KATHY REICHS - 206 BONES

Right on, Cukura Kundze.

So why the Puritan routine?

Was it Ryan?

Who knew?

What I did know was this. If I was keeping Ryan at arm’s length, I was keeping Charlie somewhere on the edge of the Milky Way.

Monday morning. January 26. Back in Montreal and, thanks to Birdie, I was running late.

Still pissed over being ambushed by Dramamine, kitty carrier, and airplane the night before, the little drip fired through the open door when I turned to set the alarm. It took ten minutes of lobby searching and furniture moving to find him.

My neighbor Sparky Monteil happened in as I was scooping the escapee from behind the lobby sofa. Seeing the cat, he began ranting about filth and disease and the sucking of breath from babies.

Knowing I would miss the beginning of the Monday-morning meeting, and annoyed with Birdie, I failed to handle the situation with the finesse it required. Barbs were exchanged. Sparky swore he’d have me evicted, threatened that one day my pet might simply vanish.

Good thing Sparky’s an Anglophone. Perhaps not. I can cuss like a sailor in my mother tongue.

At Wilfrid-Derome, I went straight to my office to shed my outerwear and grab pen and paper for the meeting.

Lisa is an autopsy tech with sun-tipped hair and a biblical rack. Cops attending autopsies always hope she will be the one handling their corpse.

As I unlocked my door, I noticed Lisa across the hall in the histo lab, deep in conversation with my assistant, Joe. Neither was smiling.

Spotting me through the window, both techs fell silent.

I waved.

Joe resumed logging organ samples.

Lisa gave a halfhearted flip of one hand.

Sexual tension?

Whatever.

Flinging my parka toward the desk, I dashed to the conference room.

Same green walls. Same table. Same roster of death due to malice, melancholy, folly, or fate.

Morin did the honors.

A dealer, held and punched by two rivals, dropped to the sidewalk and never got up. Probable homicide by rotation and hyperextension of the head.

A man noosed his neck to a tree and hit the gas in his pickup. Probable suicide by self-decapitation.

A meth addict slept naked on his balcony and froze to death. Probable accident by supreme stupidity.

As Morin talked, Briel made short quick strokes on her case list, frown lines going for a new personal best.

Santangelo alternated between drinking from and thumb-scraping the label off a bottle of spring water.

Ayers sat half turned from the table, focus fixed midpoint between the window and the blackboard.

Morin took the homicide, Santangelo the suicide. Ayers got the tweaker, Briel got a pass.

As paperwork was claimed, I studied my colleagues.

Stiff faces. Taut voices. No meeting of eyes.

First Lisa and Joe. Now this.

What the hell?

Sure, the Santas and elves were down, and February and March loomed long and dark. But I was sensing more than simple post-holiday letdown.

Anxiety over LaManche? Maybe. Budget cuts? Maybe.

Was I an issue? I was furious about the second Oka recovery. Were those around me picking up hostile vibes?

Morin turned in my direction.

“I suppose you’ve heard that additional remains were recovered at Oka.”

Briel’s eyes rolled up.

“Yes.” Glacial.

“The coroner wants to know if an ID or exclusion is now possible.”

“I’ll talk to him.” Nothing more. I’d decided to take my complaint directly to Hubert.

I couldn’t help wondering why Joe had agreed to accompany Briel. He knew I’d be furious. Was redigging Oka his way of rebuking me?

When Morin queried new business, Santangelo cleared her throat.

“Actually, there is something.”

We all settled back.

“I’ve taken a position with the Bureau du coroner.” Santangelo’s eyes flitted among Morin, Ayers, and me, resting only seconds before moving on. “I start February first.”

Shocked, we just stared. Santangelo had been with the LSJML for fifteen years.

To my right, Briel paused, then recommenced doodling.

“I know this seems sudden.” Santangelo palmed label scraps into a pile. “It’s not. I’ve been thinking for a while that I need a change.”

Santangelo’s eyes flicked to me. I held them.

Why not mention this when you called me in Charlotte? Is this the reason for urging my return to Montreal? I asked neither question.

Santangelo looked away.

“Wow.” Ayers slumped back.

“I know the timing sucks. You’re still training new staff.” Santangelo’s tone was neutral. Evasive? “I’ll help with the transition as best I can.”

Ayers and Morin exchanged a quick glance. In it I could see a month of conversations.

“Are you sure?” Concern darkened Morin’s already dark eyes. Perhaps weariness. Santangelo’s departure meant another protracted hiring process.

“Yes.” Santangelo dragged an outlier scrap to her pile.

“We’ll miss you,” I said.

“We’ll still see each other.” Santangelo tried to make it sound light. It didn’t really work. “I’ll be one flight down.”

We all filed out. No jokes. No banter.

Coffee, then back to my office. After hanging my parka on the coat tree, I checked phone messages, then returned a few calls.

As I was disconnecting, my gaze fell on a letter that had worked its way out of the mound on my desk. The small white envelope was addressed to me at the LSJML, handwritten and marked personal. Curious, I picked it up and slit the seal.

A single sheet of paper had been scribbled with a one-line message.

Va-t’en chez toi maudite Américaine!!

Go home damn American!!

The writer had included no signature. Big surprise.

I checked the envelope. Local postmark. No return address.

“Thanks for the thought, chickenshit.”

Sailing the note and its envelope back onto the heap, I crossed the hall to my lab.

And stopped dead.

BONES OCCUPIED EACH OF MY FOUR WORKSTATIONS. FLAKING AND warping suggested years of decay.

“What the f-” Under my breath.

“ Bonjour , Doc.”

I whirled.

Joe was washing his hands at the sink. “ Bienvenue. ”

Welcome back, my left buttock.

“What’s this?” I flicked a hand at the two central tables.

“ Ossements. ” Smiling.

“Obviously they’re bones.” It came out sharper than I intended. Or not. “Who arranged them like this?”

The smile collapsed. “Dr. Briel.”

“Under whose authority?”

Joe didn’t move and didn’t say anything. Behind him, water pounded from the spigot, bouncing tiny droplets onto the counter.

Striding to the closest set of remains, I rifled through papers secured to a clipboard.

My case form. My measurement list. My skeletal diagram. A request from Hubert for osteological analysis.

My brain lit up white-hot.

The door whipped from my hand so hard it slammed the counter. Ignoring the elevator, I flew downstairs.

Hubert was whaling up the corridor, mug in one hand, mail in the other. I closed in like a rat on a pork chop.

“What the hell is this?” Raising and waggling the clipboard.

Hubert’s eyes flicked past me to check the hall at my back.

“Come into my office.”

Damn straight.

Air whooshed from a cushion as Hubert planted his substantial derriere.

I remained standing.

“Have a seat.”

I didn’t move.

“Have a seat, Dr. Brennan.” More forceful.

I sat, eyes lasering into Hubert’s.

The chief coroner blew across his coffee, slurped, set down the mug. “Clearly you are upset.”

“You sent Briel to Oka.” Short and direct, not trusting my tongue.