Read Online Bare Bones by Kathy Reichs - Free Book Online Page A
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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theCarolina mountains.
“How didHoochget in here?”
“Your daughter brought him.”
Boyd wedged his snout under Ryan’s hand.
“Nice kid.”
Nice ambush, I thought, fighting back a smile. Katy figured a guest couldn’t refuse the dog.
“Nice dog.”
Ryan scratched Boyd behind the ears, swiveled his feet to the floor, and gave me a once-over. The corners of his mouth twitched upward.
“Nice look.”
My clothes were filthy, my nails caked with mud and soot. My hair was sweaty-wet and matted, my cheeks fiery from a zil ion insect bites. I smel ed of corn, airplane fuel, and charred flesh.
How would my sister Harry describe me? Rode hard and put away wet.
But I was not in the mood for a fashion critique.
“I’ve been scraping up fried brain matter, Ryan. You wouldn’t look like a Dior ad either.” Boyd regarded me but kept his thoughts to himself.
“Have you eaten?”
“The event wasn’t catered.”
Hearing my tone, Boyd jammed his snout back under Ryan’s hand.
“Hooch and I were thinking about pizza.”
Boyd wagged his tail at the sound of his new nickname. Or at the mention of pizza.
“His name’s Boyd.”
“Why don’t you go upstairs and clean up some. Boyd and I’l see what we can rustle up.” Rustle up?
Born inNova Scotia , Ryan has lived his entire adult life in theprovinceofQuebec . Though he’s traveled extensively, his view of American culture is typical y Canadian. Rednecks. Gangsters. Cowboys. Now and then he tries to impress me with hisGunsmokelingo. I hoped he wasn’t about to do that now.
“I’l be a few minutes,” I said.
“Take your time.”
Good. No “podna” or “ma’am” tacked on for effect.
It came as I was trudging up the stairs.
“—Miz Kitty.”
Another sudsy, steamy bathroom session to cleanse body and soul of the smel of death. Lavender shower gel, juniper shampoo, rosemary-mint conditioner. I was going through a lot of aromatic plants of late.
Soaping up, I thought about the man downstairs.
Andrew Ryan, lieutenant-détective, Section de Crimes contre la Personne, Sûreté du Québec.
Ryan and I had worked together for nearly a decade, homicide detective and forensic anthropologist. As specialists within our respective agencies headquartered inMontreal , theQuebec coroner’s bureau and theQuebec provincial police, we’d investigated serial kil ers, outlaw biker gangs, doomsday cults, and common criminals. I’d do the vics. He’d do the legwork. Always strictly professional.
Over the years I’d heard stories about Ryan’s past. Bikes, booze, binges closed out on drunk-tank floors. The near-fatal attack by a biker with the shattered neck of a twelve-ounce Bud. The slow recovery. The defection to the good guys. Ryan’s rise within the provincial police.
I’d also heard tales about Ryan’s present. Station-house stud. Babe meister.
Irrelevant. I had a steadfast rule against workplace romances.
But Ryan isn’t good at fol owing rules. He pressed, I resisted. Less than two years back, at last accepting the fact that Pete and I were better off as friends than spouses, I’d agreed to date him.
Date?
Jesus. I sounded like my mother.
I squeezed more lavender onto my scrunchy and lathered again.
What term did one use for singles over forty?
Go out? Court? Woo?
Moot point. Before anything got off the ground, Ryan disappeared undercover. Fol owing his reemergence, we’d tried a few dinners, movies, and bowling encounters, but never got to the wooing part.
I pictured Ryan. Tal , lanky, eyes bluer than aCarolina sky.
Something flipped in my stomach.
Woo!
Maybe I wasn’t as tired as I thought.
Last spring, at the close of an emotional y difficult time inGuatemala , I’d final y decided to take the plunge. I’d agreed to vacation with Ryan.
What could go wrong at the beach?
I never found out. Ryan’s pager beeped while en route to theGuatemala City airport, and instead of
“How didHoochget in here?”
“Your daughter brought him.”
Boyd wedged his snout under Ryan’s hand.
“Nice kid.”
Nice ambush, I thought, fighting back a smile. Katy figured a guest couldn’t refuse the dog.
“Nice dog.”
Ryan scratched Boyd behind the ears, swiveled his feet to the floor, and gave me a once-over. The corners of his mouth twitched upward.
“Nice look.”
My clothes were filthy, my nails caked with mud and soot. My hair was sweaty-wet and matted, my cheeks fiery from a zil ion insect bites. I smel ed of corn, airplane fuel, and charred flesh.
How would my sister Harry describe me? Rode hard and put away wet.
But I was not in the mood for a fashion critique.
“I’ve been scraping up fried brain matter, Ryan. You wouldn’t look like a Dior ad either.” Boyd regarded me but kept his thoughts to himself.
“Have you eaten?”
“The event wasn’t catered.”
Hearing my tone, Boyd jammed his snout back under Ryan’s hand.
“Hooch and I were thinking about pizza.”
Boyd wagged his tail at the sound of his new nickname. Or at the mention of pizza.
“His name’s Boyd.”
“Why don’t you go upstairs and clean up some. Boyd and I’l see what we can rustle up.” Rustle up?
Born inNova Scotia , Ryan has lived his entire adult life in theprovinceofQuebec . Though he’s traveled extensively, his view of American culture is typical y Canadian. Rednecks. Gangsters. Cowboys. Now and then he tries to impress me with hisGunsmokelingo. I hoped he wasn’t about to do that now.
“I’l be a few minutes,” I said.
“Take your time.”
Good. No “podna” or “ma’am” tacked on for effect.
It came as I was trudging up the stairs.
“—Miz Kitty.”
Another sudsy, steamy bathroom session to cleanse body and soul of the smel of death. Lavender shower gel, juniper shampoo, rosemary-mint conditioner. I was going through a lot of aromatic plants of late.
Soaping up, I thought about the man downstairs.
Andrew Ryan, lieutenant-détective, Section de Crimes contre la Personne, Sûreté du Québec.
Ryan and I had worked together for nearly a decade, homicide detective and forensic anthropologist. As specialists within our respective agencies headquartered inMontreal , theQuebec coroner’s bureau and theQuebec provincial police, we’d investigated serial kil ers, outlaw biker gangs, doomsday cults, and common criminals. I’d do the vics. He’d do the legwork. Always strictly professional.
Over the years I’d heard stories about Ryan’s past. Bikes, booze, binges closed out on drunk-tank floors. The near-fatal attack by a biker with the shattered neck of a twelve-ounce Bud. The slow recovery. The defection to the good guys. Ryan’s rise within the provincial police.
I’d also heard tales about Ryan’s present. Station-house stud. Babe meister.
Irrelevant. I had a steadfast rule against workplace romances.
But Ryan isn’t good at fol owing rules. He pressed, I resisted. Less than two years back, at last accepting the fact that Pete and I were better off as friends than spouses, I’d agreed to date him.
Date?
Jesus. I sounded like my mother.
I squeezed more lavender onto my scrunchy and lathered again.
What term did one use for singles over forty?
Go out? Court? Woo?
Moot point. Before anything got off the ground, Ryan disappeared undercover. Fol owing his reemergence, we’d tried a few dinners, movies, and bowling encounters, but never got to the wooing part.
I pictured Ryan. Tal , lanky, eyes bluer than aCarolina sky.
Something flipped in my stomach.
Woo!
Maybe I wasn’t as tired as I thought.
Last spring, at the close of an emotional y difficult time inGuatemala , I’d final y decided to take the plunge. I’d agreed to vacation with Ryan.
What could go wrong at the beach?
I never found out. Ryan’s pager beeped while en route to theGuatemala City airport, and instead of
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