Kathy Reichs - Break No Bones

My eyes wandered to Pete. I felt my lids burn. I wrested my gaze back. It fell on Cruikshank's possessions. Small comfort.

These items represented a life, a man who had enjoyed friendship, served his country, been a cop, played baseball, married. A man who had, in spite of it all, chosen to end that life.

Or had he?

My eyes dropped to the Myrtle Beach photo. Shannon and Noble. A marriage lost. A life lost.

On-screen, someone asked Hope if he thought Goddard should sell the castle.

"My advice is to keep the castle and sell the ghosts."

The sound of Pete's laughter pierced the armor of my phony nonchalance. How many times had he laughed with me? Clowned for me? Bought flowers when we had no money? Done the underpants dance when I was angry? Why had the laughter stopped? When?

Looking down at the heartrending collection spread before me, I was overwhelmed by the ruin of Noble and Shannon. By the finality of Cruikshank's death. By the calamity of my own lost marriage. By the confusion of emotions churning inside me.

I lost it.

Chest heaving, I pushed from the couch.

" Tempe?" Pete. Confused.

I stumbled over Cruikshank's box and lunged from the room, mindless of where I was going.

Ocean air. Stars. Life.

I threw open the front door and raced down the steps.

Pete was right behind me. In the front yard, he grasped one of my shoulders, spun me, and wrapped me in a hug.

"It's OK. Hey, Tempe. It's OK." Stroking my hair.

At first I resisted, then I yielded. Pressing my cheek to Pete's chest, I let the tears come.

I'm not sure how long we stood there, me sobbing, Pete making comforting noises.

Seconds, maybe eons, later a vehicle rolled up Ocean Drive, paused, then turned in at "Sea for Miles." I looked up. Silvery white moonlight illuminated the interior enough to show that the driver was alone.

The vehicle came to a stop. Maybe a Jeep? A small SUV?

I felt Pete tense as the driver's door opened. A man got out and circled the hood. I could see that the man was tall and thin.

And something more.

Oh, God!

The man froze, a silhouette in the headlights.

My heart flew into my throat.

Before I could call out, the man retraced his steps, slid behind the wheel, threw the car into reverse, and gunned down the drive.

I watched the beams swing wide.

Tires squealed.

The taillights shrank to tiny red specks.

HEART BANGING, I DOUBLE-STEPPED THE STAIRS, RACED INTO THE house, grabbed my cell, and hit a speed-dial key.

The phone rang four times, then an answering service cut in.

And delivered a message in French and English.

I punched again, missed, fingers clumsy with agitation. Repunched.

Same result.

"Pickup, damn it!"

"Just tell me who he was." Pete was following as I paced from room to room. Boyd was trailing Pete.

I hit the R on my speed dial a third time.

A mechanical voice informed me that the subscriber I was attempting to reach was unavailable.

"Go ahead. Turn yourself off!"

I hurled the phone. It bounced from the couch to the floor. Boyd ran over to sniff the offending object.

"Talk to me." Pete was speaking in that tone psychiatrists use to calm hysterical patients. "Who was that?"

Deep breaths. Steady. I turned to face him.

"Andrew Ryan."

A moment of mental Rolodexing. "The cop from Quebec?"

I nodded.

"Why would he show up then split without saying a word?"

"He saw us together."

More cerebral linking. Synapse. "So you two are-" Pete raised both brows, pointed to me, then toward the driveway where Ryan had been.

I nodded.

"Looked bad?" he asked.

"What do you think?"

I dialed Ryan twice more. His cell remained off.

I performed my nightly toilette with robotic detachment. Cleanser. Moisturizer. Toothpaste.

We're not sophomores going steady, I told myself. We're adults. Ryan is a reasonable man. I'll explain. We'll both laugh.

But would Monsieur Macho allow me the chance?

Lying in bed, I felt the weight of doubt in my gut. I took a long time to fall asleep.

By nine the next morning I wanted to turn my own cell off.

No. I wanted to pulverize it, then flush the plastic and metal bits into the sewer system of some remote Third World country. Bangladesh would do. Or maybe one of the Stans.

The first call came at 7:55.

"Morning, ma'am. Dickie Dupree."

That was it for Southern pleasantries.

"Just checked my e-mail."

"You're up early today, Mr. Dupree."

"Found this report of yours. Now I'm looking toward dealing with a pack of dimwit bureaucrats."

"You're welcome, sir. I thought you'd appreciate a copy."

"What I don't appreciate is your telling folks up at the state capital that I got priceless relics on my land."

"That's not exactly what I told them."

"Comes damn close. Report like this can cause me delays. And delays can cause me a world of hurt."

"It's unfortunate if my findings adversely affect your project," I said. "My job was to describe honestly what I found."

"This country's going to hell 'cause of crap like this. Economy's in the toilet. People are screaming there's no work, nowhere to live. I provide jobs, put up decent housing. What do I get for my efforts? Horseshit like this."

On Dewees, Dupree was putting up million-dollar beach homes for the overindulged. I didn't say it.

"Now some cracker-ass fool with more degrees than brains is going to come down here and declare my property some kinda heritage site."

"I'm sorry if my findings inconvenience you."

"Inconvenience? That how you see it?"

The question seemed rhetorical, so I didn't reply.

"Your meddling could hand me a damn sight more than inconvenience."

I used my steely voice again. "You might have requested a cultural resource assessment before agreeing to develop the land."

"We'll see who's inconvenienced, Miz Brennan. I, too, have friends. Unlike your pals, these boys ain't paper-pushing eggheads."

With that he was gone.

I sat a moment, considering Dupree's last statement. Was the little toad implying he might order someone to hurt me?

Right. Maybe send Colonel to gnaw me to death, though any harassment of me would be stupid and ineffective. It would not solve his problem.

I dialed Ryan. His phone was still off.

Throwing back the covers, I headed for the bathroom.

The next call came at eight fifteen. I was in the kitchen, drinking coffee and eating one of Pete's cranberry and pine nut muffins.

Cranberry and pine nut? My reaction, too, but that's what they were. I'd read the label twice.

Birdie was at his bowl crunching small brown pellets. Boyd was in begging mode, chin on my knee.

"Gullet here."

"Good morning, Sheriff."

Gullet, too, skipped preamble. "Just left Parrot. Took some memory jogging, but the gentleman finally recalled a box that might have gotten separated from the main stack."

"Might this box have contained a computer and camera?"

"Parrot's a little hazy on contents. Vaguely remembered some electronic equipment."

"And what might have happened to this errant box?"

"Seems his son might have accidentally carried it off."

"Kids."

"I gave Parrot an hour to discuss the matter with sonny. I'll call when I hear from him."

I dialed Emma. And got her recorded voice.

I dialed Ryan.

"L'abonné que vous tentez de joindre… " The mobile customer you are trying to reach…

I wanted to reach across the line and throttle the woman. In two languages.

I tried Ryan at eight thirty and again at eight forty-five. No go.

I clicked off, misgivings still firmly lodged in my innards. I wondered where Ryan had gone. Why he'd come here. Why he'd kept his visit a secret. Was it surveillance? Trying to catch me with Pete?