Kathy Reichs: Bare Bones

“How did chowbreath get here, and why did he permit you to just waltz in?”

Boyd and Ryan looked at each other.

“I’ve been calling him Hooch. Saw it in a movie. Thought it fit him.”

Boyd’s ears shot up.

“Who let Hooch in, and why did Hooch let you in?”

“Hooch remembers me from the TransSouth disaster up in Bryson City.”

I’d forgotten. When his partner was killed transporting a prisoner from Georgia to Montreal, Ryan had been invited to help the NTSB with the crash investigation. He and Boyd had met at that time, in the Carolina mountains.

“How did Hooch get in here?”

“Your daughter brought him.”

Boyd wedged his snout under Ryan’s hand.

“Nice kid.”

Nice ambush, I thought, fighting back a smile. Katy figured a guest couldn’t refuse the dog.

“Nice dog.”

Ryan scratched Boyd behind the ears, swiveled his feet to the floor, and gave me a once-over. The corners of his mouth twitched upward.

“Nice look.”

My clothes were filthy, my nails caked with mud and soot. My hair was sweaty-wet and matted, my cheeks fiery from a zillion insect bites. I smelled of corn, airplane fuel, and charred flesh.

How would my sister Harry describe me? Rode hard and put away wet.

But I was not in the mood for a fashion critique.

“I’ve been scraping up fried brain matter, Ryan. You wouldn’t look like a Dior ad either.”

Boyd regarded me but kept his thoughts to himself.

“Have you eaten?”

“The event wasn’t catered.”

Hearing my tone, Boyd jammed his snout back under Ryan’s hand.

“Hooch and I were thinking about pizza.”

Boyd wagged his tail at the sound of his new nickname. Or at the mention of pizza.

“His name’s Boyd.”

“Why don’t you go upstairs and clean up some. Boyd and I’ll see what we can rustle up.”

Rustle up?

Born in Nova Scotia, Ryan has lived his entire adult life in the province of Quebec. Though he’s traveled extensively, his view of American culture is typically Canadian. Rednecks. Gangsters. Cowboys. Now and then he tries to impress me with his Gunsmoke lingo. I hoped he wasn’t about to do that now.

“I’ll be a few minutes,” I said.

“Take your time.”

Good. No “podna” or “ma’am” tacked on for effect.

It came as I was trudging up the stairs.

“—Miz Kitty.”

Another sudsy, steamy bathroom session to cleanse body and soul of the smell of death. Lavender shower gel, juniper shampoo, rosemary-mint conditioner. I was going through a lot of aromatic plants of late.

Soaping up, I thought about the man downstairs.

Andrew Ryan, lieutenant-détective, Section de Crimes contre la Personne, Sûreté du Québec.

Ryan and I had worked together for nearly a decade, homicide detective and forensic anthropologist. As specialists within our respective agencies headquartered in Montreal, the Quebec coroner’s bureau and the Quebec provincial police, we’d investigated serial killers, outlaw biker gangs, doomsday cults, and common criminals. I’d do the vics. He’d do the legwork. Always strictly professional.

Over the years I’d heard stories about Ryan’s past. Bikes, booze, binges closed out on drunk-tank floors. The near-fatal attack by a biker with the shattered neck of a twelve-ounce Bud. The slow recovery. The defection to the good guys. Ryan’s rise within the provincial police.

I’d also heard tales about Ryan’s present. Station-house stud. Babe meister.

Irrelevant. I had a steadfast rule against workplace romances.

But Ryan isn’t good at following rules. He pressed, I resisted. Less than two years back, at last accepting the fact that Pete and I were better off as friends than spouses, I’d agreed to date him.

Date?

Jesus. I sounded like my mother.

I squeezed more lavender onto my scrunchy and lathered again.

What term did one use for singles over forty?

Go out? Court? Woo?

Moot point. Before anything got off the ground, Ryan disappeared undercover. Following his reemergence, we’d tried a few dinners, movies, and bowling encounters, but never got to the wooing part.

I pictured Ryan. Tall, lanky, eyes bluer than a Carolina sky.

Something flipped in my stomach.

Woo!

Maybe I wasn’t as tired as I thought.

Last spring, at the close of an emotionally difficult time in Guatemala, I’d finally decided to take the plunge. I’d agreed to vacation with Ryan.

What could go wrong at the beach?

I never found out. Ryan’s pager beeped while en route to the Guatemala City airport, and instead of Cozumel, we flew to Montreal. Ryan returned to surveillance in Drummondville. I went back to bones at the lab.

Woo-us interruptus.

I rinsed.

Now Detective Don Juan had his buns parked on the couch in my study.

Nice buns.

Flip.

Tight. With all the curves in the right places.

Major flip.

I twisted the handle, hopped out of the shower, and groped for a towel. The steam was so thick it obscured the mirror.

Good thing, I thought, picturing the handiwork of the mosquitoes and gnats.

I slipped into my ratty old terry-cloth robe, a gift from Harry upon completion of my Ph.D. at Northwestern. Torn sleeve. Coffee stains. It is the comfort food of my garment collection.

Birdie was curled on my bed.

“Hey, Bird.”

If cats could look reproachful, Birdie was doing it.

I sat next to him and ran a hand along his back.

“I didn’t invite the chow.”

Birdie said nothing.

“What do you think of the other guy?”

Birdie curled both paws under his breast and gave me his Sphinx look.

“Think I should pull out the string bikinis?”

I lay back next to the cat.

“Or hit the Victoria’s Secret stash?”

Victoria’s Secret knockoffs, actually, from Guatemala. I’d found them in a lingerie store, and bought the mother lode for the beach trip that never was. Those items were still in their Vic-like pink bag, tags in place.

I closed my eyes to think about it.

The sun was again cutting through the magnolia, throwing warm slashes across my face.

I smelled bacon and heard activity in my kitchen.

A moment of confusion, then recollection.

My eyes flew open.

I was in a fetal curl on top of the spread, Gran’s afghan over me.

I checked the clock.

Eight twenty-two.

I groaned.

Rolling from the bed, I pulled on jeans and a T and ran a brush through my hair. Sleeping on it wet had flattened the right side, pooched the left into a demi-pompadour.

I tried water. Hopeless. I looked like Little Richard with hat hair.

Terrific.

I was halfway down the stairs when I thought about breath.

Back up to brush.

Boyd greeted me at the bottom step, eyes shining like a junkie’s on crack. I scratched his ear. He shot back to the kitchen.

Ryan was at the stove. He wore jeans. Just jeans. Slung low.

Oh, boy.

“Good morning,” I said, for lack of a more clever opener.

Ryan turned, fork in hand.

“Good morning, princess.”

“Listen, I’m sorr—”

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

He filled a mug and handed it to me. Boyd gamboled about the kitchen, high on the smell of frying fat. Birdie remained upstairs, radiating resentment.

“I must have bee—”

“Hooch and I had a hankerin’ for bacon and eggs.”

Hankerin’?

“Sit,” said Ryan, pointing his fork at the table.

I sat. Boyd sat.

Realizing his mistake, the chow stood, eyes fixed on the bacon Ryan was transferring to a paper towel.

“Did you find a pillow and blanket?”

“Yes, ma’am.”