Kathy Reichs: Bones to Ashes

“Vincent, Antoine.” Ryan repeated the name. “Any Vincents living on Rustique?” Ryan waited. “OK.”

My arms and legs were starting to feel like pig iron.

“Hang on.” Grabbing the binoculars, Ryan read off the license of the late-model Honda Accord at the far end of the block. After a pause he asked, “Which rental company?”

My exhaustion was gone like the flash of a shutter. Eyes squinting, I focused on the Accord.

“Got a number?” The voice speaking to Ryan said something. “Sure you’re not too busy?” Beat. “Appreciate it.”

Ryan closed but didn’t toss his cell.

“It’s Harry.” My voice was amped. “I know it is.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

“Right.”

I threw myself into the seat back and folded my arms. Unfolded them and started gnawing the cuticle.

“The Merc and the Porsche belong to locals,” Ryan said, never taking his eyes from number thirteen.

I didn’t bother to comment.

Seconds dragged by. Minutes. Eons.

The Impala seemed suddenly oppressive. I lowered my window. Sickly warm air floated in, bringing the smell of mud and mown grass. The cawing of gulls.

I jumped when Ryan’s cell warbled in his hand.

Ryan listened. Thanked the caller. Disconnected.

“Harry rented the Accord on Monday morning.”

My eyes flew down the block. The car was empty. The park was empty.

“I’ll call her.” I reached for my purse.

Ryan shot a restraining hand to my arm. “No.”

“Why not?”

Ryan just looked at me. Like mine, his eyes were full of fatigue.

My mind did a frightening connect. If Harry was on Malo’s property or in his house, a ringing phone might compromise her safety.

“Jesus, Ryan, you really think she’s gone inside?” Been taken inside? I couldn’t say it.

“I don’t know.”

I knew.

“We need to get her out.”

“Not yet.”

“What?” Sharp. “We just sit here?”

“For a while, yes. If I go in, I will do so with backup. Note the pointed use of the first-person singular.”

The sun was low, bouncing off windows and car hoods, bronzing the river, the park, and the street. Sliding on shades, Ryan draped both arms on the wheel and resumed staring down Rustique.

Planetary movement ground to a stop. Occasionally Ryan glanced at his watch. I checked mine. Each time less than a minute had passed.

I switched from working the cuticle to picking at threads in the armrest. Switched back. Despite the heat my fingers felt icy.

We’d been watching ten minutes when a Camaro came hard up Cherrier and turned onto Rustique, running so fast its tires squealed softly. The driver was a murky silhouette behind tinted glass.

A silhouette I recognized.

“It’s Bastarache!”

We watched Bastarache angle to the curb outside number thirteen, jump out, and throw open the Camaro’s trunk. Extracting a bolt cutter, he strode to the fence, positioned the blades, and snapped the handles. After boot-kicking the gate, he disappeared from sight.

The first shots sounded like firecrackers, the pops coming so fast they seemed connected. In the park, a cyclone of gulls rose and swooped over the river.

“Shit!”

Ryan activated and keyed the radio. A dispatcher came on. Identifying himself, Ryan gave our location and requested backup.

“Listen to me, Tempe.” Ryan was unholstering the Glock as he spoke. “I am deadly serious. You are to get on the floor and stay put.”

Silently, I slid from the seat, keeping my eyes above the dash for a view of the street.

“Do not leave this car.”

Using the houses for cover, Ryan worked his way down Rustique, Glock pointed downward at his side. Back to the chain linking, he crept to Malo’s gate, peered in, then vanished.

I crouched on the floor of the Impala, terrified, palms slick with sweat. It seemed hours. In actuality, it was less than five minutes.

I was trying to stretch my cramped legs, when my cell phone chirped. I groped it from my purse.

“Where are you?” Harry was using her whisper-shout voice.

“Where are you ?”

“I’m in a park near Malo’s house. Feeding the seagulls.”

“Jesus Christ, Harry. What were you thinking?” My comment failed to reflect the relief I was feeling.

“I may have heard shots.”

“Listen to me.” I employed the same tone Ryan had just used with me. “I’m at the corner of Cherrier and Rustique. Ryan has gone onto Malo’s property. Backup is en route. I want you to get as far from that house as possible without leaving the park. Can you do that?”

“I see a monument to some dead guy. I can hunker behind that.”

“Do it.”

By hoisting my butt up onto the seat, I was able to see a pink-clad figure scuttle from left to right at the river’s edge.

I was returning to my crouch when two muffled shots rang out.

My heart stopped.

I listened.

Impossible stillness.

Dear God, was Ryan in trouble? Harry? Where was backup?

Maybe it was fear for my sister. Or Ryan. What I did next was mad. I did it anyway.

Firing from the Impala, I sprinted across Cherrier and diagonaled the first lawn on the left side of Rustique. Keeping to house shadows, I ran to number thirteen, back-skimmed the fence, and paused, straining to detect any sound of movement.

Screaming gulls. The hammering of my own heart.

Barely breathing, I peered through Malo’s gate.

A gravel drive led to a dark brick house with garish pink mortar. To its right stood a similarly constructed three-car garage. To its left stretched a lawn latticed by shadows of the dead elm.

I went stiff, fighting the adrenaline that was stirring me to action. A form was seated at the base of the tree. Had I been spotted?

Five seconds dragged by. Ten.

The form didn’t move.

After waiting a full minute, I rechecked my surroundings, then crept down the drive. Each crunch of gravel sounded like an explosion. Still the form remained lifeless, a life-sized rag doll rippled by spider-thread shadows.

Closer to the tree, I could tell that the form was a man. I’d never seen him before. A long, dark tentacle scrawled the front of his shirt. The man’s eyes were closed but he appeared to be breathing.

Half crouching I scuttled across the lawn.

And stopped cold.

Two dogs strained on chains attached to bolts set in concrete. Each was huge, with a sleek brown and black coat, small ears, and a short tail that suggested Doberman. Each growled viciously.

I raised a cautioning hand. The dogs grew frenzied, snarling and slathering, eyes savage in their desire to attack.

In the distance I heard the faint wail of sirens.

I backstepped cautiously. The dogs continued lunging and snapping, each body thrust threatening to wrench the bolts free from their moorings.

On rubber legs I scrambled back to the front of the house. To the right of the door I could see a partially open window. Crawling through a square-cut cedar hedge, I stretched on tiptoes and peered in. Though a chair back obstructed my view of the room, I could clearly see three men.

One word hammered home.

Endgame.

Ryan was holding a Winchester twelve-gauge while pointing his Glock at Bastarache. Bastarache had a Sig Sauer 9mm pointed at a man I assumed to be Malo.

Malo’s back was to the window. Like Bastarache, he was big and heavily muscled.

The sirens were growing louder. I guessed backup units were now crossing the bridge.

“You miserable sonovabitch,” Bastarache was yelling at Malo. “I knew your demented perversions would screw us all sooner or later.”

“You’re what, Dudley Fucking Do-Right? You went in with eyes wide, Davey-boy.”