Kathy Reichs: Break No Bones

"We got a lot of teeth." Emma's thoughts were slip-streaming ahead to the ID.

"Damn right we did. Eighteen in the sockets, eight in the ground, three in the screen."

"And hair," Emma added.

"Yes."

"Long."

"Meaningless, if you're thinking gender. Look at Tom Wolfe. Willie Nelson."

"Fabio."

I definitely liked this woman.

"Where are you taking the remains?" I asked.

"Everything under my jurisdiction goes to the morgue at MUSC." The Medical University of South Carolina. "The pathologists there perform all our autopsies. My forensic anthropologist and dentist work there, too. Guess I won't be requesting a pathologist in this case."

"Brain and organs are long gone. The autopsy will be skeletal only. You'll need Jaffer."

"He's in Iraq."

"He'll be back next month," I said.

"Can't wait that long."

"I'm committed to this field school."

"It's finished tomorrow."

"I have to haul equipment back to UNCC. Write a report. Turn in grades."

Emma didn't reply.

"I may have cases at my lab in Charlotte."

Emma continued to not reply.

"Or in Montreal."

We rode in silence awhile, listening to the peeping of tree frogs and the hum of the cart. When Emma spoke again her voice was different, softer, yet quietly insistent.

"Someone's probably missing this guy."

I thought of the solitary grave we'd just unearthed.

I thought of my long-ago lecture and the guy in the tub.

I stopped trying to beg off.

We talked again as we loaded the boat and cast off, fell silent when we left the no-wake zone. Once Emma opened throttle, our words were lost to the wind, the motor, and the slap of water on the bow.

My car was at the marina on Isle of Palms, a narrow tongue of real estate lying between Sullivan's and Dewees. So was a coroner's van. It took only minutes to transfer our sad cargo.

Before cutting out into the intracoastal waterway, Emma left me with two words.

"I'll call."

I didn't argue. I was tired and hungry. And cranky. I wanted to go home, shower, and eat the cold shrimp and she-crab soup I'd left in the fridge.

Walking up the dock, I noticed Topher Burgess stepping from the ferry. He was listening to his iPod, and didn't seem to see or hear me.

I watched my student cross to his Jeep. Funny kid, I thought. Smart, though far from a brilliant performer. Accepted by his peers, but always apart.

Like me at that age.

I clicked on the roof light in my Mazda, dug my mobile from my pack, and checked for a signal. Four bars.

Three messages. I recognized none of the numbers.

It was now 8:45.

Disappointed, I replaced the phone, pulled from the lot, cut across the island, and turned right onto Palm Boulevard. Traffic was light, though that wouldn't last. Two weeks and cars would be clogging these roads like silt in a storm drain.

I was staying at a friend's beach house. When Anne had upgraded from Sullivan's two years earlier, she hadn't messed around. Her new getaway had five bedrooms, six baths, and enough square footage to host the World Cup.

Taking a couple of feeder streets, I maneuvered toward the beach, pulled into Anne's drive, and parked under the house. Ocean Boulevard. No second row for oceanfront Annie.

Every window was dark since I had planned on a predusk return. Without turning on lights, I went straight to the outdoor shower, stripped, and cranked up the hot water. Twenty minutes with rosemary, mint, and a lot of lather, and I felt reasonably restored.

Leaving the stall, I bundled my clothing into a plastic sack and trashed it. No way I'd subject Annie's Maytag to that.

Wearing only a towel, I entered the house through the back veranda and climbed to my room. Panties and a T. Brush through my hair. Gorgeous.

While zapping my soup, I again checked my messages. Nothing. Where was Ryan? Taking my mobile and my dinner to the porch, I settled in a rocker.

Anne called her place "Sea for Miles." No kidding. The horizon spread from Havana to Halifax.

There's something about the ocean. One minute I was eating. The next I was jolted awake by the sound of my cell. My plate and bowl sat empty. I had no recollection of closing my eyes.

The voice wasn't the one I was hoping to hear.

"Yo."

Only frat boys and my estranged husband still said "yo."

"Dude." I was too tired to be clever.

"How goes the dig?"

I pictured the bones now lying in the MUSC morgue. I pictured Emma's face as she had pulled away from the dock. I didn't want to go into it.

"Fine."

"Wrapping up tomorrow?"

"Some loose ends may take longer than I'd expected. How's Birdie?"

"Doing twenty-four/seven surveillance on Boyd. Your cat thinks my dog's been conjured up from the dark side to pollute his life. Chow thinks the cat's some kind of fluffy wind-up toy."

"Who's in control?"

"Bird's definitely alpha. So, when are you back to Charlotte?" Too casual. Something was up.

"I'm not sure. Why?" Wary.

"Gentleman came to my office yesterday. He has financial issues with Aubrey Herron, and it seems his daughter's hooked up with Herron as well."

The Reverend Aubrey Herron was a televangelist with a small but ardent following throughout the Southeast, known as God's Mercy Church. In addition to its headquarters and TV studio, GMC operated a number of Third World orphanages and several free medical clinics in the Carolinas and Georgia.

"God Means Charity." Herron closed every broadcast with the slogan.

"Give Mucho Cash." Pete quoted a popular variation.

"What's the problem?" I asked.

"Financial reports have not been forthcoming, the kid's gone incommunicado, and the Reverend Herron is being less than cooperative on either issue."

"Shouldn't Daddy hire a private investigator?"

"Daddy did. The guy went missing."

"You're thinking Bermuda Triangle?"

"Aliens."

"You're a lawyer, Pete. Not a gumshoe."

"There's money involved."

"No!"

Pete ignored that.

"Daddy's really worried?" I asked.

"Daddy's beyond worried and out the other side."

"About the money or the daughter?"

"Perceptive question. Flynn's really hiring me to look into the books. Wants me to bring pressure on GMC. If I can scare up something on the daughter, that's a bonus. I offered to drop in on the reverend."

"And scare the wingtips off him."

"With my legal acumen."

Comprehension sprang into focus.

"GMC is headquartered in Charleston," I said.

"I talked to Anne. She offered the house, if it's cool with you."

"When?" I gave a sigh that would have made Homer Winborne proud.

"Sunday?"

"Why not." Only a billion reasons.

A beep indicated an incoming call. When I lowered the phone, the LCD panel glowed the digits I'd been hoping to see. Montreal exchange.

"Gotta go, Pete."

I clicked over.

"Phoning too late?"

"Never." I smiled my first smile since uncovering the skeleton in three-east.

"Lonely?"

"I posted my number in the men's room at Hyman's Seafood."

"I love it when you go all mushy missing me."

Andrew Ryan is a detective with the Major Crimes Division of the Quebec Provincial Police. You get the picture: Brennan, anthropologist, Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires et de médecine légale; Ryan, cop, Section de crimes contre la personne, Sûrété du Québec. We've worked homicides together for more than a decade.

Recently, Ryan and I had started working other things, as well. Personal things.

One of them did a wee flip at the sound of his voice.

"Good day digging?"

I drew a breath, stopped. Share? Wait?

Ryan picked up on my hesitation.

"What?" he encouraged.

"We found an intrusive burial. A complete skeleton with vestiges of soft tissue and associated clothing."