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

“Dr. Brennan has had a long flight.”

The man was tall, maybe midthirties. A blue athletic cap covered what I suspected was a hairline heading south.

Welsted looked at the man. In the dim light escaping the door, I couldn’t read her expression. But the man seemed to stiffen.

“I’m just saying, we can do this in the morning. She’s been on a plane for four hours. Probably wants dinner and rack time.”

The man’s hand shot my way. “Scott Blanton, Naval Criminal Investigative Service.”

Blanton’s grip was firm, but no match for Welsted’s.

Without a word, Welsted turned and crossed to a pair of men standing outside the depot at our backs. The younger wore jeans and a windbreaker with a White Sox logo. The older was in baggy linen pants, knee-length shirt, and voluminous sweater. Both had beards and unkept hair.

“Captain Welsted can be a bit stiff.” Blanton smiled, revealing one upper incisor overlapping the other. “Texan, you know.”

Not sure how to respond, I said nothing.

Behind Blanton, the men listened to Welsted, both overnodding. In less than a minute, she rejoined us.

“Let’s get you to your B-hut.” Without waiting for a reply, Welsted strode off.

Blanton shrugged, and, despite my repeated protests, took my duffel.

We boarded a van whose driver was indistinguishable from the pair at Manas. A short ride and a long security check brought us onto a base that, in the dark, appeared similar to the one I’d just left in Kyrgyzstan.

With one big difference.

Here I would enjoy no dorm-room comfort. No toilette down the hall.

My quarters consisted of one half of a B-hut, a plywood box in a maze of identical boxes, all squatting in a field of kiwi-size gravel. The interior, maybe eight by ten, contained two bunks, two slapped-together nightstands, a wooden wardrobe filled with shrink-wrapped cases of bottled water, and a table heaped with dusty magazines and ancient copies of Stars and Stripes . And, miraculously, a PC terminal that looked twenty years old.

That was the good news. The bad news?

The bath facility was an ankle-twisting football field away.

After informing me that we’d have a briefing with the head of base ops at 0900, Welsted took her leave.

“You want to get some chow?” Blanton asked.

Though exhausted, I’d had nothing but granola bars and Diet Coke since breakfast.

“Sure.”

I dumped my gear. As we walked, I told Blanton about Katy. He said he’d look into tracking her down.

A quick burger and chips and I was back at the B-hut.

“Breakfast at oh-eight-hundred?”

“I can find my way.”

“Things look different in the light.”

“Sure. I’d appreciate an escort.” I did.

“Maybe I should have contact info in case there’s a change of plans?”

Doubting they’d be functional, I gave him my mobile number and e-mail address.

After a touchdown run to the toilet, I set my alarm, positioned my flashlight on the nightstand, and collapsed into bed.

My last thoughts were these.

You will not need to pee before morning.

Why the tension between Welsted and Blanton?

• • •

I awoke to the sound of boots on plywood. Male voices beyond the partition to my left. Aircraft shrieking overhead.

I checked my watch.

6:50. How long had I slept? Not long enough.

I looked around, hoping I’d underestimated the dismal room the night before. I hadn’t.

Naked walls, linoleum flooring, here and there a tacked and curling USO poster or photo. No window. One electrical outlet per bed. Typical barracks hut. Easy up, easy down. Life expectancy three to four years.

I dressed, gathered my toiletries and flashlight, and set off for my hundred-yard hike.

And got my first stunning glimpse of Bagram.

Mountains soared in a circle around me, high and commanding, their snowy peaks white against a sky slowly oozing from dawn into day.

Crunching past rows of B-huts, I remembered Katy’s e-mailed comments. Not the Hilton, she’d said, but better than tents. Her main problem had been bugs. No Hershey bar remnants could be left around. No half-drunk sodas. I smiled at the thought of my daughter cleaning house every day.

And found myself searching. A pair of slim legs climbing the stairs. A blond head disappearing into a stall.

Could I bump into Katy in the dressing room? At the DFAC? Walking down a street?

While showering, I distracted myself by pulling up what I’d learned about Bagram before leaving home. There was little to pull.

Built as an airfield by the U.S. in the 1950s, the base was now the size of a small town. Its population of roughly six thousand military and twenty-four thousand civilians was composed of allied troops, international contractors, and Afghan day workers.

In addition to standard amenities, Bagram had coffee shops, fast-food joints, a tower left over from the days of Russian occupation, and a bazaar in which local vendors sold their wares. Disney Drive was the main drag, named in honor of a fallen soldier, not Uncle Walt.

Bagram Air Base lay close to the ancient Silk Road city for which it was named. And light-years distant.

Showered and shampooed, I hiked back to my quarters. And was delighted to find that the old PC actually allowed me Internet access.

Having twenty minutes to kill, I checked my e-mail. And found nothing from anyone I actually knew. I shot a note to Larabee, asking for an update on the hit-and-run case. Sent another to Slidell, knowing I’d get no response.

Blanton arrived at eight on the dot. While ingesting enough carbs to lay a rugby team flat, I learned that he held a BA in history, that he’d never been married, that he’d worked briefly as a cop, and that he was in his fourteenth year with NCIS.

Blanton was heading stateside as soon as the exhumation and analysis were completed. Surprisingly, he’d been born and raised in Gastonia.

Funny world. Come seven thousand miles and meet someone from right near home.

Blanton learned that I was board certified by the ABFA. And that I have a cat.

Why not share more? It might have been the way Blanton looked at me, never shifting his gaze, rarely blinking. Or the superior tone he used in phrasing some things. If asked, I couldn’t articulate a reason. But an inner voice advised against candor.

I wondered if I’d been wise in talking about Katy. I’d been brain-dead from exhaustion. Too late. That was done.

When we returned, Welsted was leaning against a van outside my B-hut. Seeing us, her eyes went to her watch.

“Good morning, captain,” I said brightly.

“Good morning.” Welsted didn’t smile or acknowledge Blanton. “Ready?”

“And eager.” That was the third coffee talking.

Five minutes later, we arrived at a corrugated-metal building with a sign that identified it as the headquarters for base operations. We entered and climbed to the second floor.

Hearing boots, an Air Force sergeant popped from a doorway and led us to a conference room that would have looked right at home in a midsize law office. Blond oak table with chairs for a dozen. Blackboard. Sideboard with a coffee setup. Only the rough walls looked out of place.

A man was already present, filling a thick white porcelain mug. Navy. Lettering on his fatigues told me his name was Noonan. A Velcro patch told me he was with JAG, the Judge Advocate General’s Corps.

Blanton took a seat at the table. Welsted and I crossed to Noonan.

Like Blanton, the Navy lawyer had hair that was fast parting ways with his scalp, and pale skin peeling from his nose and cheeks.

“Ruff Noonan, JAG.” We shook. “I won’t be going downrange for the festivities. Just sitting in on the briefing.”