Kathy Reichs - Bones to Ashes

“Cops suspected the fire was deliberately set.”

“Bastarache?”

“Everyone thought the turd did it, but there was nothing to nail him and no one would talk. Guy’s goons have everyone scared shitless.”

I held out a palm.

Hippo kept the paper clamped in his hand. “I know you like to do things your own way, doc. But I want you to steer clear of this guy.”

I curled my fingers in a “give it to me” gesture.

Reluctantly, Hippo slid the folded sheet across the tabletop.

Flattening the page, I read the number and address.

The room receded. The humming fluorescents. The skeleton. Hippo’s luau shirt. I was on a porch on a Lowcountry summer night. A transistor radio was playing “Ode to Billie Joe.” Évangéline and I were lying with arms crooked behind our heads, knees up, singing along.

Was it really so simple? Dial these digits and Obéline would answer? Perhaps solve the mystery that had troubled me all these years? Perhaps lead me to Évangéline?

“You OK?”

I nodded, barely aware of Hippo’s question.

“Gotta boogie. Ryan’s waiting downstairs.”

I heard Hippo push to his feet, then the lab door open and close.

My eyes drifted to the bones.

Or would it go the other way? Would I provide answers to Obéline?

Seconds, perhaps epochs later, the door opened again. I looked up.

“Giving up Saturday morning cartoons?”

“Hey.”

“Hippo told me you were up here.”

Hippo must have shared more than the fact of my presence. Ryan’s eyes were crimped with concern.

“A hale fellow.” I managed a weak smile. “He tell you about Obéline Landry being married to this sleaze David Bastarache?”

Ryan nodded.

“He doesn’t want me to contact her.”

“But we both know you will.”

“Do you think Bastarache would shoot me just for phoning his estranged wife?”

“I don’t know. Just—”

Pointing a finger I finished Ryan’s sentence. “Be careful out there.” Hill Street Blues. The sergeant’s daily send-off was an ongoing joke between us.

Ryan hesitated, as though collecting his thoughts. Or choosing an opening.

“Listen, Tempe. There’s something I need to tell you.”

I waited, curious.

“I’ve made—”

Ryan’s cell warbled. Giving a “sorry” face, he turned a shoulder and clicked on.

“Ryan.”

I heard a series of “ oui .”

“Lousy timing.” Ryan waggled the phone. “But we may be catching a break on the Quincy kid.”

“I understand.” I kept very still. “Would you like to meet later?”

Ryan’s answer was a long time coming. “Sure.”

“Curry?”

“Ben’s at seven?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Troubled blue eyes scanned my face. As though memorizing detail.

Something sucked at my heart.

“Come here.” Ryan opened his arms. “Give me a hug.”

Surprised, I rose and pressed my cheek to Ryan’s chest. The embrace broke every rule I’d imposed about intimacy at work. I didn’t care. It had been too long. It was Saturday. The place was deserted.

Ryan’s arms enveloped me. His chin rested on my hair. I felt a flush climb my throat as warmth spread through me.

Breathing in the familiar scent of soap and Acqua di Parma, feeling the familiar muscles and hollows, I wondered if I’d misinterpreted Ryan’s look.

Then I heard the words, whispered, more to himself than to me.

“You’ll probably never do this again.”

14

IREFUSED TO LET MYSELF THINK ABOUT RYAN.

I refused to let myself rush to the phone. Before punching those digits, I wanted to rehearse what to tell Obéline.

Instead, I focused on bone pathology.

Though the metatarsal was slender and unnaturally pointed on the distal end, its outer cortex appeared normal on X-ray. Similar changes occur in advanced cases of rheumatoid arthritis. But with rheumatoid arthritis, the joints are also affected. The girl’s joints were fine.

Lupus can cause changes in the bones of the hands and feet. It can also affect the nasal spine and aperture and cause resorption of the premaxillary alveolar process. But lupus is an immune disease that attacks many internal organs and tissues. The damage to the girl’s skeleton was not that widespread.

Venereal syphilis leads to atrophy of the nasal spine and destruction of the anterior palate. But with syphilis, vault lesions are common. The girl’s vault had none.

Congenital syphilis.

Yaws.

Tuberculosis.

On and on. Nothing fit.

At five, I gave up and headed home.

As I concentrated on traffic, my brain cells roamed free range.

Was Birdie due for a checkup?

You took him in March.

It was July.

Pull his shot record .

Haircut.

Go really short, like Halle Berry.

You’ll look like Demi Moore in G.I. Jane .

Lousy movie.

Not the point.

No guts no glory.

Or Pee-wee Herman.

Ryan.

What the hell, I was tired.

As with the previous topics, cerebral opinions were split.

Breakup, a cadre of pessimist brain cells predicted.

No way, an optimist faction countered.

The pessimists floated an image. Annie Hall . Alvie and Annie separating belongings.

We’d never lived together, but I’d spent nights at Ryan’s place, he at mine. Had possessions migrated? Did Ryan want to talk about reclaiming CD’s?

I began a mental list of objects at my condo. The wine opener. A toothbrush. A bottle of Boucheron aftershave.

Charlie?

He’s over the marital status thing.

He’s outta here.

Why the hug?

He’s horny.

“That’s it.” I hit the radio.

Garou was crooning “Seul.” Alone.

I snapped it off.

Birdie greeted me by flopping onto one side, stretching all four limbs, and rotating to his back. Ryan called the maneuver his “drop and roll.”

I scratched the cat’s belly. He must have felt tension in my touch. Popping to his feet, he regarded me, eyes yellow and round.

Partly Ryan. Partly Obéline. And partly being afloat on coffee.

“Sorry, big guy. Got a lot on my mind.”

Hearing my voice, Charlie weighed in. “ …love drunk off my hump.”

Black Eyed Peas. Good job with the training disc, Ryan.

But why that line?

When its battery dies, my smoke alarm shrills until a replacement is inserted. This occurred once on a weekend when I’d left Charlie alone. The cockatiel shrilled for the next three months.

It’s the rhythm, I told myself. Not the lyrics.

I popped in the cockatiel training CD, filled seed and water dishes, and fed the cat. Then I wandered from room to room, each time forgetting the point of my going.

I needed exercise.

Lacing on running shoes, I jogged up the hill, then turned west. On the opposite side of Sherbrooke sprawled the grounds of Le Grand Séminaire, recovery site of a dismembered body years ago. One of the first cases I’d worked with Ryan.

Still no rain, but the barometric pressure was at least a billion. Within blocks I was sweating and breathing hard. The physical exertion felt good. I pounded past the Shriner’s Temple, Dawson College, Westmount Park.

A mile and a half out, I looped back.

This time, no greetings from Birdie. In my hurry to be off, I’d left the door to the study ajar.

The cat and bird were eyeball to eyeball. Though feathers and seed casings littered the floor, neither feline nor avian looked particularly excited. But there’d definitely been action while I was out.