Read Online Bare Bones by Kathy Reichs - Free Book Online Page B
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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Cozumel, we flew toMontreal . Ryan returned to surveil ance inDrummondvil e . I went back to bones at the lab.
Woo-us interruptus.
I rinsed.
Now Detective Don Juan had his buns parked on the couch in my study.
Nice buns.
Flip.
Tight. With al the curves in the right places.
Major flip.
I twisted the handle, hopped out of the shower, and groped for a towel. The steam was so thick it obscured the mirror.
Good thing, I thought, picturing the handiwork of the mosquitoes and gnats.
I slipped into my ratty old terry-cloth robe, a gift from Harry upon completion of my Ph.D. at Northwestern. Torn sleeve. Coffee stains. It is the comfort food of my garment col ection.
Birdie was curled on my bed.
“Hey, Bird.”
If cats could look reproachful, Birdie was doing it.
I sat next to him and ran a hand along his back.
“I didn’t invite the chow.”
Birdie said nothing.
“What do you think of the other guy?”
Birdie curled both paws under his breast and gave me his Sphinx look.
“Think I should pul out the string bikinis?”
I lay back next to the cat.
I lay back next to the cat.
“Or hit theVictoria ’s Secret stash?”
Victoria’s Secret knockoffs, actual y, fromGuatemala . I’d found them in a lingerie store, and bought the mother lode for the beach trip that never was.
Those items were stil in their Vic-like pink bag, tags in place.
I closed my eyes to think about it.
The sun was again cutting through the magnolia, throwing warm slashes across my face.
I smel ed bacon and heard activity in my kitchen.
A moment of confusion, then recol ection.
My eyes flew open.
I was in a fetal curl on top of the spread, Gran’s afghan over me.
I checked the clock.
Eight twenty-two.
I groaned.
Rol ing from the bed, I pul ed on jeans and a T and ran a brush through my hair. Sleeping on it wet had flattened the right side, pooched the left into a demi-pompadour.
I tried water. Hopeless. I looked like Little Richard with hat hair.
Terrific.
I was halfway down the stairs when I thought about breath.
Back up to brush.
Boyd greeted me at the bottom step, eyes shining like a junkie’s on crack. I scratched his ear. He shot back to the kitchen.
Ryan was at the stove. He wore jeans. Just jeans. Slung low.
Oh, boy.
“Good morning,” I said, for lack of a more clever opener.
Ryan turned, fork in hand.
“Good morning, princess.”
“Listen, I’m sorr—”
“Coffee?”
“Please.”
He fil ed a mug and handed it to me. Boyd gamboled about the kitchen, high on the smel of frying fat. Birdie remained upstairs, radiating resentment.
“I must have bee—”
“Hooch and I had a hankerin’ for bacon and eggs.”
Hankerin’?
“Sit,” said Ryan, pointing his fork at the table.
I sat. Boyd sat.
Realizing his mistake, the chow stood, eyes fixed on the bacon Ryan was transferring to a paper towel.
“Did you find a pil ow and blanket?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I took a sip of my coffee. It was good.
“Good coffee.”
“Thank ya, ma’am.”
No doubt about it. This was going to be a cowboy day.
“Where did you get the bacon and eggs?”
“Hooch and I went for a run. Hit the Harris-Tooter. Weird name for a grocery store.”
“It’s Harris-Teeter.”
“Right. Makes more sense for product recognition.”
I noticed an empty pizza box on the counter.
“I’m real y sorry about flaking out last night.”
“You were exhausted. You crashed. No big deal.”
Ryan gave Boyd a strip of bacon, turned, and locked his baby blues onto mine. Slowly, he raised and lowered both brows.
“Not what I had in mind, of course.”
Oh, boy.
I tucked hair behind my ears with both hands. The right side stayed.
“I’m afraid I have to work today.”
“Hooch and I expected that. We’ve made plans.”
Ryan was cracking eggs into a frying pan, tossing shel s into the sink with a jump-shot wrist move.
“But we could use some
Woo-us interruptus.
I rinsed.
Now Detective Don Juan had his buns parked on the couch in my study.
Nice buns.
Flip.
Tight. With al the curves in the right places.
Major flip.
I twisted the handle, hopped out of the shower, and groped for a towel. The steam was so thick it obscured the mirror.
Good thing, I thought, picturing the handiwork of the mosquitoes and gnats.
I slipped into my ratty old terry-cloth robe, a gift from Harry upon completion of my Ph.D. at Northwestern. Torn sleeve. Coffee stains. It is the comfort food of my garment col ection.
Birdie was curled on my bed.
“Hey, Bird.”
If cats could look reproachful, Birdie was doing it.
I sat next to him and ran a hand along his back.
“I didn’t invite the chow.”
Birdie said nothing.
“What do you think of the other guy?”
Birdie curled both paws under his breast and gave me his Sphinx look.
“Think I should pul out the string bikinis?”
I lay back next to the cat.
I lay back next to the cat.
“Or hit theVictoria ’s Secret stash?”
Victoria’s Secret knockoffs, actual y, fromGuatemala . I’d found them in a lingerie store, and bought the mother lode for the beach trip that never was.
Those items were stil in their Vic-like pink bag, tags in place.
I closed my eyes to think about it.
The sun was again cutting through the magnolia, throwing warm slashes across my face.
I smel ed bacon and heard activity in my kitchen.
A moment of confusion, then recol ection.
My eyes flew open.
I was in a fetal curl on top of the spread, Gran’s afghan over me.
I checked the clock.
Eight twenty-two.
I groaned.
Rol ing from the bed, I pul ed on jeans and a T and ran a brush through my hair. Sleeping on it wet had flattened the right side, pooched the left into a demi-pompadour.
I tried water. Hopeless. I looked like Little Richard with hat hair.
Terrific.
I was halfway down the stairs when I thought about breath.
Back up to brush.
Boyd greeted me at the bottom step, eyes shining like a junkie’s on crack. I scratched his ear. He shot back to the kitchen.
Ryan was at the stove. He wore jeans. Just jeans. Slung low.
Oh, boy.
“Good morning,” I said, for lack of a more clever opener.
Ryan turned, fork in hand.
“Good morning, princess.”
“Listen, I’m sorr—”
“Coffee?”
“Please.”
He fil ed a mug and handed it to me. Boyd gamboled about the kitchen, high on the smel of frying fat. Birdie remained upstairs, radiating resentment.
“I must have bee—”
“Hooch and I had a hankerin’ for bacon and eggs.”
Hankerin’?
“Sit,” said Ryan, pointing his fork at the table.
I sat. Boyd sat.
Realizing his mistake, the chow stood, eyes fixed on the bacon Ryan was transferring to a paper towel.
“Did you find a pil ow and blanket?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I took a sip of my coffee. It was good.
“Good coffee.”
“Thank ya, ma’am.”
No doubt about it. This was going to be a cowboy day.
“Where did you get the bacon and eggs?”
“Hooch and I went for a run. Hit the Harris-Tooter. Weird name for a grocery store.”
“It’s Harris-Teeter.”
“Right. Makes more sense for product recognition.”
I noticed an empty pizza box on the counter.
“I’m real y sorry about flaking out last night.”
“You were exhausted. You crashed. No big deal.”
Ryan gave Boyd a strip of bacon, turned, and locked his baby blues onto mine. Slowly, he raised and lowered both brows.
“Not what I had in mind, of course.”
Oh, boy.
I tucked hair behind my ears with both hands. The right side stayed.
“I’m afraid I have to work today.”
“Hooch and I expected that. We’ve made plans.”
Ryan was cracking eggs into a frying pan, tossing shel s into the sink with a jump-shot wrist move.
“But we could use some
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