Kathy Reichs: Break No Bones

"Recent?"

"Yes. I called the coroner. She and I exhumed it together. It's now at the morgue."

While Ryan is charming, thoughtful, and witty, he can also be annoying as hell. I knew his response before it left his lips.

"How do you get yourself into these situations, Brennan?"

"I submit well-written resumes."

"Will you do the consult?"

"I have my students to think about."

Wind ruffled the palmetto fronds. Across the dunes, surf pounded sand.

"You'll take the case."

I didn't agree or disagree.

"How's Lily?" I asked.

"Only three door-slamming incidents today. Minor league. No broken glass or splintered wood. I take that as a sign the visit's going well."

Lily was new to Ryan's life. And vice versa. For almost two decades father and daughter knew nothing of each other. Then Lily's mother made contact.

Nineteen and pregnant, though not sharing that biological reality with her weekend pal-in-the-dark Ryan, Lutetia had fled Canada for her family home in the Bahamas. She'd married in the islands, divorced when Lily was twelve, and returned to Nova Scotia. Once Lily was out of high school, she'd begun running with a fast crowd. She'd taken to staying out nights, had been busted for possession. Lutetia knew the signs. She'd tried the outlaw life herself. That's where she'd met Ryan, during his own personal undergraduate counterculture insurrection. Knowing her long-ago lover was now a cop, Lutetia had decided he should participate in the effort to salvage his young-adult daughter.

Though the news had hit Ryan in the old solar plexus, he'd embraced fatherhood and was trying hard. This visit to Nova Scotia was his latest foray into his daughter's world. But Lily wasn't making her old man's task easy.

"One word," I said. "Patience."

"Roger that, wise one." Ryan knew I'd had run-ins with my own daughter, Katy.

"How long will you stay in Halifax?"

"We'll see how it goes. I haven't given up on that idea of joining you if you're still willing to hang there awhile."

Oh, boy.

"That could be complicated. Pete just called. He may be here for a day or two."

Ryan waited.

"He has business in Charleston, so Anne invited him. What could I say? It's Anne's house and the place has enough beds to accommodate the College of Cardinals."

"Beds or bedrooms?"

At times Ryan had the tact of a wrecking ball.

"Call me tomorrow?" I closed the topic.

"Scrub your number from that men's-room wall?"

"You bet, sailor."

I was wired after talking to Pete and Ryan. Or maybe it was the unplanned power nap. I knew I wouldn't sleep.

Pulling on shorts, I padded barefoot across the boardwalk. The tide was out, and the beach yawned fifty yards to the water's edge. A gazillion stars winked overhead. Walking the surf, I let my thoughts roam.

Pete, my first love. My only love for over two decades.

Ryan, my first gamble since Pete's betrayal.

Katy, my wonderful, flighty, finally-about-to-be-a-college-graduate daughter.

But mostly, I pondered that sad grave on Dewees. Violent death is my job. I see it often, yet I never get used to it.

I have come to think of violence as a self-perpetuating mania of the power of the aggressive over those less strong. Friends ask how I can bear to do the work that I do. It is simple. I am committed to demolishing the maniacs before they demolish more innocents.

Violence wounds the body and it wounds the soul. Of the predator. Of the prey. Of the mourners. Of collective humanity. It diminishes us all.

In my view, death in anonymity is the ultimate insult to human dignity. To spend eternity under a Jane Doe plaque. To disappear nameless into an unmarked grave without those who care about you knowing that you have gone. That offends. While I cannot make the dead live again, I can reunite victims with their names, and give those left behind some measure of closure. In that way, I help the dead to speak, to say a final good-bye, and, sometimes, to say what took their lives.

I knew I would do what Emma was asking. Because of who I am. Because of what I feel. I would not walk away.

THE NEXT MORNING, I LAY IN BED STARING INTO THE BREACH OF the opening day. I had failed to lower the blinds, so I watched dawn tint the ocean, the dunes, and the deck outside Anne's sliding glass doors.

Closing my eyes, I thought about Ryan. His reaction had been predictable, meant to amuse. But I wondered what he'd say if he were here. If he'd seen the grave. And I regretted my annoyance with him. I missed him. We'd been apart for over a month.

I thought about Pete. Endearing, charming, adulterous Pete. I told myself I'd forgiven him. But had I? If not, why didn't I file for divorce and cut myself loose?

Lawyers and paperwork. But was that really it?

I turned on my side and pulled the quilt to my chin.

I thought about Emma. She'd be calling soon. What would I tell her?

I had no reason to refuse Emma's request. Sure, Charleston wasn't my turf. But Dan Jaffer would be out of the country for several more weeks. Anne was offering "Sea for Miles" for as long as I wanted. Ryan was in Nova Scotia, but had talked of possibly coming to Charleston. Katy was in Chile, doing a four-week course on Spanish literature.

I smiled. "Cervantes and Cerveza," my daughter had dubbed her summer program. Whatever the project, those last three credits would close out a BA six years in the making. Yes!

Back to Emma. Emma dilemma.

My students could transport the equipment to UNCC. I could complete their evaluations here and e-mail the grades. I could do the same with my site report for the state archaeologist.

Were cases piling up in Montreal? I could call and find out.

What to do?

Easy one. Bagel and coffee.

Throwing back the covers, I dressed.

Quick toilette. Hair in a pony. Done.

That's probably what attracted me to archaeology. No makeup, no fluffing or mousseing. Every day is casual Friday. Less than casual.

While I worked the toaster, Mr. Coffee brewed. By now the sun was up, and the day was warming. Again, I headed outside.

I'm a news junkie. Gotta have it. When home, my morning begins with CNN and a paper. Observer in Charlotte. Gazette in Montreal. NY Times e-mail edition. When traveling, I fall back on USA Today, the local press, even tabloids if desperate.

There was no home delivery at "Sea for Miles." While eating, I perused a Post and Courier I'd purchased on Thursday but barely skimmed.

A family had died in a tenement blaze. Faulty wiring was being blamed.

A man was suing after finding an ear in his coleslaw at a fried chicken franchise. Police and health officials had discovered no missing ears among the workers involved in the restaurant's coleslaw supply chain. DNA testing was being done.

A man was missing, and authorities were seeking help from the public. Jimmie Ray Teal, forty-seven, left his brother's Jackson Street apartment around three on Monday, May 8, heading for a medical appointment. Teal hadn't been seen since.

My brain cells hoisted that little flag. Dewees Island?

No way. Teal had been breathing eleven days ago. The victim in our body bag hadn't drawn oxygen in at least two years.

I was down to the weekly neighborhood section when my mobile sounded. I checked the caller ID. Showtime.

Emma was a street fighter. She went straight for the kidneys.

"Do you want them to win?"

My beach-walk lecture to myself.

"When?" I asked.

"Nine tomorrow morning?"

"What's the address?"

I wrote it down.

Ten yards offshore, a pair of porpoises arced in and out of the sea, the morning sun glistening their backs a shiny blue-gray porcelain. I watched them nose up, then plunge, vanishing into a world I didn't know.