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

Though I’d never admit it, I was glad the cops were out there. At least periodically. D’Ostillo’s murder had my nerves on edge. Not to mention the delivery of her tongue to my house.

And Blanton’s unannounced appearance bothered me. Why not mail the scarf? Why buy it in the first place? That was one weird dude.

What had he said? Wake up and find evil sitting on our doorstep. Was he conveying a veiled threat?

The phone rang.

“Jeez, doc. I been calling for an hour.”

“What is it, detective?”

“I brought Tarzec in for questioning. Didn’t expect much, and that’s what I got. Squat. Had nothing, so I had to kick her.”

“What about tax returns, employee documentation, a lease or mortgage on the building?”

“I’m working on it. But I did touch base with the guy at ICE.”

“Luther Dew.”

“Yeah. What a donkey dick.”

“Maybe if you tell him what D’Ostillo said—”

“I’m way ahead of you. I dropped by to share a few pics.”

“The photo of D’Ostillo’s body?”

“Thought he’d toss his lunch. But he gets it now. This could be about more than dead dogs. He shared some intel he’d just scored.”

I waited.

“Rockett’s a frequent traveler to the Lone Star State.”

“How did Dew learn that?”

“ICE is digging hard. Cell phone records, credit card receipts, the usual.”

“Does Rockett drive?”

“Sometimes. But get this. Sometimes he flies there, but not back.”

“Where?”

“Houston. Or Phoenix, then on to El Paso.”

“Where does he stay?”

“That ain’t clear.”

“Does he ever cross into Mexico?”

“Border patrol has records of Rockett flying to Guatemala, Ecuador, and Peru. Dew is guessing those are legitimate buying trips. There’s no record of him driving from Texas into Mexico.”

I started to ask a question. Slidell beat me to it.

“Or from Arizona, New Mexico, or California.”

“Do his visits coincide with sales to accounts here?”

“That’s just it. They don’t. ICE cross-checked dates against invoices.”

“Maybe the round-trip drives are to pick up legal shipments. Maybe the one-way flights are for something else.”

I didn’t need to spell it out. Every American has read about the porosity of our southern border. Two thousand miles, much of it unpatrolled. Most know about undocumented workers trudging through the desert or trying to swim the Rio Grande. We’ve all heard of coyotes, entrepreneurs who take money to smuggle illegals overland into the country, sometimes abandoning them to die rather than face arrest.

“I doubt it’s that simple,” Slidell said. “Remember, Rockett got nailed at Charlotte-Douglas flying shit in.”

“Cargo’s simple. You pack it, you ship it. People present a much thornier problem. They have to eat, drink, breathe.”

For a few beats we both thought about that.

“How’s this play? Somehow, Rockett gets girls into Mexico. From South America, Eastern Europe, wherever. Either they got their own passports or he fixes them up with fakes. Maybe he don’t even bother. Papers, no papers, he either marches them or trucks them over the border, then drives them east.”

“That plays,” I said.

“One thing’s for sure. Rockett’s not traveling to Texas to catch Cowboys games.”

“No,” I agreed.

More dead air. In the background I could hear phones, figured Slidell was at his desk in the squad room.

“Any luck with Ray Majerick?” I asked.

“Still in the wind. But we’ll get him.”

“What about citizenjustice? Any leads on that?”

“Shot it to the cyber boys, but they’re swamped.”

The doorbell rang. My fingers tightened on the handset. I was expecting no one.

The bell rang again.

Again.

“What’s that?”

“Someone’s here,” I told Slidell. “You’ve got a cruiser outside, right?”

“Once every hour. Best I could do. The department’s hamstrung for manpower.”

“Stay on the line?”

“Yeah.”

The doorbell rang again.

Again, too quickly.

Still clutching the portable, I climbed the stairs and tried to peek through the window overlooking the front steps. The porch light was off. Below the eaves I could make out part of a man’s shoulder and leg, scuffed loafers.

“You want I should dispatch a car?” Slidell asked.

I put the phone to my ear.

“Wait.”

I ran downstairs, crept to the door, and pressed my eye to the peephole.

“Oh, my God . . .”

“Yo, doc? You okay?”

Shocked, I slid back the deadbolt and opened the door.

HIS FACE WAS A HALLOWEEN mask, eyes shadowy recesses, cheeks hollow, jaws stubble-dark.

“Talk to me.” Slidell’s barked demand spit from the phone.

I raised the device to my ear, gaze locked with that of the man on my doorstep.

“I’m fine.”

“What the—”

“It’s a friend.” Level, camouflaging the emotion roiling inside me. “I’m good. Thank you.”

I disconnected. Stood frozen, unsure how to play it. Joyful? Angry? Indifferent?

I flipped on the porch light. In the soft yellow glow I could see red spiderwebbing the whites of his eyes.

“You look like hell.” Opting for humor.

“Thanks.” Ryan’s voice sounded gravelly and hoarse.

“Shall I to try to reboot you?”

“Doesn’t work.”

“Come in.”

He didn’t move.

“If I leave you out there, you’ll run down and terrify the villagers.”

Normally, Ryan would have hit me with a snappy retort.

“This a bad time?” No snap.

“I was about to clean lint from the dryer.” Keeping it light.

“Fire hazard if you let that go.”

I smiled.

Ryan smiled. Sort of.

I stood back.

Ryan reached down and grasped the handle of a draped cube at his feet. As he brushed past me I heard a bell jingle. Scratching. His clothes stank of sweat and cigarette smoke.

I closed the door and turned.

Ryan stood in the center of the room, unsure what to do. He’d lost weight and looked gaunt and haggard.

“He expressed a desire to go south.” Pulling the cover from the cage.

Charlie, our shared cockatiel, looked startled. But birds always look startled.

I gestured to the dining room. Ryan set the bird on the table, replaced the cover, then returned to the parlor. I dropped into an armchair and drew my feet up.

Ryan sat on the sofa but didn’t lean back. “Place looks good.”

“Been a while,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad to see both of you.”

Gran’s clock ticked off a full thirty seconds. The silence felt strained and awkward.

“How’s the birdcat?” Ryan asked.

“Still king of the lab.”

Ryan nodded, but didn’t call out or search for Birdie as he normally would.

“Coffee?” I asked.

“Sure.”

I went to the kitchen. Ryan didn’t follow. Cranking up the Krups, I thought of the times we’d shared the task, grinding beans, measuring water, arguing the mix was too strong or too weak. What the hell had happened?

When I returned to the parlor, Ryan was sitting forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped and hanging between them.

He accepted the steaming mug, then turned his head to stare out the window. To stare away from me?

I resumed my place in the armchair, legs tucked beneath my bum. Steeled for the words I was about to hear. The final severance.

At length, Ryan’s eyes rolled my way. He set down his untouched coffee. Cleared his throat. Swallowed.