Kathy Reichs - Bones Are Forever

Had Chalker discredited me to divert suspicion from himself and his cronies?

McLeod. Tyne. Chalker.

McLeod died in a plane crash.

Tyne. Chalker.

One of these men wanted McLeod’s claims. Maybe both.

Ruben and Beck were dead. Snook, the sole survivor, was easily manipulated.

Had that been the strategy? Kill Beck, disappear Ruben to Montreal, after seven years have her declared dead? Then get Snook to sign over the claims? Had Ruben’s sudden reappearance spurred a change in plans?

Who had I seen in the woods the night Ruben was shot? Who had made off with her body?

Suddenly, I felt I was plunging.

I’d told Snook to do nothing. To sign no papers.

“No. Christ, no.”

I’d gotten Ruben killed. Had I put Snook in danger?

I checked the time.

Seven-ten. Ollie was already at the airport.

I grabbed my mobile.

Voice mail.

Unka be damned. I had to talk to Ryan.

I pocket-jammed my iPhone, slammed the cover of my Mac, and headed out.

* * *

I was unlocking the Camry when I sensed a presence behind me. Before I could turn, a gun muzzle kissed my temple.

An arm snaked around my neck and pulled me upright.

I couldn’t move or speak.

“Not a sound.” Male. Had I heard the voice before? Tyne? Chalker?

I thought of dropping fast and rolling under the car. What was the point? My assailant had a gun. He’d squat and nail me.

The arm tightened and twisted my body to the right. “Move.”

Probably wanting to avoid notice, the guy dropped the arm from my neck, stepped close, and lowered the gun to my back.

On rubber legs, I took a few very small steps.

“The truck.”

I hesitated. Every cop I know says, If taken, never enter a vehicle. Once inside, your chance of escape plummets .

The muzzle gouged deeper into my spine. “Don’t fuck with me.”

I walked as slowly as I dared. Two feet out, I stopped.

I felt the guy’s gun hand tense. I pictured the long dark tunnel, the bullet tearing through my bones, my heart, my lungs.

Instead, my assailant pushed me forward into the side of the pickup. With the gun back in place, he yanked my purse from my shoulder. “Get in.”

I didn’t move.

“I said get the fuck in.”

Maybe fear. Maybe boldness. I believed he would shoot me but remained frozen.

I felt his body shift. Saw movement in the corner of my eye.

A shadow crossed my face.

I heard a sound like the snap of a piano wire.

The world broke into millions of white particles.

Went black.

* * *

I was at the bottom of a deep, dark pit, struggling to climb out and getting nowhere. A moth flailing in sap slowly turning to amber.

The pit shifted.

A pinpoint of light appeared overhead.

I strained to reach it.

Slowly swam upward.

To consciousness.

The place I was in sounded hollow.

I smelled moisture. Ancient rock and soil. An acrid scent unfamiliar to me.

The world lurched.

My body shifted.

I was curled fetal on a cold, gritty surface.

I listened.

Heard the crunch of rubber on gravel. A soft humming.

I was in a vehicle. But not a car. The engine was wrong.

A flash image. The parking lot. The SUV.

The gun!

I lifted my head.

Almost screamed.

I lay back until the pain and dizziness passed.

The pressure on my body changed. The vehicle was moving downhill.

I tried to roll to my back.

My arms wouldn’t move. My legs wouldn’t move.

Dear God! I’m paralyzed!

My heartbeat kicked into high.

The adrenaline helped.

Sensation crept back.

I felt tingling in my cheeks and fingertips. Drought in my mouth, my eyes.

I tried to swallow. Could barely muster sufficient saliva.

I attempted to open my lids. They were crusted shut. I blinked them apart.

Inky black.

The vehicle stopped. The motor cut off.

I held my breath.

Voices. Male. Close but all around. How many?

Trickling water. A faucet? A stream?

Boots on gravel. One pair to the left, one to the right. Moving away? Approaching?

Every noise echoed back onto itself. Nothing was clear.

The voices grew louder. Ricocheted wildly. Two? Three?

Banging.

More voices.

Footsteps.

I froze.

The footsteps clomped toward me.

Continued past.

Receded.

The pounding in my chest was supersonic.

I had to do something.

Ignoring the fiery arrows shooting through my brain, I twisted my neck and looked around.

I was in the back of a golf cart.

Moving gingerly, I finger-wrapped the safety bar on one side and slowly raised my head.

Ten feet ahead and to the left, a beam cut the darkness. Behind it, I could make out a form wearing some sort of helmet. Vapor swirled in the tight cylinder of light shooting from above its brim.

For a few feet to either side of the beam, the scene was visible through a milky-white haze. The contours of a tunnel. Snaking pipes. Yellow and orange numbers and letters hand-painted on rock. Beyond that, a black void.

My eyes traced the beam to a row of yellow barrels. Painted on each was a single red word: Arsenic .

My mind registered. Analyzed.

Subterranean shaft. Miner’s helmet. Arsenic. Horace Tyne.

My blood chilled to ice.

I knew where I was.

The Giant gold mine.

Sweet Jesus. How far underground?

Tyne had brought me here to kill me. To hide my body.

As he’d done with Annaliese Ruben.

I had to get out. Or get help.

Please!

Moving with stealth, I fumbled for my pocket.

Yes!

I pulled out my iPhone and cupped the screen.

No signal. Too far underground.

Think!

An e-mail would go out automatically as soon as the device reconnected with a tower. It was the best I could do.

I opened mail. Dispatched my location to Ryan.

Noticed a text from Pete. Why not? Whichever medium worked first.

Pete’s message was short: Fast Moving general partner Philippe Fast .

I sent a reply: Giant Gold Mine. Call Ryan .

Was I insane? Reading e-mail and texts? I had to get out.

Pulse gunning, I repocketed the phone, drew in one knee, and braced my foot on the floor of the cart.

Waited.

Breath frozen, I drew in the other foot.

Braced.

Waited.

A deep breath, then I flexed to spring.

One sneaker skidded.

Gravel ground between rubber and metal.

The sound was like a screech in the stillness.

The helmet beam whipped my way.

I caught a glimpse of the face below.

Disparate facts toggled.

A text message.

A photo.

Pieces. Players. Moves. Strategies.

Suddenly, I saw the whole board.

IT CLICKED. THE DETAIL THAT DIDN’T FIT WITH THE REST OF THE photo. The parkas, the vests, three truckers squinting into the sun.

A fourth trucker, face turned, white streaking the hair below a fur-lined hat.

Phil looks like a skunk .

A flyer showing Ralph Trees’s brother-in-law behind the wheel of a truck.

Got it here? Want it there? We move fast!

Fast Moving.

Farley McLeod had allowed some of his mineral claims to lapse. An entity called Fast Moving had acquired those claims.

Philippe Fast was the general partner in that entity.

It wasn’t Tyne bearing down on me with a gun in his hand.

It was Philippe Fast.

Who was his partner? Tyne? Chalker? Where had he gone? For how long?

No matter. These were the best odds I’d have.