Kathy Reichs - Bare Bones

In my mind’s eye I saw the trail of burned vegetation.

“So the victims were exposed to the fireball effect of the explosion, but the burning wouldn’t have lasted very long.”

“That fits,” Larabee said.

“Both bodies show evidence of a black residue,” I said, settling into a chair. “Especially the passenger.”

“I found the same stuff all over the cockpit. I’ve sent a sample off for testing.”

“We’re screening for alcohol, amphetamines, methamphetamines, barbiturates, cannabinoids, opiates,” Larabee said. “If these guys were flying high, we’ll catch it.”

“You’re calling them guys.” Jansen.

“Pilot was a white male, probably in his thirties, five-eight to fiveten, lots of dental work, great tattoo.”

Jansen was nodding as she wrote it all down.

“Passenger was also male. Taller. With his head, that is.” He turned to me. “Tempe?”

“Probably early twenties,” I said.

“Racial background?” Jansen asked.

“Yes.”

She looked up.

“I’m working on it.”

“Any unique identifiers?”

“At least two fillings.” I pictured the nasal. “And he had something going on with his nose. I’ll let you know on that, too.”

“My turn.” Jansen flipped pages in her notebook. “The plane was registered to one Richard Donald Dorton. Ricky Don to his friends.”

“Age?” I asked.

“Fifty-two. But Dorton wasn’t flying yesterday. He’s riding out the heat wave at Grandfather Mountain. Claims he left the Cessna safe and sound at a private airstrip near Concord.”

“Did anyone see the plane take off?” I asked.

“No.”

“Flight plan?”

“No.”

“And no one spotted it in flight.”

“No.”

“Do you know why it crashed?”

“Pilot flew it into a rock face.”

We let that hang a moment.

“Who is Ricky Don Dorton?” I asked.

“Ricky Don Dorton owns two strip joints, the Club of Jacks and the Heart of Queens, both in Kannapolis. That’s a mill town just north of here, right?”

Nods all around.

“Ricky Don supplied sleaze for gentlemen of every lifestyle.”

“Man’s a poet.” Larabee.

“Man’s a lizard.” Jansen. “But a rich lizard. The Cessna-210’s just one of his many toys.”

“Are tits and ass that profitable?” I asked.

Jansen gave a beats-me shrug.

“Could it be that Ricky Don is also in the import business?” I asked.

“That thought has crossed the minds of local law enforcement. They’ve had Dorton under surveillance for some time.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Ricky Don doesn’t hang with the Baptist choir.”

Larabee clapped me on the shoulder. “She’s good, isn’t she?”

Jansen smiled. “One problem. The plane was clean.”

“No drugs?”

“Nothing so far.”

We all stood.

I asked one last question.

“Why would a grown man call himself Ricky Don?” It sounded like one of Harry’s Texas saloons.

“Perhaps he doesn’t want to appear pretentious.”

“I see,” I said.

I didn’t.

It was four-thirty by the time Jansen left. I wanted to go home, take another long shower, tap into the Victoria’s Secret knockoff reserve, and spend the evening with Ryan.

But I also wanted to split for the beach first thing in the morning.

And I had bear bones in the cooler.

If annoying tasks are avoidable, I am a world-class procrastinator. I advance mail from pile to pile, then chuck it when the deadline or opportunity has passed. I wait out snow until it melts. I coexist with dandelions and weeds. My garden relies on rain.

Conversely, unfinished but ultimately unavoidable chores hang over my head like guillotine blades. All through school I submitted papers in advance of due dates. I never pulled an all-nighter. I pay bills on time. I can’t rest until the inescapable is put to bed.

I phoned Ryan’s cell. Four rings, then his voice requested a message in French then in English.

“Get cooking, slick. I’ll be home by seven.”

Hanging up, I questioned the wisdom of my phrasing. I was referring to steak and potatoes. Ryan might take it to mean something else.

I tried Geneva Banks. Still no answer.

I considered Skinny Slidell.

Avoidable.

Returning to the autopsy room, I tied on a new paper apron, changed the soaking solution for the pubes and ribs, and packed up the remains of the passenger’s skull. Then I went to the cooler, reunited the tubs with their headless owner, and rolled out The Three Bears.

Only a portion of one bag remained unexamined. How long could it take?

Untwisting the plastic, I dumped the contents onto the table.

The large bones took ten minutes. All bear.

I was laying down the last tibia when something crawled into my peripheral vision. I turned to the mound of smaller material I’d scooped into a pile by my left elbow.

My eyes went to an object that had rolled free.

My heart plunged.

I poked through the pile, teased free another.

My fingers curled into fists and my head flopped forward like a Dalí clock.

9

I DREW A DEEP BREATH, OPENED MY EYES, AND REEXAMINED THEtwo small bones. One was cuboid with a hooklike process. The other resembled a miniature, half-carved bust.

Neither had anything to do with Ursus.

Damn!

My heart was in free fall.

Scooping the carpals onto my glove, I sought out Larabee. He was in his office.

I held out the bones.

He glanced at them, then up at me.

“A hamate and a capitate,” I said.

“From the Goldilocks gang?”

I nodded.

“Paw?”

“Hand.”

His face skewed into a frown.

“Human?”

“Very.”

“You’re sure?”

I did not reply.

“Damn!” Larabee tossed his pen onto the desk.

“My thought precisely.”

He leaned back in his chair.

“Damn it to blue blazes!”

“I’ll go with that, too.”

“We’ll have to haul ass back out there.”

“Yes.”

“If that”—he jabbed a thumb at my upturned palm—“hand is recent, whoever did the burying might rethink his arrangement.”

“Could be searching for a shovel as we speak.”

“Tomorrow?”

I nodded.

Larabee reached for the phone. “Could it be an old unmarked grave?”

“Anything’s possible.”

I didn’t believe it.

Joe Hawkins dropped me at the annex.

Ryan was stretched out watching an I Love Lucy rerun. His day had obviously included shopping, for he now featured plaid shorts and a T-shirt that proclaimed BEER: NOT JUST FOR BREAKFAST ANYMORE. Though his face was tanned, his legs were the color of uncooked perch.

Boyd was dozing at his end of the couch.

The coffee table held a dead Heineken and a cereal bowl containing a half-dozen chips. An empty bowl sat on the floor.

Four eyes scanned me when I appeared in the doorway. Birdie was sulking out of sight.

Boyd slunk to the floor.

“Bonjour, Madam La Docteure.”

I allowed my pack and purse to slide from my shoulder.

“Rough day?” Ryan asked.

I nodded, smiled. “Hope yours was better.”

“Hooch and I went to Kings Mountain.”

“The national park?”

“The Yanks kicked some serious British butt there, right, podna?” He scratched Boyd’s ear. Boyd laid his chin on Ryan’s chest.

While I was up to my elbows in putrid flesh, these two were strolling down history lane. At least someone had enjoyed the day.

Ryan palmed chips into his mouth. Boyd’s eyes followed his hand.

“Hooch kicked some serious squirrel butt.”

I crossed to the couch. Ryan drew back his feet, and I dropped into the spot Boyd had vacated.