Kathy Reichs - Bare Bones

“The widow didn’t really inherit the farm. Foote’s will allowed Dorothy, and her son by a previous marriage, to live on the place until her death. After that, the kid could stay until he was thirty years old.”

Slidell shook his head. “This Foote must have been some kind of fruit bat.”

“Because he wanted his wife’s son to have a home until the boy was established?” I kept my voice calm.

The wind picked up. Leaves thrashed the window screen.

“After that?” Ryan asked.

“After that, the place goes to Foote’s daughter by his first marriage.”

Something rolled across the lawn with a hollow, thunking sound.

“Dorothy Foote is dead?” I asked.

“Five years ago.” Slidell closed the notebook and returned it to his pocket.

“Has her son turned thirty?”

“No.”

“Does he live here?”

“Technically, yes.”

“Technically?”

“The little sleaze rents the place out to turn a few bucks.”

“Can he do that under the terms of the will?”

“Couple years back Foote’s daughter hired a lawyer to look into that. Guy couldn’t find any way to get the kid tossed. Kid does everything under the table, so there’s no record of money changing hands. Daughter lives in Boston, never comes to God’s little acre here. Place isn’t worth that much. Kid’s twenty-seven.” Slidell shrugged. “Guess she decided to wait it out.”

“What’s Dorothy’s son’s name?” I asked.

Slidell smiled. There was no humor in it.

“Harrison Pounder.”

Where had I heard that name?

“You remember him, Doc.”

I did. From where?

“We discussed Mr. Pounder just last week.” Toothpick. “And it wasn’t because the squirrel’s appearing on our new career leaflet for police recruits.”

Pounder. Pounder.

“Harrison ‘Sonny’ Pounder,” Rinaldi supplied.

Recollection sluiced through my brain.

“Sonny Pounder?” I asked, incredulous.

“Mama Foote’s baby boy,” Slidell said.

“Who’s Sonny Pounder?” Ryan asked.

“Sonny Pounder’s a dime-a-dozen, low-life dirtbag who’d sell his mama to the Taliban for the right price.” Slidell.

Ryan turned to me.

“Pounder’s the dealer who traded the tip about Tamela Banks’s baby.”

Thunder cracked.

“Why didn’t you know this was Pounder’s place?” I asked.

“When dealing with authorities, Mr. Pounder prefers listing his city address. Legally, this farm is deeded to Mama,” Rinaldi said.

Another peal of thunder. A low wail from the porch.

“Tamela may have come here with Tyree, but that doesn’t mean she dealt dope or killed her baby.” My reasoning sounded weak, even to me.

In the yard, a door banged, banged again.

“Are you going to talk to Pounder?” I asked Slidell.

The hound-dog eyes settled on mine.

“I’m not a moron, Doc.”

Yes, you are, I thought.

At that moment, the storm broke.

Ryan, Boyd, and I sat on the porch until the squall played itself out. The wind flapped our clothes and blew warm rain across our faces. It felt wonderful.

Boyd was less enthused about the raw power of nature. He lay at my side, head thrust into the triangle of space below my crooked knees. It was a tactic on which Birdie often relied. If I can’t see you, you can’t see me. Ergo, I am safe.

By six the shower had dwindled to a slow, steady drizzle. Though Slidell, Rinaldi, and the CSU techs continued their search of the house, there was nothing more Ryan and I could do.

As a precaution, I trotted Boyd around every floor a couple of times. Nothing caught his interest.

I told Slidell we were taking off. He said he’d call me in the morning.

Happy day.

When I let Boyd into the backseat, he circled, curled with his chin on his hind paws, and gave a loud sigh.

Ryan and I got in.

“Hooch is probably not looking at a career as a narcotics dog.”

“No,” I agreed.

On his first circuit Boyd had sniffed the two bags of cocaine, wagged once, and continued prancing around the basement. On his second visit, he’d ignored them.

“But he’s a pistol with carrion.”

I reached back and Boyd licked my hand.

On the way home I swung by the MCME to pick up a laptop power cord I’d left behind. While I went inside, Boyd and Ryan played the chow’s single idea of a game: Ryan stood stationary in the parking lot and Boyd ran circles around him.

As I was leaving the building, Sheila Jansen swung in, got out of her car, and crossed to me.

“You’re here late,” I said.

“Got some news, so I came by on the chance I might catch you here.” She did not comment on my appearance. I did not offer.

Boyd abandoned Ryan and shot to Jansen to try the crotch schtick. The NTSB agent cut him off with a double-handed ear scratch. Ryan ambled over and I made introductions. Boyd began orbiting the three of us.

“Looks like the drug theory’s right on,” Jansen said. “When we rolled the Cessna, damned if the right front door hadn’t been fitted with another, smaller door inside.”

“I don’t understand.”

“A hole was cut in the right front door, then covered by a small flap hinged at the bottom to swing down inside the plane.”

“Like a one-way doggy door?”

“Exactly. The modification wouldn’t have been obvious to a casual observer.”

“Why?”

“To allow air drops.”

I pictured the two kilos of blow we’d just left behind.

“Of illegal drugs.”

“You’ve got it.”

“To a pickup crew waiting with a car on the ground.”

“Bingo.”

“Why go to all the trouble of modifying the plane? Why not simply open the door and shove the stuff out?”

“Stall speed for a C-210 is around sixty-four miles per hour. That’s the minimum they could fly at drop time. It’s tough to push something out at that speed. Think about holding open your car door while going down the highway at sixty-five.”

“Right.”

“Here’s the scenario I’m liking. The right front seat’s been removed for access to the modified door. The passenger is in back. The product is in the small cargo compartment behind the passenger. Are you picturing this?”

“Yes.”

“Pearce—”

She flicked her eyes to Ryan. I nodded. She turned to him. “That’s the pilot.”

Ryan nodded.

“Pearce is using the rock face as his landmark. He spots the cliff, gives the signal, the passenger unbuckles, reaches back, and starts shoving product from the plane.”

“Coke?” Ryan asked.

“Probably. You couldn’t get enough weed into a C-210 to make the run worth your while. Though I’ve seen it done.”

“Wouldn’t a fall from that height cause the packets of coke to explode?” I asked.

“That’s why they’re using parachutes.”

“Parachutes?”

“Small cargo chutes they could have purchased in a surplus store. The locals are checking that out. Anyway, the coke is bundled inside heavy plastic sheeting, padded with bubble wrap, and bound with enough duct tape to cover my aunt Lilly’s ass. Auntie was a big girl.”

“Sounds like my great-aunt Cornelia,” Ryan said. “Good eater.”

Jansen glanced at Ryan, turned back at me.

“Go on,” I said.

“Each bundle is attached to a chute with more duct tape and a cinch strap. The chute is wrapped around the bundle, and a twenty-foot polypropylene line is overwrapped around the chute to hold it tight around the bundle. You with me?”

“Yes.”

“Pearce gives the word. The pax secures the loose end of the line to something inside the aircraft, opens the doggy door, and shoves the bundle out. As the bundle tumbles, the rope unwraps, the chute is pulled free and deploys, and the snort drifts to earth, sweet as a songbird.”