Read Online Speaking in Bones by Kathy Reichs - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kathy Reichs
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rays slipping through overhead branches. No lattice of shadow and light changing shape underfoot. Now only perpetual gloom.
Though we grid-walked Gunner then gave him his head, the dog alerted only two more times. Both were legit.
In the end, we found six phalanges, two metacarpals, a scaphoid, and a hamate, all weathered and chewed. Yowsa! A whopping ten out of fifty-four hand bones. We also scored a rusty screwdriver, eight aluminum cans, and a hunk of what looked like an old tent stake.
All the bones were adult and indeterminate in size. I doubted any would yield much information.
But the flesh in the pine sap was a different story. One that had me totally jazzed. Someone had died or been dumped on the mountain. One readable print could provide an ID.
If that person was in the system. Or a valid comparison sample could be obtained.
Ramsey insisted I take the remains with me. Adamantly. Made sense. I had ME229-13 at my lab. Chances were good the hand had been part of the same person.
Upon reaching terrain favored by AT&T, I phoned Larabee. As expected, he was not happy that I’d gone to Burke County. After riding out a fairly lengthy rant, I explained our discovery.
Wanting to avoid jurisdictional complications, and the ire of his boss, Larabee ordered me to wait until he’d contacted the OCME in Raleigh. His return call came ten minutes later. Though surprised that Burke County remains had originally gone to Charlotte-Mecklenburg, the state’s chief ME was assigning the case directly to me.
Strike stayed till the end, then tore off with a pedal-jamming, gravel-spitting roar. Sonofabitch. Again, I’d failed to obtain the audio recorder.
All day Strike’s attitude had swung between sulky and petulant. I wondered about the source of her hostility. Didn’t give the question a whole lot of thought.
As I’d been dialing Larabee, a text from Mama had pinged in. I’d read it while awaiting his callback. Nothing urgent. Just querying my health and state of mind.
I wanted to go home, take a very long, very hot shower. Eat dinner. Curl in bed and share the day’s news with Birdie. Maybe Ryan.
But no one does passive-aggressive like Mama. Her subtext: I am old, have cancer, and very few visitors.
Your mother is twenty miles away, my conscience piped up.
I checked the time. Half past five. I could share a quick dinner with her and be home at the annex by nine.
The euphoria fizzled, leaving no contender but guilt.
Thus, instead of home, I was driving east, hair sweaty under a Charlotte Knights cap, clothes filthy, nails crusted with mud. Not looking forward to Daisy’s appraisal.
—
Near Marion, I turned east off Highway 221. Heatherhill Farm came up quickly, if not flamboyantly. The sign is so tastefully understated, those needing it for guidance blow right by.
I turned onto an unmarked strip of asphalt cutting through mountain laurel higher than my head. Soon, the dense tangle gave way to more finely groomed acreage.
In the dark, Heatherhill looked like a small college campus. Besides the main hospital there were garden-fronted structures of varying sizes. Ivy-covered chimneys, long porches, white siding, black shutters. From my many visits I knew the outbuildings included a chronic-pain center, gym, library, and computer lab. Still wasn’t sure which was which.
I turned onto a tributary lane and, fifty yards down, pulled into a gravel rectangle enclosed on three sides by a white picket fence. I parked and took a flagstone path to a small brown bungalow with flower boxes below each window. A sign above the door said RIVER HOUSE .
I stood a moment, feeling a tense edge of anger. Or remorse. Or some long-denied emotion I couldn’t identify. It was always like that. The moment of hesitation before the plunge.
The afternoon’s breeze had turned surly and cold. Gusts whirling down the mountain snapped my collar and elbowed the bill of my cap. I looked up. The sky showed a million stars but no moon.
Though we grid-walked Gunner then gave him his head, the dog alerted only two more times. Both were legit.
In the end, we found six phalanges, two metacarpals, a scaphoid, and a hamate, all weathered and chewed. Yowsa! A whopping ten out of fifty-four hand bones. We also scored a rusty screwdriver, eight aluminum cans, and a hunk of what looked like an old tent stake.
All the bones were adult and indeterminate in size. I doubted any would yield much information.
But the flesh in the pine sap was a different story. One that had me totally jazzed. Someone had died or been dumped on the mountain. One readable print could provide an ID.
If that person was in the system. Or a valid comparison sample could be obtained.
Ramsey insisted I take the remains with me. Adamantly. Made sense. I had ME229-13 at my lab. Chances were good the hand had been part of the same person.
Upon reaching terrain favored by AT&T, I phoned Larabee. As expected, he was not happy that I’d gone to Burke County. After riding out a fairly lengthy rant, I explained our discovery.
Wanting to avoid jurisdictional complications, and the ire of his boss, Larabee ordered me to wait until he’d contacted the OCME in Raleigh. His return call came ten minutes later. Though surprised that Burke County remains had originally gone to Charlotte-Mecklenburg, the state’s chief ME was assigning the case directly to me.
Strike stayed till the end, then tore off with a pedal-jamming, gravel-spitting roar. Sonofabitch. Again, I’d failed to obtain the audio recorder.
All day Strike’s attitude had swung between sulky and petulant. I wondered about the source of her hostility. Didn’t give the question a whole lot of thought.
As I’d been dialing Larabee, a text from Mama had pinged in. I’d read it while awaiting his callback. Nothing urgent. Just querying my health and state of mind.
I wanted to go home, take a very long, very hot shower. Eat dinner. Curl in bed and share the day’s news with Birdie. Maybe Ryan.
But no one does passive-aggressive like Mama. Her subtext: I am old, have cancer, and very few visitors.
Your mother is twenty miles away, my conscience piped up.
I checked the time. Half past five. I could share a quick dinner with her and be home at the annex by nine.
The euphoria fizzled, leaving no contender but guilt.
Thus, instead of home, I was driving east, hair sweaty under a Charlotte Knights cap, clothes filthy, nails crusted with mud. Not looking forward to Daisy’s appraisal.
—
Near Marion, I turned east off Highway 221. Heatherhill Farm came up quickly, if not flamboyantly. The sign is so tastefully understated, those needing it for guidance blow right by.
I turned onto an unmarked strip of asphalt cutting through mountain laurel higher than my head. Soon, the dense tangle gave way to more finely groomed acreage.
In the dark, Heatherhill looked like a small college campus. Besides the main hospital there were garden-fronted structures of varying sizes. Ivy-covered chimneys, long porches, white siding, black shutters. From my many visits I knew the outbuildings included a chronic-pain center, gym, library, and computer lab. Still wasn’t sure which was which.
I turned onto a tributary lane and, fifty yards down, pulled into a gravel rectangle enclosed on three sides by a white picket fence. I parked and took a flagstone path to a small brown bungalow with flower boxes below each window. A sign above the door said RIVER HOUSE .
I stood a moment, feeling a tense edge of anger. Or remorse. Or some long-denied emotion I couldn’t identify. It was always like that. The moment of hesitation before the plunge.
The afternoon’s breeze had turned surly and cold. Gusts whirling down the mountain snapped my collar and elbowed the bill of my cap. I looked up. The sky showed a million stars but no moon.
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