The Bone Collection: Four Novellas

by Kathy Reichs

  A cry.

  Another crack. A muffled thud.

  Feet pumping, I chose speed over furtiveness. Far from quiet, I stumbled through the dark, snapping twigs, splashing mud, panting for air.

  Spotting a stand of live oaks, I aimed for the largest and flattened my back against its trunk. Pain knifed both my sides. My lungs screamed for air. Sweat stung my eyes.

  I struggled to slow my breathing and the thumping of my heart, all the while straining to listen for signs of pursuit.

  Every sound seemed menacing. Was that wind or a snake slithering through leaves? A croaking frog or a gator testing its voice? A marsh bird or a clip snapping into a Glock?

  I closed my eyes and tried to visualize the route I’d driven to the Cypress brothers’ shack. Failed. Decided to continue in the direction I was headed, hoping to reach a canal or road. Placing each foot carefully, I set off again. Stealth my priority now.

  Suddenly, the trees thinned and the ground dropped off abruptly. Realizing too late, I lost my balance and, arms pinwheeling, careened downward into knee-deep mud and brackish water.

  End of the hammock. For the first time all night, I was grateful there was no moon. Feeling exposed, I slip-slid back up the bank and, making myself as small as possible, crouched to regroup.

  “What the buzzard!” For the second time, a disembodied voice caused me to flinch.

  A new round of adrenaline firebombed through me. I slid back into the muck, but the marsh grass provided little cover. Swim? The shore of the hammock curved sharply to my left. A short underwater trip and I could be out of sight.

  “Don’t move,” the voice ordered.

  Not Pierce, but who?

  Trying not to show movement, I ran my fingers through the slime at my feet, groping for a rock, a stick, anything to serve as a weapon.

  “You might as well holler ‘Here, gator gator.’ ” The voice was male. Familiar.

  “Jordan?” I hissed. Friend or foe? Why was he here?

  “Who’s askin’?”

  “Tempe.”

  No response.

  “The bone doc.”

  “What the hell are you doing in the swamp at night?”

  Water rippled to my left. Close. I turned only my head, slowly. Saw nothing.

  I was about to reply to Jordan, when something smooth and solid brushed my arm underwater. Something thick and long. Very long.

  My heart leapt into my throat.

  “Dammit,” Jordan boomed. “You just cost me a sixteen-footer.”

  A tall shadow shaped up on the hammock and splashed toward me. A strong hand wrapped my upper arm and yank-lifted me up the bank.

  “One more second and she’da gone for that crane.” His words didn’t penetrate. “I’da had her.”

  “Shut up!” I was desperate to quiet him.

  “What kind of stunt are you tryin’ to pull?”

  “Listen to me right now.” I thrust my face close to his and put all the force I could into a loud whisper. My intensity got his attention. “Scott Pierce killed Kiley James. Buck Cypress. Maybe all three brothers. Now he’s trying to kill me.”

  “The NPS cop?” Dubious, but at a more subdued volume.

  “Pierce is armed and crazy. Believe me or don’t, but we need to move fast. Where’s your boat?”

  Jordan jerked a thumb over one shoulder.

  “Let’s go. Now.”

  Nothing gave Pierce away until the bullet hit Jordan. The big man spun, face contorted, then flopped into the water at my feet. I dropped, too, and huddled behind his bulk.

  Pierce charged from the hammock, Glock leveled in two outstretched hands. I was preparing to dive when Jordan fountained up from the water, arm rising in one smooth move, a handgun aimed at Pierce.

  Jordan squeezed the trigger. Crack! Pierce stumbled backward, a dark circle blossoming on his chest. Jordan held position, feet spread, gun steady, as the ranger cop staggered and fell into the marsh.

  Serpentine ripples glided toward Pierce. Something dark and slender flicked below the surface and was gone.

  Pierce flexed to lift his gun.

  The gator struck.

  Pierce struggled, but the animal lunged from the shallows and clamped its powerful jaws on the ranger’s upper arm. The scream was high and piercing. And brief.

  Pierce twisted and flailed as the gator dragged him deeper. Then the rolling began. I couldn’t watch. I couldn’t look away.

  Desperate thrashing as the gator revolved a helpless Pierce over and over. Seconds. Minutes. An aeon. Then the marsh was quiet. The water dark and opaque, enveloping its terrible secret.

  My eyes flew to Jordan. The wrangler stood frozen. I felt sick.

  “Should we…?” I let my question dangle.

  “Out. Get out of the water.” Jordan put a surprisingly gentle hand on my back and guided me up onto shore. His other arm was crooked inward at an odd angle. A river of black stained his khaki shirt, its origin in the region of the collarbone.

  Jordan saw my pale face. My expression of horror.

  “What could you have done?” he said quietly.

  I had no answer.

  “Enough for one night,” Jordan said. “Let’s hit that boat.”

  “How was your day?” I called from the hammock when the patio door slid open.

  Lisa dropped into a chair and kicked off her shoes. “In addition to python guts, I got a mallard that dive-bombed into a ranger’s Ford pickup.”

  “Grilled duck for dinner?”

  She laughed. “Let’s stick with tacos.” Her face grew serious. “How are you doing?”

  Lisa had been fluttering over me ever since the Great Glades Gunfest.

  “I’m peachy.” I really was. I’d spent three days sleeping late, snorkeling, sunning on the beach, and lazing in the hammock, book spread open on my chest as I napped. Reading by osmosis. I’d even gone back to the national park to hike. Turns out an Everglades vacation isn’t so bad.

  “Want to talk?” she asked way too casually.

  “Lisa, my only problem is a paper cut from a postcard for Katy.” I held up a finger. “What do you want to know?” She’d waited three days to ask for specifics, giving me space.

  “Everything. What happened? Why’d he do it?”

  “Scott Pierce was poaching big time. Mega-irony. Kiley learned of it via the Eugene fashion sisters. The dolts put her in a pair of albino-snakeskin pants for a shoot. The skin had an unusual marking pattern. Kiley knew it came from a microchipped python that had been released in the national park.”

  “Wait. I thought the park service was trying to kill the snakes?” Lisa was confused.

  “They chip-and-release some males during the breeding season, hoping the transmitter will lead them to mating aggregations where they can catch more snakes, especially reproductive females.”

  “Kiley actually recognized an individual python?”

  “It was an albino with distinctive markings.” I bet the Eugene sisters went batshit over the white-on-white hide. “Since pythons like to stay within fairly limited home ranges, Kiley knew the snake had to have come from the national park. Pythons can find their way home even when relocated twenty miles away.” I was becoming quite the herpetologist. “The notes I found in Kiley’s locker were a listing of the albino python’s last transmitter coordinates.”

  “And harvesting from the park is illegal.”

  “Felony. Kiley was waging war against poachers. The main reason she took the modeling gig was to fund her crusade.”

  “How’d she finger Pierce?”

  “Actually, the one she nailed was Buck Cypress. Using the albino’s transmitter coordinates, she set up surveillance. Caught Buck on tape pulling a female.”

  “Buck worked for Pierce.”

  “Yes.”

  “Rangers are supposed to protect wildlife.” Lisa’s tone was a mix of repugnance and outrage. “Why’d he do it?”

  “Same reason most people kill. Money. Pierce works a pyth
on beat, knows that illegally traded skins are a billion-dollar annual industry.”

  “Seriously?”

  “European fashion designers are rabid for snakeskin. In Indonesia, Malaysia, Cambodia, and Vietnam wild pythons are quickly becoming endangered.”

  “Which drives prices up. Which creates a black market.”

  “Bingo. The Eugenes bought local on the cheap. Not just pythons, either. Alligators, too.”

  The Miami Herald had run a front-page story covering the raid on the Eugene production factory. I’d particularly liked the above-the-fold shot of the four ladies shielding their faces as they hurried from a downtown cop shop. The caption read: “Snake harmers.” One photo op the sisters would rather have skipped.

  “Aren’t there plenty of legal skins? From the extensive python hunting?”

  “Not enough to make serious coin, legal or otherwise. Especially since hunters can’t harvest in the national park.”

  “But Pierce was. Hunting in the park.”

  “More than that. He was capturing wild females and breeding them.”

  “Grow your own. Also illegal.”

  “Very. Breeding is prohibited by federal law. Violation carries up to five years of jail time.”

  “All these new laws to address the python problem.” Lisa sighed. “It’s a bit of closing the stable door after the horse has bolted.”

  “True. And the regulations create a perfect climate for illicit trade. Current breeders are grandfathered, but they can’t transport or sell snakes across state lines. In Florida, ownership of a python requires a hundred-dollar annual permit. If the snake has a diameter greater than two inches, a tracking microchip must be implanted. Owners also have to prove their handling skills. The U.S. snake-loving community is huge, and the reptile industry trade association is up in arms, suing to overturn what they view as overly restrictive laws.”

  “Lots of incentive to go rogue.”

  “That and the moolah,” I said.

  “Pierce was in it for the cash. How did the Cypress brothers fit in?”

  “They ran the day-to-day operations. Cops found cages full of breeding females and hatchlings on their property. The brothers fed, killed, and skinned the snakes. Had a setup for tanning—that’s how they remove and treat the skins. Made the deliveries.”

  “Why’d Pierce kill Buck?”

  “With Kiley, Buck, and Pierce all dead, it’s hard to know for certain. Our best guess is that Kiley went to confront Buck. Pierce showed up, and she put two and two together. Pierce shot her, then did Buck to cover his tracks. Yellen’s deputies found a chain saw in a shed on Pierce’s property, blood and tissue in the blade. Guy’s a sociopath.”

  “The good lookers often are.” Lisa rose. “I’d better clean up. We’ve got to go soon.”

  I gave a thumbs-up. “Ready when you are.”

  Through the screen I heard a double chime.

  “I’ll get it. You go get ready.” I rolled from the hammock and headed through the house to the front door.

  There on the porch was Sheriff T. Yellen. “Howdy,” he said.

  I gave him a “Come in” gesture. Yellen followed me to the kitchen and perched unsteadily on a stool.

  “Big week for you,” I said. “Nabbed an arsonist and a murderer, shut down a meth lab, and busted an illegal snakeskin op.”

  Yellen flapped a dismissive hand. “It’s Florida. You headin’ home soon?”

  “Tomorrow,” I said. I thought about the call I’d gotten from the ME in Charlotte. About the calls I hadn’t gotten from Andrew Ryan. Wondered where he was. What we’d say to each other if ever he phoned.

  Nope. Not tonight.

  “They find Pierce?” I asked.

  Yellen shook his head. “Not likely to. Gators drown their prey real solid. After the death roll, the ole boy probably jammed Pierce under a submerged log for marinating. He’ll dine at his leisure.”

  All righty then.

  “And the Cypress brothers?” I asked.

  “Swamp rats are either too stubborn or too stupid to die. They lost a lot of blood, but they’ll both make it.”

  Me too, I thought. I estimated I was a quart down due to mosquito consumption.

  Yellen went on. “Ernie’ll get a pass, ’cause of his limited thinkin’ ability. He probably knew nothing about the murders, and wouldn’t have understood the snake operation. Kid’s got no criminal record. But Deuce’ll serve time enough for the both of ’em.”

  “For murder?”

  “Poaching and breeding. The killing’s all on Pierce. I’ll be thanking the next gator I see for saving the state the cost of a trial.”

  We were quiet another moment.

  “Nice shirt.” The pink and blue Hawaiian print stretched across Yellen’s paunch like a tablecloth at a luau.

  “Nice whirly-do you got going with your hair,” Yellen snarked back.

  “Gotta look good for my first rodeo.” I grinned.

  Yellen grinned back. Then held up four tickets stamped HOMESTEAD CHAMPIONSHIP RODEO. “Southernmost ropin’ in the continental US of A. Consider it your paycheck from the great state of Florida.”

  “Will Jordan meet us there?” I picked up my purse.

  “Yep. Got his heart set on riding a bull. Give new meaning to the name Dusty.”

  “Ready!” Lisa joined us, now in denim, a tee, and a cowboy hat. “Let’s go watch us some wrangling!”

  We trooped out into the soft Florida evening.

  Not such a bad vacation after all.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Swamp Bones was conceived during rush hour. As I fumed in my car, going nowhere, a story about the Smithsonian ornithologist Dr. Carla Dove and microscopic feather identification came on NPR. The piece caught my attention because, like me, the aptly named Dr. Dove was applying her dry, academic (or as TV Bones’s Agent Seeley Booth would say, “squinty”) knowledge to real-world problems. Just as the fictional Dr. Temperance Brennan uses the skeleton to identify human victims, Dr. Dove was using her expertise to determine bird species from feather “remains.” Both were catching culprits, in Tempe’s case murderers. By classifying birds ingested into aircraft engines (bird strikes), Dr. Dove was helping the aviation industry build safer engines and arming airfield managers with habitat information to discourage avian use.

  The NPR story focused on a different form of strike: birds as victims of ambush predators. Specifically, there’s a Burmese python epidemic in the Everglades. The Burmese python, one of the largest snakes in the world, is native to Southeast Asia. So what are these giants doing in Florida? Not visiting the Magic Kingdom, I guessed.

  An owner no longer wants his pet python. Hurricane Andrew rips through South Florida, releasing the inventory of zoos and exotic-reptile suppliers. Where do these creatures end up? The Everglades.

  We may never be certain how the pythons got into the swamp, but it turns out life there agrees with them. Burmese pythons have established a large breeding population across the Everglades’ 1.5 million acres. Estimates vary from a few thousand to 150,000 snakes. With their ability to produce up to a hundred eggs annually, and the absence of natural predators, that number will undoubtedly rise.

  These guys are impressive. Adults average six to nine feet long, but can grow to twenty-two feet and weigh two hundred pounds. The largest captured in Florida clocked in at eighteen feet eight inches.

  They eat well, too. The Burmese python is an “apex predator,” dining on raccoons, rabbits, bobcats, wrens, ibis, herons, opossums, deer, and even alligators and panthers. In areas where they have existed the longest, raccoon populations have dropped 99 percent, opossums 98, and bobcats 87. Marsh and cottontail rabbits, as well as foxes, have all but disappeared. In 2012, the Burmese python was added to the federal law used by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to prevent and manage invasive forms. The Lacey Act bans the importation and interstate commerce of listed species. In this case, sort of like closing the swamp door after the horse has already swu
m off (perhaps to avoid being python chow).

  In 2013, the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission offered a Python Challenge: Anyone with twenty-five bucks and a hankering to chase snakes could humanely capture and slay the invaders. The monthlong contest offered prizes for the most killed, the longest, the biggest, and so forth. Participants hunted in one of two categories: Licensed Wrangler (the pros) or Everyone Else. Nearly 1,600 hunters came from thirty-eight states, Washington, D.C., and Canada. How many snakes did this veritable army of trackers harvest? Thousands, right? Nope. Sixty-eight. The majority by the professional wranglers. Eighteen by one person alone, veteran permit holder Ruben Ramirez.

  Deeming the experiment a success, Florida repeated the challenge in 2016. This time participants were required to complete an online training course and score at least 80 percent on a quiz. Over a thousand got their B-minus or better and showed up to bag snakes. Overall yield: 106 pythons.

  Why was such a paltry take viewed as an achievement? Public awareness, for one thing. Also, we return to Dr. Dove. During both Python Challenges, Florida Fish and Wildlife ordered the necropsy of every snake captured. Here’s the reason.

  As the largest subtropical wilderness in the United States, Everglades National Park provides habitat for a wide array of walking, flying, and swimming creatures. Many are endangered: the manatee, the American crocodile, the Key Largo wood rat, the wood stork, and the Florida panther. Unaccustomed to being hunted by pythons, these animals and birds lack the appropriate instinctual defenses. Postmortem analysis of the pythons would help conservationists learn which species face the greatest threat of becoming lunch.

  Feather fragments from python stomachs were bagged and sent to the Smithsonian’s Feather Identification Lab. Dr. Dove identified twenty-five avian species in python guts, including the endangered wood stork.

  Back to me, stuck in traffic. The morbid turn of my brain. Thinking, This is fascinating. Thinking, There’s a story here. What if a necropsy turns up a bone that doesn’t belong? What if it’s human? I wonder what snake digestion does to human bone. I wonder how Tempe feels about snakes….

  Voilà, Swamp Bones.