Kathy Reichs - Bare Bones

Boyd led us from tree to tree, tail and nose working double-time, now and then flushing a bird or squirrel. Every few seconds he’d loop back, as though reminding us to stay focused on him.

I wasn’t. My mind was in countdown to plunge.

Back home, Boyd went straight to his bowl, guzzled water, blew air like a baleen, and flopped on the floor.

I hung up the leash and locked the door. As I set the alarm, I felt the warmth of Ryan’s body inches from mine.

With one hand Ryan took my wrist and turned me to him. With the other he reached up and flicked off the light. I smelled Irish Spring and cotton tinged with male sweat.

Pressing close, Ryan raised my hand and laid it against his cheek.

I looked up. His face was swallowed in shadow.

Ryan brought my other hand up. My fingertips felt the features I’d known for a decade. Cheekbones, a corner of his mouth, the angle of his jaw.

Ryan stroked my hair. His fingers slithered down the sides of my neck, moved across my shoulders.

Outside, my wind chime tinkled gaily.

Ryan’s hands glided over the curves of my waist, my hipbones.

A strange sensation flooded my brain, like something remembered from a distant dream.

Ryan’s lips brushed mine.

I drew in my breath. No. It drew in of its own accord.

Ryan kissed me hard on the mouth.

I kissed back.

Let go, every cell in my brain commanded.

My arms went around Ryan’s neck. I drew him to me, heart racing like some wild, frightened thing.

Ryan’s hands moved to my back. I felt my zipper slide down. His hands rose, eased the straps from my shoulders. I lowered my arms.

Black linen pooled at my feet.

All the sadness and frustration and unfulfilled desire of the past few days evaporated in that instant. The kitchen receded. The earth. The cosmos.

My fingers sought the buttons on the cornflower shirt.

10

PALMER COUSINS, KATY, AND I WERE IN MONTREAL, SIPPING CAPPUCCINOSat an outdoor café. Across the way a street busker was playing the spoons.

Palmer was describing a yoga class to which participants brought their dogs.

Instead of clacking, the spoons began shrilling in the busker’s hands. The noise grew louder and louder until I couldn’t understand what my daughter’s friend was saying.

I opened my eyes.

And looked at the back of Ryan’s head.

And felt like a kid who’d given it up on prom night.

Turning onto my side, I groped for the phone.

“—lo?” Groggy.

“Tim Larabee.”

I felt Ryan roll over behind me.

“Sorry to wake you.” The ME didn’t sound all that sorry.

Scooping me by the waist, Ryan tucked my bum into the angle formed by his hips and thighs. My breath came out with a soft “Hmff.”

“You OK?”

“Cat.”

I squinted at the clock. My thong obscured the digits.

“Time?” Monosyllables were all I could handle.

“Six.”

Ryan molded our bodies together like spoons.

“Did you get my message?” Larabee asked.

A protrusion was forming where the bowl of Ryan’s spoon met the handle.

“Message?”

“I called around eight last night.”

“I was out.” And too busy getting nooky to check my voice mail.

“I couldn’t score a dog to save my life. Your chow zeroed in on those bear bones, so I figure he must have a nose for rot. Thought maybe you could bring him along today.”

The protrusion was growing, severely hampering my ability to concentrate.

“Boyd’s not cadaver trained.”

“Better than nothing.”

Larabee had never met Boyd.

“By the way, Sheila Jansen got a match on the Cessna pilot.”

I sat up, raised my knees, and pulled the quilt to my chin.

“That was quick.”

“Harvey Edward Pearce.”

“Dentals?”

“Plus the snake tattoo. Harvey Pearce is a thirty-eight-year-old white male from Columbia, North Carolina, out near the Outer Banks. Popped right up on the NCIC search.”

“Pearce’s only been dead since Sunday. Why were his identifiers in the system?”

“Seems Harvey’s ex wasn’t real patient about child support. Hubby skipped a payment, the little woman reported him missing.”

“And Harvey missed a few.”

“You’ve got it. Eventually the locals got wise to the bogus missing person reports, but not before Harvey’s personal stats were well known to the law.”

Ryan tried to draw me back to him. I pointed a finger and scrunched my face into an exaggerated frown, as I would with Boyd.

“Where exactly is Columbia?”

“About half an hour west of Manteo on US 64.”

“Dare County?”

“Tyrrell County. See you in an hour at the farm. Bring the dog.”

Clicking off, I faced the first problem of the day.

I could bolt from the room naked. Or I could take the quilt, leaving Ryan to fend for himself.

I was opting for a bare-ass sprint when Ryan’s arm snaked around my waist. I looked down at him.

His eyes were fixed on my face. Amazing eyes. In the pale gray of dawn they looked almost cobalt.

“Ma’am?”

“Yes?” Tentative.

“I respect you with my whole heart and my whole soul, ma’am.” Somber as an evangelical preacher.

I drummed my fingers on his chest. “You’re not half bad yourself, cowboy.”

We shared a laugh.

Ryan tipped his head at the phone. “Sheriff rounding up a posse?”

I lowered my voice, CIA style. “If I told you that, I might have to kill you.”

Ryan nodded knowingly.

“Could you and the boys use an extra hand?”

“Seems we could. But they’ve only requested Boyd.”

He feigned disappointment. Then, “Could you put in a word, ma’am?”

I finger-drummed his chest again.

“Have you other talents, gunslinger?”

“This boy can shoot straight as a yard of pump water.”

Where did he get this stuff?

“But are you good at recovery?”

Ryan lifted the quilt.

I took a peek. Oh, yeah.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’m beholden, ma’am. In the meantime, how about I hep you out in the shower?”

“One condition.”

“Anything you say, ma’am.”

“Loose the Chester bit.”

We both sprinted naked to the bathroom.

Two hours later I was heading toward the Cowans Ford bridge. Ryan was beside me. Boyd was doing his bird dog routine in back. My car’s AC was whirring at “max.” I hoped I would recognize the turnoff.

Noting the high ceiling and clear sky, I pictured Harvey Pearce and wondered why the man had augered into a visible rock face on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

I pictured the macabre black residue coating Pearce and his passenger, and wondered again what that substance could be.

I also wondered about the passenger’s parentage. And about his odd nasal lesion.

“What are you thinking?” Ryan pushed Boyd’s snout from his ear.

Boyd shot to the window behind me.

“I thought men hated to be asked that question.”

“I’m not like other guys.”

“Really.” I cocked an eyebrow.

“I know the names of at least eight colors.”

“And?”

“I don’t kill my own meat.”

“Hmm.”

“Thinking about last night?” Ryan flashed his eyebrows. I think he was picking the schtick up from Boyd.

“Something happen last night?” I asked.

“Or tonight?” Ryan gave me the have- I- ever- got- something- in- mind- for- you look.

Yes! I thought.

“I was thinking about the Cessna crash,” I said.

“What troubles you, buttercup?”