Read Online Bare Bones by Kathy Reichs - Free Book Online
Authors: Kathy Reichs
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Women forensic anthropologists, Detective and Mystery Stories; American, north carolina, smuggling, Forensic Anthropology, Endangered Species, Brennan; Temperance (Fictitious Character), Women Anthropologists
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back, and began sifting bone fragments from their matrix of debris and brain matter, most of which had ricocheted backward after hitting the windshield frame.
The cornfield and its occupants receded. The cicadas faded. Now and then I heard voices, a radio, a distant siren.
As Larabee worked on the passenger’s body, I rummaged for the remnants of his shattered head.
Teeth. Orbital rim. A chunk of jaw. Every fragment coated with flaky black gunk.
While the pilot had been speckled, the passenger was total y encrusted. I had no idea what the substance could be.
As I fil ed a container, Hawkins replaced it with an empty one.
At one point I heard workers setting up a portable generator and lights.
The plane reeked of charred flesh and airplane fuel. Soot fil ed the air, turning the cramped space into a miniature Dust Bowl. My back and knees ached.
Again and again I shifted, fruitlessly searching for more comfortable positions.
I wil ed my body temperature down by cal ing up cool images in my mind.
A swimming pool. The smel of chlorine. The roughness of the boardwalk on the soles of my feet. The shock of cold on that first plunge.
The beach. Waves on my ankles. Wind on my face. Cool, salty sand against my cheek. A blast of AC on Coppertone skin.
Popsicles.
Ice cubes popping in lemonade.
We finished as the last pink tendrils of day slipped below the horizon.
Hawkins made a final trip to the van. Larabee and I stripped off our jumpsuits and packed the equipment locker. At the blacktop I turned for a closing look.
Dusk had drained al color from the landscape. Summer night was taking over, painting cornstalks, cliff, and trees in shades of gray and black.
At center stage, the doomed plane and its responders, glowing under the portable lights like some macabre performance of Shakespeare in a cornfield.
A Midsummer Night’s Nightmare.
I was so exhausted I slept most of the way home.
“Do you want to swing by the office to pick up your car?” Larabee asked.
“Take me home.”
That was the extent of the conversation.
An hour later Larabee deposited me beside my patio.
“See you tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
Of course. I have no life.
I got out and slammed the door.
The kitchen was dark.
Lights in the study?
I tiptoed to the side of the annex and peeked around the corner.
Dark.
Upstairs?
Ditto.
“Good,” I mumbled, feeling stupid. “I hope he’s not here.”
I let myself into the kitchen.
“Hel o?”
Not a sound.
“Bird?”
No cat.
Dumping my pack on the floor, I unlaced and pul ed off my boots, then opened the door and set them outside.
“Birdie?”
Nope.
I walked to the study and flipped the wal switch.
And felt my mouth open in dismay.
I was filthy, exhausted, and light-years past niceness.
“What the hel areyoudoing here?”
7
RYAN OPENED ONE VERY BLUE EYE.
“Is that al you ever say to me?”
“I’m talking to him.”
I pointed a sooty finger at Boyd.
The dog was flopped at one end of the couch, paws dangling over the edge. Ryan lay propped at the other end, legs extended, ankles crossed on top of the chow.
Neither wore shoes.
On hearing my voice Boyd sat bolt upright.
I moved the finger.
Boyd slunk to the floor. Ryan’s size-twelves dropped to the cushion.
“Furniture infraction?” Both blue eyes were open now.
“I take it you found the key?”
“No problemo.”
“How did chowbreath get here, and why did he permit you to just waltz in?”
Boyd and Ryan looked at each other.
“I’ve been cal ing him Hooch. Saw it in a movie. Thought it fit him.”
Boyd’s ears shot up.
“Who letHoochin, and why did Hooch let you in?”
“Hooch remembers me from the TransSouth disaster up inBrysonCity .”
I’d forgotten. When his partner was kil ed transporting a prisoner fromGeorgia toMontreal , Ryan had been invited to help the NTSB with the crash investigation. He and Boyd had met at that time, in
The cornfield and its occupants receded. The cicadas faded. Now and then I heard voices, a radio, a distant siren.
As Larabee worked on the passenger’s body, I rummaged for the remnants of his shattered head.
Teeth. Orbital rim. A chunk of jaw. Every fragment coated with flaky black gunk.
While the pilot had been speckled, the passenger was total y encrusted. I had no idea what the substance could be.
As I fil ed a container, Hawkins replaced it with an empty one.
At one point I heard workers setting up a portable generator and lights.
The plane reeked of charred flesh and airplane fuel. Soot fil ed the air, turning the cramped space into a miniature Dust Bowl. My back and knees ached.
Again and again I shifted, fruitlessly searching for more comfortable positions.
I wil ed my body temperature down by cal ing up cool images in my mind.
A swimming pool. The smel of chlorine. The roughness of the boardwalk on the soles of my feet. The shock of cold on that first plunge.
The beach. Waves on my ankles. Wind on my face. Cool, salty sand against my cheek. A blast of AC on Coppertone skin.
Popsicles.
Ice cubes popping in lemonade.
We finished as the last pink tendrils of day slipped below the horizon.
Hawkins made a final trip to the van. Larabee and I stripped off our jumpsuits and packed the equipment locker. At the blacktop I turned for a closing look.
Dusk had drained al color from the landscape. Summer night was taking over, painting cornstalks, cliff, and trees in shades of gray and black.
At center stage, the doomed plane and its responders, glowing under the portable lights like some macabre performance of Shakespeare in a cornfield.
A Midsummer Night’s Nightmare.
I was so exhausted I slept most of the way home.
“Do you want to swing by the office to pick up your car?” Larabee asked.
“Take me home.”
That was the extent of the conversation.
An hour later Larabee deposited me beside my patio.
“See you tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
Of course. I have no life.
I got out and slammed the door.
The kitchen was dark.
Lights in the study?
I tiptoed to the side of the annex and peeked around the corner.
Dark.
Upstairs?
Ditto.
“Good,” I mumbled, feeling stupid. “I hope he’s not here.”
I let myself into the kitchen.
“Hel o?”
Not a sound.
“Bird?”
No cat.
Dumping my pack on the floor, I unlaced and pul ed off my boots, then opened the door and set them outside.
“Birdie?”
Nope.
I walked to the study and flipped the wal switch.
And felt my mouth open in dismay.
I was filthy, exhausted, and light-years past niceness.
“What the hel areyoudoing here?”
7
RYAN OPENED ONE VERY BLUE EYE.
“Is that al you ever say to me?”
“I’m talking to him.”
I pointed a sooty finger at Boyd.
The dog was flopped at one end of the couch, paws dangling over the edge. Ryan lay propped at the other end, legs extended, ankles crossed on top of the chow.
Neither wore shoes.
On hearing my voice Boyd sat bolt upright.
I moved the finger.
Boyd slunk to the floor. Ryan’s size-twelves dropped to the cushion.
“Furniture infraction?” Both blue eyes were open now.
“I take it you found the key?”
“No problemo.”
“How did chowbreath get here, and why did he permit you to just waltz in?”
Boyd and Ryan looked at each other.
“I’ve been cal ing him Hooch. Saw it in a movie. Thought it fit him.”
Boyd’s ears shot up.
“Who letHoochin, and why did Hooch let you in?”
“Hooch remembers me from the TransSouth disaster up inBrysonCity .”
I’d forgotten. When his partner was kil ed transporting a prisoner fromGeorgia toMontreal , Ryan had been invited to help the NTSB with the crash investigation. He and Boyd had met at that time, in
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