KATHY REICHS - 206 BONES

The cops were aware that I knew the drill, didn’t try to fool me. Property damage, no personal injury. The skirmish would receive the same level of attention as a snatched pair of panties.

Unless I turned up dead in the immediate future. Then the incident would be investigated to Yonkers and back.

When the cops left I went to the basement for a piece of the plywood Winston keeps on hand. This has happened to me before, though with somewhat less flair.

I’d barely wedged a patch into place when Ryan called. The man’s network makes the CIA look amateur. Nifty if you need info. Annoying when you’re the gossip traded.

I assured Ryan I was fine.

“You think it’s this dickhead neighbor of yours?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who else have you pissed off?”

I used silence as an answer.

“You there?”

“I’m here.”

“Got any theories?”

“Kids with fireworks.”

“Got any other theories?”

I reminded him of the letter, and granted that maybe, just maybe, he could be right concerning Edward Allen’s informant. I’ll give it to him; he didn’t say I told you so.

“What do you intend to do?” he asked.

“Fix the window,” I said.

“I could be there in ten minutes.”

“I’m good.”

There was a brief pause. Then, “I found something.”

I suspected the segue was another shot at a foot in my door.

“I ran Red O’Keefe’s name against the Villejoin and Jurmain files. Got nothing. Then I tried the aliases.”

Ryan paused for effect. I waited.

“The Villejoins paid for everything by cash or money order, and recorded expenditures in a ledger. Unfortunately, they didn’t bother with dates. But around the time of Anne-Isabelle’s murder, a handyman removed a dead pine from the sisters’ backyard. The entry appears as a one-hundred-fifty-dollar payment to one M. Keith.”

“You’re thinking it’s Bud Keith.” In French, Monsieur is abbreviated M . Monsieur Keith. Aka Red O’Keefe. “That could be huge.”

“Could be.”

That night I tossed and turned for a very long time. It wasn’t just the window. Questions bombarded me from all cardinal points.

You know how you play games when you can’t fall asleep? I envisioned four columns, similar to the three I’d created for Jurmain, the Villejoins, and Keiser. I even titled them. Mentally.

The Grudge. The Gouvrards. The Grannies. The Gloom.

Adrenaline-buzzed, my mind ping-ponged among them.

The Grudge: Though Ryan’s comment had irked me, I had to admit his reaction was plausible. The letter. The accusation. Perhaps the assault on my window. Clearly, I’d pissed someone off.

Who? What was the gripe? How could I smoke the rodent from his hole?

The Gouvrards: The Lac Saint-Jean bones were in wretched condition. The antemortem records were useless, given what had been recovered. At least for the adults and the older child. There’d been so many interruptions I’d yet to read little Valentin’s file.

Were the vics in my lab actually the Gouvrards? Would the degraded bone yield anything that could be sequenced? Could an appropriate relative be located? Without DNA, how would I resolve the issue?

The Grannies: In the past three years, four elderly women had rolled into the morgue, one fresh, two skeletal, one burned and decomposed. Though cause of death was unclear for Rose Jurmain and Marilyn Keiser, unquestionably Christelle and Anne-Isabelle Villejoin had been murdered.

Why such abuse of the old and frail? By whom? Red O’Keefe-Bud Keith? If so, what could I do to help nail his ass? Was O’Keefe-Keith responsible for more killings?

Did Myron Pinsker fit into the mix? Marilyn Keiser’s daughter or son, Mona or Otto? How? If not a family member, who had cashed Keiser’s pension checks?

If the deaths were linked, would it happen again? Was a predator out there even now, prepared to kill? What could I do to prevent that, to protect other old ladies?

I thought about murder in general. With each passing year the violence seemed to increase in frequency and decrease in rationality. People were shot for handing out pink slips, for taking too long to bag burgers, for driving too slowly or following too close.

My four grannies had all been murdered, I could feel it in my gut. For what? By whom? I wanted the situation to make sense, but it didn’t.

The Gloom: Normally, I’d have sought counsel from my coworkers. But the mood at the lab was tense and unreceptive. LaManche was ill. Joe was sulking. Hubert was angry. Santangelo was leaving, and I didn’t even know why. Ayers was acting cool and aloof. Briel’s unrelenting pressuring was inexplicably grating.

On and on. Over and over. Faces. Names. Rose Jurmain. Anne-Isabelle and Christelle Villejoin. Marilyn Keiser. Myron Pinsker. Florian Grellier. Red O’Keefe-Bud Keith. Sparky Monteil. Achille, Vivienne, Serge, and Valentin Gouvrard.

The glowing orange digits said 1:15, then 2:18, 2:43, 3:06.

Then the alarm was chirping.

In a fog, I rolled over and palm-smacked the button.

The next sound I heard was a ringing phone.

Groggy, I reached out and dragged the handset to my ear. Clicked on.

“Mm.”

“You OK?” Ryan.

“Dandy.”

“Just checking.”

“Jesus, Ryan.” Sitting upright. “What time is it?”

“Ten fifteen.”

I checked the clock.

“Shit!”

“You coming in? I’ve got some more-”

“Thirty minutes.”

Flying across the room, I yanked undies from the bureau, then threw on yesterday’s jeans and sweater. In the bathroom I had a thirty-second moment with the Sonicare, splashed water on my face, yanked my hair into a pony, and bolted.

I MISSED STAFF MEETING BY ALMOST TWO HOURS. ON THE ERASABLE board, the square by Morin’s name said Témoignage . Testimony. I wondered if it was the same trial for which Ryan had been subpoenaed.

Sprinting down the hall, I happened to glance to my right. Natalie Ayers’s door was ajar. She was at her desk.

My first reaction was surprise. Normally the pathologists were downstairs by that time of morning.

It took a moment for details to register.

Ayers was sitting with elbows on the desktop, shoulders hunched, head hanging between upraised hands. Discarded tissues littered the blotter.

Reversing, I gently pushed the door inward.

“Natalie?”

Ayers’s head snapped up.

I looked into eyes that were red and swollen.

“Has something happened?”

Ayers shook her head, tried faking a smile. It was a lame attempt.

“What is it?” I prodded.

The teary eyes drifted over my shoulder out into the hall.

Without waiting for an answer, I closed the door, took a chair, and assumed a listening posture. Message: I’m here until you talk.

Ayers drew a shaky breath. Plucked a clean tissue. Leaned back.

“I screwed up on Keiser.”

I wiggled my fingers. Give me more.

“The poor woman was shot.” Ayers’s mascara was everywhere, her face an ink drawing left under a tap.

“Go on.”

“I checked the X-rays, looked for exit and entrance wounds, fragments, you know the routine. There wasn’t a single indication of a gunshot wound. Nothing. Nada.”

I nodded.

“She must have been rising up, or maybe doubling over to protect herself. The bullet was small caliber, entered at the shoulder, ran longitudinally down the right erector mass, and exited without nicking a bone or organ. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“You snagged the track by making cross-sectional cuts?”

“ I didn’t snag anything.” Ayers swallowed. “Wonder girl found it.”