Kathy Reichs - Bones of the Lost - A Temperance Brennan Novel

“Where’s Bird?” I set my glass in the sink.

“Sleeping off the pâté.”

“You gave him pâté?”

“Relax. It was chicken liver, not goose.”

“The vet has him on a diet.”

“He didn’t mention that.”

My eyes were still rolling when the cat strolled in. Pete picked him up.

Birdie purred like a Ducati cruising at eighty. He likes my ex. Always has.

“Did you know you’ve been robbed?”

“What?” My eyes flew around the kitchen.

“Your refrigerator’s been stripped.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“Seriously. It’s empty.”

“I’ve had a busy couple of days.”

“The hit and run?”

“Mm. That why you’re here? To make sure I’m eating?”

“Madam.” Sweeping an arm toward the door. “Shall we adjourn for coffee and tarts?”

“I will not get sucked into your wedding drama.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

We both filled mugs, added cream, then moved to the dining room. Pete took the chair opposite mine at the table.

“Butter and jam?” I cocked a questioning brow.

“You never know.”

“Yes. With donuts, you do.”

I helped myself to a chocolate glazed with sprinkles.

Pete took no pastry. Didn’t touch his coffee.

“Snooze you lose,” I said brightly. “Should have bought more chocolate.”

“They’re all for you.”

“What, no flowers?”

It was an old joke between us. Pete didn’t laugh.

Alrighty, then.

As I waited for my ex to get to the point, another possibility entered my mind.

“Is there a problem with the divorce? Did I do something wrong on one of the form—”

“Everything’s in order.”

“Have you filed—”

“I will.”

“The wedding is still on track?”

Jesus, Brennan. Why bring it up?

“There are some glitches. Nothing Summer can’t handle.”

Summer can’t handle stirring yogurt without instruction. I didn’t say it.

Birdie jumped onto the chair beside Pete. He ran a hand down the cat’s back. Stared at the motion, distracted. Avoiding?

My gut clenched.

“You’re not lying to me, are you? This isn’t about Katy, right?”

“Only peripherally.”

Heat flamed my cheeks.

“You said—”

“She’s fine.”

“Have you heard from her today?”

“No.”

“Then you have no idea how fine she is.” Sharp.

Pete continued stroking the cat. Continued watching his hand do it.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off,” I said.

Pete leaned back. Changed his mind and leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“There’s a way you can see Katy.”

“We were supposed to Skype—”

“In person.”

“What? She gets leave? Already?” My donut froze in midair. “Oh, God. Is she hurt?”

“No.”

“Has she been hospitalized?”

“No. Christ. Stop overreacting.”

“Tell me the truth.”

“I have no reason to believe that our daughter is anything but healthy and happy.” Überpatient.

I studied Pete’s face. Saw no deception. But a boatload of doubt.

Janis Petersons? Man of glib tongue and cast-iron nerves?

“What’s going on, Pete?”

He lifted his mug. Set it down without drinking.

“You can go to her.”

“Go to her?” I’d missed a connection somewhere.

“To Bagram.”

“Bagram. Afghanistan?”

“Right.”

This was not making sense.

“I know you worry, sugarbritches. I worry, too. Especially when days pass without word. I can’t let on, of course, being manly and all.”

Another old joke unacknowledged by laughter.

Pete continued, his tone different now. Deadly serious.

“I don’t want to manipulate you. But I do want to persuade you.”

Persuasion. The lawyer’s stock in trade.

“Persuade me.” Again I parroted, totally confused.

Pete drew a deep breath. Let it out. Laced his fingers.

“Okay. You remember my friend, Hunter Gross?”

I shook my head.

“The one I mentioned at dinner on Wednesday?”

At the bar with its volume on blast. “He’s a marine,” I said. “His nephew’s a marine.”

“Yes. John Gross. I’ve known Hunter for years.”

“From your days in the Corps.” I could never keep Pete’s old marine buddies straight.

Pete nodded. “Hunter called me again. He’s truly concerned about his nephew.”

“Go on.”

“I think I told you John’s at Camp Lejeune awaiting an Article 32 hearing.”

An Article 32 is the military equivalent of a grand jury. The purpose is to determine if sufficient evidence exists to proceed to court-martial.

“John’s been accused of killing Afghan civilians.” The story was coming back to me. “Which he denies.”

“A court-martial will ruin the kid’s career. Though that’s the least of his worries. If found guilty, he could serve life in a federal penitentiary. Or worse.”

“What’s he supposed to have done?”

“According to the charge sheet, he shot two unarmed villagers during the search of a compound.”

“What’s his version?”

“It was dusk. The scene was chaos. The men came at him screaming about ‘Allah!’ One made a move as though reaching for a firearm. He claims he shot in self-defense.”

“Turned out the men had no weapons.”

“You’ve got it.”

I thought about that.

“Gross is holding, what, an M16? The victims are unarmed? Yet they rush him? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Heat of the moment? Personal jihad?” Pete shrugged. “Who knows?”

“There has to be more to the story.”

“Here’s what I know. As a lieutenant and platoon leader, John had to make a lot of difficult decisions. With serious consequences.”

Pete paused, perhaps recalling his own difficult choices while in service.

“One such decision involved a corporal named Grant Eggers. After repeated corrective interviews, John was forced to remove Eggers from his position as fire team leader. Eggers was furious, apparently bad-mouthed John at every opportunity, but never confronted him.”

“Let me guess. Eggers is the one making the accusation.” I went for a powdered-sugar frosted.

“Yes. He says the men weren’t running toward John, but away from him. He claims John shot them in the back.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. Crazy ten ways to Sunday. Hunter is convinced his nephew is being railroaded.”

“Why?”

“Uncle Sam isn’t exactly beloved over there. Two unarmed civilians dead. An American marine the shooter. The locals want blood.”

“Politics.”

Pete shrugged. Who knows?

“The solution couldn’t be simpler.”

Pete reached over and brushed a thumb across my upper lip. I batted his hand away.

“Sugar mustache,” he said. “Go on.”

“The medical examiner checks the bullet entry and exit points.”

“That’s been impossible.”

“Why?”

“The men are buried in a Muslim cemetery. NCIS has repeatedly tried to get access, but the Afghan authorities have repeatedly refused to allow either an exhumation or an autopsy. After a lot of diplomatic maneuvering, they’ve now reversed their position.”

I had a sudden suspicion where this was heading.

“They’ve agreed to an exhumation,” I guessed.

“Yes. But there’s no guarantee they won’t change their minds again. So speed is of the essence. The Article 32 hearing has been recessed to allow time for the exhumation to take place.”

“Uh-huh.”

“How well preserved do you think the bodies will be?”

“What was done with them postmortem?”

“Hunter’s intel says the men were bathed, shrouded, and buried. Just laid on their right sides, heads toward Mecca.”