says it’s abomination for man to lie with man. Goes for women, too.”

  “Is that a fact.” Vislosky’s tone was suddenly cooler.

  “Leviticus eighteen twenty-two.”

  “You sent your daughter away?”

  “Did it to protect Harmony, she being at an impressionable age by then. Had some regrets later. Bonnie Bird’s leaving really tore the girl up.”

  “How so?”

  “After Bonnie Bird left, the child couldn’t focus on nothing but finding her mama.”

  “Did you try to find your daughter?”

  “I eventually reported her missing. The cops give it a look-see. But that was Bonnie Bird’s way. She got to feeling pissy, she just took off. Cops figured motherhood wasn’t her thing.”

  “And there was that ugly lesbian thing.” Glacial.

  France said nothing,

  “When was the last time you saw Bonnie Bird?”

  “Summer of 2015.”

  “Who raised Harmony after you threw her mother out?” Vislosky asked.

  “That weren’t how it was.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Harmony’s upbringin’ fell to me,” France said. “The Boatwrights, that’d be her other granny and grandpa, was dead, and her daddy got himself killed in prison.”

  Sensing Vislosky’s hostility, I joined in, “good cop” style: “That must have been hard.”

  “I got some help from a lady friend used to sing with the band.”

  “Joy Sparrow?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” With an edge of surprise.

  “Is Joy Sparrow Bonnie Bird’s mother?”

  “No, ma’am. Not that my personal life’s any of your business.”

  “Did Harmony grow up in this house?” Vislosky asked, eyes cutting sideways to remind me of my vow of silence.

  When France shook his
head, the tip of his goatee grazed Axel’s ears. “We was living in town back then.”

  “Where is Harmony now?”

  “Guess the apple don’t fall far from the tree.”

  “Explain that.”

  France raised his chin and ran a hand down his throat. When he spoke again, the wispy triangle of hair bobbed in the air.

  “The young-un took off, just like her mama.”

  “Do you know where she went?”

  “No.”

  “Does she keep in touch?”

  “No.” A pause, then, “I’ll be honest, ma’am. Harmony was a handful after her mama left. And I’ll admit, I was drinking some then.”

  “How was she a handful?”

  “Had a temper like a hornet. We’d argue, usually about her schooling and such, she’d run off, sometimes stay away for weeks. Then she’d turn up and carry on like nothing happened. That was her way. She’d come and go. The last time she went, she didn’t come back.”

  “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  “Beats me. Like I said, me and the hooch was in a relationship.”

  France’s nostrils blanched on a quick intake of air.

  Afraid we might lose his cooperation, I asked gently, “Did Harmony ever break her arm?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That she did.” Same note of surprise. “Fell off a skateboard. I took her to the ER. They fixed her up with a cast and all. She didn’t like it none, but she wore it.”

  “Did she frequent a youth shelter called Amity House?”

  France nodded, apparently no longer astonished at the amount of personal info I had. “That’s the reason I didn’t fret none. I always reckoned that’s where she’d go.”

  “When was the last time you saw your granddaughter?”

  Again, the uplifted chin. This time, the liver-spotted hand stroked the dog, not his throat.

  “February the fifth, two thousand and eighteen.” Pronounced Feb-you-wary.

  “Your memory is very precise,” I said.

  “It was the day after her sixteenth birthday. I give her a regulation Army backpack that year, the kind with lots of zippers and compartments. Thought maybe we’d go fishing together.”

  “You haven’t seen or heard from her since?”