Kathy Reichs - Bare Bones

“How’d they get into Pounder’s basement?”

“Good question.”

“Got a good answer?”

“These birds can go for a hundred thousand dollars.”

“You’re shitting me. Who’d pay a hundred grand for a bird?”

“People with more money than brains.”

“That legal?”

“Not if the bird is wild.”

“You’re thinking black market?”

“Could explain why the feathers were hidden with the coke.”

“Doesn’t Tweetie have to be chirping to bring the bucks?”

“It could have died in transport.”

“So the mope saves the feathers thinking they might be worth something.”

“And buries the carcass with the other animals he’s slaughtered.”

“The bear bones?”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“Thought you said they were garden-variety black bears.”

“I did.”

“That an endangered species?”

“No.”

A moment of empty air.

“Doesn’t hang,” Slidell said.

“Why so many bears?”

“Where’s the money?”

That had been Ryan’s question, too.

“I’m not sure, but I intend to find out.”

And I knew just whom I was going to ask.

19

FOR THE FIRST DAY IN ALMOST A WEEK, THERE WAS NO NEED TOgo to the MCME. I’d done what I could with the privy remains, the Cessna passenger, and the bears. Slidell could get the feathers personally if he needed them quickly.

Over grilled cheese sandwiches at Pike’s Soda Shop, Ryan and I discussed the wisdom of leaving for the beach. We decided it was better to hold off for a few days than to be yanked back to Charlotte.

We also discussed my suspicions concerning the illegal trade in wildlife. Ryan agreed my theory posed a possibility given the feathers found with the cocaine, and the large number of black bears buried at the farm. Neither he nor I had any idea how the bears figured in, nor what the link was among the farm, Tamela Banks and Darryl Tyree, the privy victim, and the Cessna’s owner, pilot, and passenger, though there was clearly a cocaine connection to Tyree.

After an hors d’oeuvre run to Dean & DeLuca’s at Phillips Place, we returned to the annex. While Ryan changed into running gear, I phoned Mrs. Flowers.

Wally Cagle, the forensic anthropologist who’d done the headless, handless skeleton from Lancaster County, had called. She gave me the number.

Next I checked my voice mail messages.

Katy.

Harry.

Harry’s son, Kit, warning that his mother would be calling.

Harry.

Harry.

Pierre LaManche, the chef de service for the medicolegal section at the crime lab in Montreal. An informant had led police to a woman buried seven years in a sandpit. The case was not urgent, but he wanted me to know that an anthropological analysis was required.

My arrangement with the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale was that I would rotate through the lab on a monthly basis, doing all cases for which my expertise had been requested, and that I would return immediately should a critical investigation, disaster, or subpoena demand my presence. I wondered if the sandpit case could wait until my planned return to Montreal at the end of the summer.

Two hang-ups.

Knowing the Harry-Kit-Harry-Harry sequence meant my sister and twenty-something nephew were arguing, I put that conversation off.

As I disconnected, man and his best friend entered the kitchen, Boyd trailing like a shark on a blood scent. Ryan wore running shorts, a sweatband, and a T that suggested PERFORM RANDOM ACTS OF KINDNESS AND SENSELESS BEAUTY.

“Nice shirt,” I said.

“Half the proceeds went toward saving the Karner Blue.”

“What’s a Karner Blue?”

“Butterfly.” Ryan unpegged the leash. The chow went berserk. “It’s in trouble and the salesperson was deeply concerned.”

Smiling, I waved the two off and dialed my daughter.

She requested hors d’ouevres for the evening’s soiree. I told her I had purchased stuffed mushrooms and cheese sticks.

She asked if I was bringing the French Foreign Legion. I told her I’d be accompanied.

I called Montreal. LaManche had departed the lab for an afternoon of administrative meetings. I left a message about my scheduled return date.

I hadn’t seen Harry since the family beach trip in early July. Knowing this would be a long one, I got a Diet Coke from the refrigerator and dialed my sister’s number.

The fight concerned my sister’s latest boyfriend, a massage therapist from Galveston. Thirty minutes later I understood the issue.

Kit didn’t like him. Harry did.

I was dialing Wally Cagle when a series of beeps indicated another caller was trying to reach me. I clicked over.

“Checked your e-mail, Dr. Brennan?” The voice was high and warbly, like an electronic doll’s.

Tiny hairs rose on the nape of my neck.

“Who is this?”

“I know where you are. I know all about you.”

Annoyance alternated with anger. And fear. I searched for a snappy response, found none, repeated myself.

“Who is this?”

“The face in the glass.”

My eyes flew to the window.

“The dust bunny under your bed.” Singsong. “The beastie in the closet.”

Unconsciously, I drifted to the wall and pressed my back to it.

“Welcome.” The child-voice mimicked AOL. “You’ve got mail.”

The line went dead.

I stood rigid, clutching the phone.

This case? Some other case? A random nut?

I jumped when the ringer sounded in my hand. The caller-ID window indicated a private number.

My finger sought the “connect” button. Slowly, I raised the receiver to my ear.

“Hello?” A man’s voice.

I waited, breath still frozen in my throat.

“Ye-ho? Someone there?”

High-pitched Boston accent.

Walter Cagle.

Slow exhale.

“Hey, Wally.”

“That you, Tempe?”

“It’s me.”

“You all right, princess?” Wally called most women he liked. “princess.” Some were offended. Some weren’t. I saved my ire for bigger issues.

“I’m fine.”

“You sound edgy.”

“I’ve just had an odd call.”

“Not bad news, I hope.”

“Probably just a crank.” Dear God, what if it wasn’t?

“Guy wanted to see you in hip waders and a Dale Evans bra?”

“Something like that.”

A tap at the window. My eyes whipped back up.

A chickadee was perched on the bird feeder. As it dipped for seed, the feeder rocked gently against the glass.

I closed my eyes and steadied my voice.

“Listen, I’m glad you called. Did Detective Slidell fill you in on what’s going on?”

“He said you needed information on an old case.”

“A partial skeleton, found near Lancaster about three years back.”

“I remember it. No skull. No hand bones. Coroner should have my report on file.”

“That coroner is dead. The current coroner has nothing but the original police report, which is useless.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.” Deep sigh. “Guy struck me as one notch above simpleminded. A teensy notch.”

“Do you mind discussing your findings?”

“Of course not, princess. Case went nowhere, as I recall.”

“We think we may have found the head and hands up here in Mecklenburg County.”

“No kidding.”

The line was silent a moment. I could picture Wally crossing his legs, kicking one foot, composing his thoughts.

“I’m down in Beaufort, but I called my lab, had a graduate student read me the highlights from my report. It was a complete skeleton lacking the head, mandible, first three cervical vertebrae, and all hand bones.”

Pause.

“Well preserved, devoid of soft tissue and odor, some bleaching. Extensive animal damage. Time since death at least one year, probably longer.”