KATHY REICHS - 206 BONES

This book is dedicated to my colleagues in the forensic sciences who have demonstrated their professional commitment and aptitude by applying for and obtaining legitimate board certification.

My heartfelt thanks to Peter Bush, Laboratory of Forensic Odontology Research, School of Dental Medicine, SUNY at Buffalo, for his advice on scanning electron microscopy and energy dispersive X-ray spectroscopy, and to S. Kelly Sears, Facility for Electron Microscopy Research, McGill University.

My sincere gratitude to Michael Warns, who, as usual, researched many things. Who knew the Chicago burbs had so many quarries?

Michael Cook shared his knowledge of sewers. Renate Reichs aided me in mapping Chicago terrain. Jack Kenney offered tips on the Cook County Medical Examiner’s office. William Rodriguez helped with forensic anthropology minutia. Michael Bisson enlightened me on CRM archaeology. Ronnie Harrison answered cop questions. And, of course, there was the nice lady who took my call at the Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec.

I appreciate the continued support of Philip L. Dubois, Chancellor of the University of North Carolina at Charlotte.

I am grateful to my family for their patience and understanding, especially when I am cranky. Or gone. Credit to Paul Reichs for reading and commenting on the manuscript.

Particularly useful was the article by B. C. Smith, “A Preliminary Report: Proximal Facet Analysis and the Recovery of Trace Restorative Materials from Unrestored Teeth,” Journal of Forensic Sciences , Vol. 35: 4, July 1990: 873-80.

Deepest thanks to my splendid agent, Jennifer Rudolph Walsh, and to my dazzling editors, Nan Graham and Susan Sandon. I also want to acknowledge all those who work so very hard on my behalf, especially: Susan Moldow, Katherine Monaghan, Paul Whitlatch, Emma Rose, Margaret Riley, Britton Schey, Tracy Fisher, Elizabeth Reed, and Michelle Feehan. And of course, I am indebted to the Canadian crew, especially to Kevin Hanson and Amy Cormier.

If there are errors in this book, I own them. If I have forgotten to thank someone, I apologize. You know the drill.

COLD .

Numb .

Confused .

I opened my eyes .

To dark. Black as arctic winter .

Am I dead?

Obeying some limbic command, I inhaled deeply .

Smells registered in my brain .

Mold. Musty earth. Something organic, hinting at the passage of time .

Was this hell? A tomb?

I listened .

Silence. Impenetrable .

But no. There were sounds. Air moving through my nostrils. Blood pounding in my ears .

Corpses don’t breathe. Dead hearts don’t beat.

Other sensations intruded. Hardness below me. Burning on the right side of my face .

I raised my head .

Bitter bile flooded my mouth .

I shifted my hips to relieve pressure on my twisted neck .

Pain exploded up my left leg .

A groan shattered the stillness .

Instinctively, my body went fetal. The pounding gained volume .

I lay curled, listening to the rhythm of my fear .

Then, recognition. The sound had come from my own throat .

I feel pain. I react. I am alive.

But where?

Spitting bile, I tried reaching out. Felt resistance. Realized my wrists were bound .

I flexed a knee toward my chest, testing. My feet rose as one. My wrists dropped .

I tried a second time, harder. Neurons again fired up my leg .

Stifling another cry, I struggled to force order onto my addled thinking .

I’d been bound, hands to feet, and abandoned. Where? When? By whom? Why?

A memory search for recent events came up empty. No. The void in recollection was longer than that .

I remembered picnicking with my daughter, Katy. But that was summer. The frigid temperature now suggested that it must be winter .

Sadness. A last farewell to Andrew Ryan. That was October. Had I seen him again?

A bright red sweater at Christmas. This Christmas? I had no idea .

Disoriented, I groped for any detail from the past few days. Nothing stayed in focus .

Vague impressions lacking rational form or sequence appeared and faded. A figure emerging from shadow. Man or woman? Anger. Shouting. About what? At whom?

Melting snow. Light winking off glass. The dark maw of a cracked door .

Dilated vessels pounded inside my skull. Hard as I tried, I could not evoke recollection from my semiconscious mind .

Had I been drugged? Suffered a blow to the head?

How bad was my leg? If I managed to free myself, could I walk? Crawl?

My hands were numb, my fingers useless. I tried tugging my wrists outward. Felt no give in my bindings .

Tears of frustration burned the backs of my lids .

No crying!

Clamping my jaw, I rolled to my back, raised my feet, and jerked my ankles apart. Flames roared up my left lower limb .

Then I knew nothing .

I awoke. Moments later? Hours? No way to tell. My mouth felt drier, my lips more parched. The pain in my leg had receded to a dull ache .

Though I gave my pupils time, they took in nothing. How could they adjust? The dense blackness offered not a sliver of light .

The same questions flooded back. Where? Why? Who?

Clearly, I’d been abducted. To be the victim in some sick game? To be removed as a threat?

The thought triggered my first clear memory. An autopsy photo. A corpse, charred and twisted, jaws agape in a final agonal scream .

Then a kaleidoscope sequence, image chasing image. Two morgues. Two autopsy rooms. Name plaques marking two labs . Temperance Brennan, Forensic Anthropologist. Temperance Brennan, Anthropologue Judiciaire.

Was I in Charlotte? Montreal? Far too cold for North Carolina. Even in winter. Was it winter? Was I in Quebec?

Had I been grabbed at home? On the street? In my car? Outside the Édifice Wilfrid-Derome? Inside the lab?

Was my captor a random predator and I a random victim? Had I been targeted because of who I am? Revenge sought by a former accused? By a conspiracy-theorist next of kin? What case had I last been working?

Dear God, could it really be so cold? So dark? So still?

Why that smell, so disturbingly familiar?

As before, I tried wriggling my hands. My feet. To no avail. I was hog-tied, unable even to sit .

“ Help! I’m here! Someone! Help me! ”

Over and over I called out until my throat grew raw .

“ Anyone! Please! ”

My pleas went unanswered .

Panic threatened to overwhelm me .

You will not die helpless!

Trembling from cold and fear, and frantic to see, I shifted to my back and started bucking my hips, stretching my hands upward as far as possible, oblivious to the agony in my leg. One thrust. Two. Three. My fingertips scraped hardness little more than a foot above my face .