by Kathy Reichs
Bones of the Lost
By Kathy Reichs
Available from Scribner August 2013
Click Here to Order
“The forensic procedures take center stage, as they always do, in this cleverly plotted and expertly maintained series.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Reichs always delivers a pulse-pounding story.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Reichs knows what her readers like.”
—Associated Press
“When it comes to technical detail and local color, Reichs knows her stuff.”
—St. Louis Post-Dispatch
HEART POUNDING, I CRAWLED toward the brick angling down to form the edge of the recess. Craned out.
More footfalls. Then heavy boots appeared at the top of the stairs, beside them a pair of small feet, one bare, the other in a platform pump.
The feet started to descend, the small ones wobbly, their owner somehow impaired. The lower legs angled oddly, suggesting the knees bore little weight.
Anger burned hot in my chest. The woman was drugged. The bastard was dragging her.
Four treads lower, the man and woman crossed an arrow of moonlight. Not a woman, a girl. Her hair was long, her arms and legs refugee thin. I could see a triangle of white tee below the man’s chin. A pistol grip jutting from his waistband.
The pair again passed into darkness. Their tightly pressed bodies formed a two-headed black silhouette.
Stepping from the bottom tread, the man started muscling the girl toward the loading-dock door, pushing her, a hand clamping her neck. She stumbled. He yanked her up. Her head flopped like a Bobblehead doll’s.
The girl took a few more staggering steps. Then her chin lifted and her body bucked. A cry broke the stillness, animal shrill.
The man’s free arm shot out. The silhouette recongealed. I heard a scream of pain, then the girl pitched forward onto the concrete.
The man dropped to one knee. His elbow pumped as he pummeled the inert little body.
“Fight me, you little bitch?”
The man punched and punched until his breath grew ragged.
Rage flamed white-hot in my brain, overriding any instinct for personal safety.
I scuttled over and grabbed the Beretta. Checked the safety, thankful for the practice I’d put in at the range.
Satisfied with the gun, I reached for my phone. It wasn’t with the flashlight.
I searched my other pocket. No phone.
Had I dropped it? In my frenzied dash, had I left it at home?
The panic was almost overwhelming. I was off the grid. What to do?
A tiny voice advised caution. Remain hidden. Wait. Slidell knows where you are.
“You are so dead.” The voice boomed, cruel and malicious.
I whipped around.
The man was wrenching the girl up by her hair.
Holding the Beretta two-handed in front of me, I darted from the alcove. The man froze at the sound of movement. I stopped five yards from him. Using a pillar for cover, I spread my feet and leveled the barrel.
“Let her go.” My shout reverberated off brick and concrete.
The man maintained his grasp on the girl’s hair. His back was to me.
“Hands up.”
He let go and straightened. His palms slowly rose to the level of his ears.
“Turn around.”
As the man rotated, another fragment of light caught him. For a second I saw his face with total clarity.
On spotting his foe, the man’s hands dipped slightly. Sensing he could see me better than I could see him, I squeezed further behind the pillar.
“The fucking slut lives.”
You’ll die, too, fucking slut.
“Takes balls to send threats by e-mail.” My voice sounded much more confident than I felt. “To bully defenseless little girls.”
“Debt to pay? You know the rules.”
“Your debt-collecting days are over, you sick sonofabitch.”
“Says who?”
“Says a dozen cops racing here now.”
The man cupped an upraised hand to one ear. “I don’t hear no sirens.”
“Move away from the girl,” I ordered.
He took a token step.
“Move,” I snarled. The guy’s fuck-you attitude was making me want to smash the Beretta across his skull.
“Or what? You’re gonna shoot me?”
“Yeah.” Cold steel. “I’m gonna shoot you.”
Would I? I’d never fired at a human being.
Where the hell was Slidell? I knew my bluff was being sustained by coffee and adrenaline. Knew both would eventually wear off.
The girl groaned.
In that split second I lost the advantage that might have allowed him to live.
I looked down.
He lunged.
Fresh adrenaline blasted through me.
I raised the gun.
He closed in.
I sighted on the white triangle.
Fired.
The explosion echoed brutally loud. The concussion knocked my hands up, but I held position.
The man dropped.
In the murky gloom I saw the triangle go dark. Knew crimson was spreading across it. A perfect hit. The Triangle of Death.
Silence, but for my own rasping breath.
Then my higher centers caught up with my brain stem.
I’d killed a man.
My hands shook. Bile filled my throat.
I swallowed. Steadied the gun and stole forward.
The girl lay motionless. I crouched and placed trembling fingers on her throat. Felt a pulse, faint but steady.
I swiveled. Gazed at the man’s mute, malevolent eyes.
Suddenly I was exhausted. Revolted by what I’d just done.
I wondered. In my state, could I make good decisions? Carry through? My phone was back at the house.
I wanted to sit, hold my head in my hands, and let the tears flow.
Instead I drew a few steadying breaths, rose, and crossed what seemed a thousand miles of darkness. Climbed the stairs on rubbery legs.
A single passage cut right at the top. I followed it to the only closed door.
Gun tight in one clammy hand, I reached out and turned the knob with the other.
The door swung in.
I stared into pure horror.
I’VE BEEN HELD PRISONER before. In a basement, a morgue cooler, an underground crypt. It’s always frightening and intense. But this captivity exceeded all others for pure physical pain.
The jurors’ lounge in the Mecklenburg County Courthouse is as good as such facilities get—Wi-Fi, workstations, pool tables, movies, popcorn. I could have applied for a waiver. Didn’t. The judicial system called, I came. Good citizen Brennan. Besides, given my line of work, I knew I’d be excused from actually serving. When I’d planned today’s schedule I’d slotted sixty, ninety minutes max, cooling my heels.
Heels. Follow my leap here. In my business exciting footwear is Gore-Tex hikers that breathe, maybe wellies that don’t land you on your ass. Buying, much less wearing, murderous high heels is about as likely for me as finding Giganotosaurus remains behind Bad-Daddy’s Burgers.
My sister Harry had talked me into the three-inch Christian Louboutin pumps. Harry, from Texas, land of big hair and mile-high stilettos. You’ll look professional, she’d said. In charge. Plus they’re marked down 60 percent.
I had to admit, the burnished leather and snazzy stitchwork did look great on my feet. Feel great? Not after three hours of waiting. When the bailiff finally called our group, I near-tottered into the courtroom, then into the jury box when my number was called.
“Please state your full
name.” Chelsea Jett, six minutes out of law school, four-hundred-dollar suit, pricey pearl choker, heels that left mine in the dust. A new prosecutor, Jett was cloaking a case of nerves with brusqueness.
“Temperance Daessee Brennan.” Make it easy on both of us. Excuse me pronto.
“Please state your address.”
I did. “That’s at Sharon Hall,” I added, just to be affable. Nineteenth-century manor, red brick, white pillars, magnolias. My unit is the annex to the carriage house. Can’t get more Old South than that. I offered none of that.
“How long have you resided in Charlotte?”
“Since I was eight.”
“Does anyone live at that address with you?”
“My adult daughter has at times, but not now.” The bracelet Katy gave me hung loose on my wrist, a delicate silver band engraved MOM ROCKS.
“Your marital status?”
“Separated.” Complicated. I definitely didn’t add that.
“Are you employed?”
“Yes.”
“Please state your employer.”
“State of North Carolina.” Keep it simple.
“Your occupation?”
“Forensic anthropologist.”
“What is the educational requirement for that profession?” Stiff.
“I hold a PhD and am certified by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology.”
“So you perform autopsies.”
“You’re thinking of a forensic pathologist. Common mistake.”
Jett stiffened.
I offered a smile. The counselor didn’t.
“Forensic anthropologists work with the dead for whom normal autopsies are impossible—the skeletal, mummified, decomposed, dismembered, burned, or mutilated. We’re consulted on many issues, all of which are answered through analysis of the bones. For example, are the remains in question human or animal?”
“That requires an expert?” Restrained skepticism.
“Some human and animal bones are deceptively similar.” I pictured the mummified sets awaiting me at the MCME. “Fragmentary remains can be especially difficult to assess. Are they from one individual, several, humans, animals, both?” The bundles I was not examining because I was sitting here, feet bloating like corpses in water.
Jett flicked a manicured hand, impatient for me to continue.
“If the remains are human, I look for indicators of age, sex, race, height, illness, deformity, or anomaly—anything that might be of use in establishing ID. I analyze trauma to determine manner of death. I estimate how long the victim has been dead. I consider postmortem body treatment.”
Jett raised one questioning brow.
“Decapitation, dismemberment, burial, submersion—”
“I think that covers it.”
Jett’s gaze dropped to her scribbled questions. A long, long list.
My eyes found my watch, then wandered to the unfortunates still waiting to be grilled. I’d dressed to look respectful, to project the image expected of a representative of the Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner’s Office. Tan linen pantsuit, silk turtleneck. Such was not the case for all my fellow captives. My personal favorite was the young woman in a tight sleeveless turtleneck, jeans, and sandals.
Not haute couture, but I suspected her feet felt better than mine. I tried to wiggle my toes inside the torturous pumps. Failed.
Ms. Jett took a deep breath. Where was she headed? I didn’t wait to find out.
“As forensic anthropologist for the state, I’m under contract to both UNC Charlotte—I teach an upper-level seminar there—and to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Chapel Hill and the Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner here in Charlotte. I also provide expertise to the Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires et de médecine légale in Montreal.” Read: I am busy. I consult to police agencies, the FBI, the military, coroners, and medical examiners. You know the defense attorney will excuse me if you don’t.
“Do I understand correctly? You work regularly in two countries?”
“It’s not as odd as it sounds. In most jurisdictions, forensic anthropologists function as specialty consultants. As I’ve stated, my colleagues and I are only called in on cases where there’s insufficient flesh for an autopsy, or the remains—”
“Right.”
Jett finger-scanned the endless lineup on her yellow pad.
I stretched—tried to stretch—my unhappy phalanges.
“In the course of your work with the medical examiner’s office, do you come into contact with police officers?”
Finally. Thank you.
“Yes. Often.”
“Prosecuting or defense attorneys?”
“Both. And my ex-husband is a lawyer.” Sort of ex.
“Do you personally know anyone involved in this litigation, the defendant, his family, the police investigators, the attorneys, the judge—”
“Yes.”
And I was excused.
Ignoring my protesting pedal digits, I hobble-bolted from the courtroom, across the lobby, and out the double glass doors. My Mazda was at the farthest corner of the parking deck. Arriving ten minutes past the eight a.m. hour demanded on the summons, I’d grabbed the first space I could find, halfway to Kansas.
After a fast limp across a traffic lane, I rounded a row of vehicles and found my car closely flanked by a humongous SUV on the driver’s side and even more closely wedged on the passenger side. Sweat glands pumping, I wriggled between the two sets of handles and rearview mirrors, butt and chest skimming the grimy doors and side panels squeezing my torso. My classy tan linen now looked like I’d taken a roll in a landfill.
As I wedged the door open and squeezed behind the wheel, something clinked at my feet. A sensible citizen—that is, a citizen in sensible footwear—would have stopped to identify whatever automotive adornment had been dislodged. I focused on my escape, fingers searching for keys in the zipper pouch of my purse.
Feet aflame, I jammed the keys into the ignition and bent sideways to tug at my right shoe. The thing gripped as though grafted onto my flesh.
I tugged harder.
My foot exploded from its casing. With much twisting and maneuvering, I repeated the process on the left.
Settling against the seatback, I eyeballed a pair of spectacular blisters. Then the hated Louboutins in my hand.
My hand.
My wrist.
My bare wrist!
Katy.
A familiar stab of fear pierced my chest.
I pushed it away.
Focus. The bracelet had been in place in the jury lounge, in the jury box.
The clink. The little silver band must have caught on something during my slither along the SUV.
Cursing, I squeezed back out and slammed the car door.
The human brain is a switching station that operates on two levels. As a reflex order fired to my hand, a neural connection was already taking place in my cerebellum. Before the door hit home, I knew I was screwed. Pointlessly, I tried the handle, then checked the position of all four lock buttons.
Cursing even more colorfully, I reached for my purse. Which was lying on the passenger seat.
Shit.
And the keys? Dangling from the ignition.
I stood a moment, pant cuffs waterfalling over my bare feet, suit streaked with dirt, underarms soggy with sweat. And wondered.
Could this day get any worse?
A muted voice floated from inside the car. Andy Grammer singing “Keep Your Head Up,” announcing an incoming call on my iPhone. I almost laughed. Almost.
I’d told my boss, Tim Larabee, that I’d be at the lab before noon. In the jury lounge, I’d phoned to update my ETA to 1:00 p.m. My watch now said 2:00. Larabee would be wondering about the mummified remains awaiting my evaluation.
&nbs
p; Maybe it wasn’t Larabee.
Hell. So now what? There was no one I wanted to tell I was standing shoeless on a parking deck, locked out of my car.
But you gotta keep your head up . . .
Right.
I scanned the lot. Full of vehicles. Devoid of people.
Break the car window? With what? Frustrated, I glared at the glass. It countered with an image of an angry woman with really bad hair. Clever.
But it was. My eyes took in the glass that no longer snugged tight to the frame. A worn or missing tooth in the window regulator, Jimmy, my mechanic, had said. Dangerous. Enough gap for some kid to drop a wire and be halfway to Georgia before you realize your car’s been boosted.
Seriously? I’d said. A ten-year-old Mazda?
Parts, he’d said solemnly.
Was a coat hanger too much to ask? I scanned the detritus collected where the deck’s pavement met its back wall. Pebbles, cellophane wrappers, aluminum cans. Nothing likely to get me into the car.
I moved along the wall, gingerly positioning my feet. Though the blisters now looked like patches of ground beef, I soldiered on, cuffs dragging on the filthy concrete.
Mummified bones at the lab growing older by the minute.
Given all the delays, I’d be at the ME office until well into the evening. Then home to a cranky cat. Microwaving whatever was left in the freezer.
But you gotta keep your . . .
Can it.
Then I spotted a glint in the debris two yards ahead. Hopeful, I inched toward it.
My prize was a two-foot segment of wire, perhaps once part of a jerry-rigged arrangement such as the one I envisioned.
After a fast hobble back to the Mazda, I created a small loop at one end and fed the wire through Jimmy’s gap.
Working two-handed, face flat to the window, I tried to drop the loop over the button. Each time the gizmo seemed well positioned, I pulled up sharply.
I was on my zillionth loop-and-yank when a voice boomed at my back.
“Step away from the vehicle.”
Shit.
Clutching the wire firmly in one hand, I turned.
A uniformed parking attendant stood three yards from me, feet spread, palms up and pointed my way. His expression was one of nervous excitement.
