Kathy Reichs - Bare Bones

I checked the pantry.

Spices. SpaghettiOs. Kraft dinner. Campbell’s soup. Olive oil. Balsamic vinegar. Six boxes of linguine.

“How close is the nearest store?”

“Five minutes.”

Lija turned, poultry in hand.

“Do you have garlic?” I asked.

Two nods.

“Parsley?”

Nods.

“We’ve got a primo salad in the refrigerator.” Lija smiled tremulously.

I sent Katy for canned clams and frozen garlic bread.

While my daughter raced to the market, Lija served appetizers, and I boiled water and chopped. When Katy returned, I browned garlic in the olive oil, added fresh parsley, the clams, and oregano, and let the sauce simmer while the pasta cooked.

Thirty minutes later Katy and Lija were fielding compliments on their linguine vognole.

Nothing. Really. Family recipe.

Throughout the meal Palmer Cousins seemed distracted, contributing little to the conversation. Each time I turned toward him, his eyes flicked sideways.

Was it my imagination, or was I being evaluated? As a conversationalist? A potential mother-in-law? A person?

Was I being paranoid?

When Katy urged us to the living room for coffee, I settled on the couch next to Cousins.

“How are things at the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service?” Cousins and I had talked briefly about his job while at the McCranies’ picnic. Tonight I intended to probe deeper.

“Not too bad,” Cousins replied. “Hookin’ ’em and bookin’ ’em in the fight for wildlife.”

“As I recall, you told me you’re stationed in Columbia?”

“Good memory.” Cousins pointed a finger at me.

“Is it a large operation?”

“I’m pretty much it.” Self-deprecating smile.

“Does the FWS have many field offices in the Carolinas?”

“Washington, Raleigh, and Asheville in North Carolina, Columbia and Charleston in South Carolina. The RAC in Raleigh oversees everything.”

“Resident agent in charge?”

Cousins nodded.

“Raleigh is the only operation that isn’t one-man.” Boyish grin. “Or one-woman. The forensics lab is also up there.”

“Didn’t know we had one.”

“The Rollins Diagnostic Laboratory. It’s associated with the Department of Agriculture.”

“Isn’t there a national fish and wildlife lab?”

“Clark Bavin, out in Ashland, Oregon. It’s the only forensics lab on the planet dedicated exclusively to wildlife. They do cases from all over the world.”

“How many agents does the FWS have?”

“At full staff, two hundred and forty, but with cutbacks the number’s down to a couple hundred and dropping.”

“How long have you been an agent?”

Ryan was stacking dishes at the table behind us. I could tell he was listening.

“Six years. Spent the first couple in Tennessee following my training.”

“Do you prefer Columbia?”

“It’s closer to Charlotte.” Cousins gave my daughter a little finger wave.

“Would you mind talking shop a minute?”

The perfect eyebrows rose ever so slightly.

“Not at all.”

“I’m aware illegal wildlife is big business. How big?”

“I’ve read estimates of ten to twenty billion dollars a year. That’s third only to the illegal trade in drugs and arms.”

I was stunned.

Ryan settled into a chair on the far side of the steamer-trunk coffee table.

“Is there much black market trade in exotic birds?” I asked.

“I suppose. If something is rare, people will buy it.” Despite the practiced nonchalance, Cousins looked uncomfortable. “But as far as I’m concerned, the biggest problem right now is overexploitation.”

“Of?”

“Sea turtles are a good example. U.S. turtles are sold by the tons overseas. The other big problem comes from the bush-meat market.”

“Bush meat?”

“Giant cane rats and duikers from Africa. Lizards-on-a-stick from Asia. Those are reptiles that are slit along the belly and spread like big lollipops. Smoked pygmy lorises, roasted pangolin scales.”

Cousins must have interpreted the revulsion on my face as confusion.

“The pangolin is also called the scaly anteater. The scales are sold as a cure for syphilis.”

“People import these things for medicinal use?” Ryan asked.

“Could be anything. Take the turtles. Sea turtle shells are used for jewelry, the meat and eggs go to restaurants and bakeries, whole cara-paces are used as wall mounts.”

“What about bears?” I asked.

Cousins’s chin tilted up a fraction of an inch.

“Don’t know much about bears.”

“The Carolinas have large populations, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Is poaching a problem?” Ryan asked.

Silken shrug. “Wouldn’t think so.”

“Has the service ever investigated that?” I asked.

“Beats me.”

Lija’s boyfriend joined us and posed a question about the merits of man-to-man versus zone defense. Cousins’s attention veered to that conversation.

So much for bear poaching.

On the way home I solicited Ryan’s reaction to Cousins’s comments.

“Odd that a wildlife agent in the Carolinas would know nothing about bears.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“You don’t like the guy, do you?” Ryan asked.

“I never said I didn’t like him.”

No reply.

“Is it that obvious?” I asked after a few moments.

“I’m learning to read you.”

“It isn’t that I don’t like him,” I said defensively. What then? “It’s that I don’t like not knowing if I don’t like him.”

Ryan opted not to touch that.

“He makes me uneasy,” I added.

As we arrived at the annex, Ryan made another unsettling observation.

“Maybe your uneasiness isn’t totally off base, Mom.”

I shot Ryan a look that was wasted in the dark.

“You told me Boyd made his big score during that cigar store picnic.”

“Katy was thrilled.”

“That’s where you first met Cousins.”

“Yes.”

“He saw Boyd’s find.”

“Yes.”

“That means at least one more person was at least partially privy to the situation at the Foote farm. No pun intended.”

Again my heart went into free fall.

“Palmer Cousins.”

21

THE EASTERN HORIZON STARTS OOZING GRAY AROUND FIVE-THIRTYin August in Piedmont North Carolina. By six the sun is heading uphill.

I awoke at first ooze, watched dawn define the objects on my dresser, nightstand, chair, and walls.

Ryan was sprawled on his stomach beside me. Birdie lay curled in the crook of my knees.

I lasted in bed until half past six.

Birdie blinked when I slipped from under the covers. He stood and arched as I collected my panties from the lampshade. I heard paws thump carpet as I tiptoed from the room.

The refrigerator hummed to me while I made coffee. Outside, birds exchanged the morning’s avian gossip.

Moving as quietly as possible, I poured and drank a glass of orange juice, then collected Boyd’s leash and went to the study.

The chow was stretched full length on the sofa, left foreleg upright against the seat back, right extended across his head.

Boyd the Protector.

“Boyd,” I whispered.

The dog went from flat on his side to four on the floor without seeming to move through any intermediary stage.

“Here, boy.”

No eye contact.

“Boyd.”

The chow rolled his eyes up at me but didn’t budge.

“Walk?”

Boyd held steady, a picture of skepticism.

I dangled the leash.

No go.

“I’m not upset about the couch.”

Boyd dropped his head, looked up, and did a demi-twirl with each eyebrow.

“Really.”

Boyd’s ears pricked forward and his head canted.