Kathy Reichs - Bare Bones

“Come on.” I uncoiled the leash.

Realizing it was not a trap, and that a walk was actually afoot, Boyd raced around the sofa, ran back to me and jumped up with his forepaws on my chest, dropped, spun, jumped up again, and began lapping my cheek.

“Don’t push it,” I said, clipping the leash to his collar.

A fine mist floated among the trees and shrubs at Sharon Hall. Though I felt reassured by the presence of a seventy-pound chow, I was still filled with a formless apprehension as we moved about the grounds, kept watching for a flash, or the flicker of light on a camera lens.

Four squirrels and twenty minutes later, Boyd and I were back at the annex. Ryan was at the kitchen table, full mug of coffee and unopened Observer in front of him. He smiled when we entered, but I saw something in his eyes, like the shadow of a cloud passing over waves.

Boyd trotted to the table, placed his chin on Ryan’s knee, and looked up with the expectation of bacon. Ryan patted his head.

I poured myself coffee and joined them.

“Hey,” I said.

Ryan leaned forward and kissed me on the mouth.

“Hey.” Taking both my hands, he looked into my eyes. It was not a happy look.

“What’s happened?” I asked, fear pricking my stomach.

“My sister called.”

I waited.

“My niece has been hospitalized.”

“I’m so sorry.” I squeezed his hands. “An accident?”

“No.” Ryan’s jaw muscles bulged. “Danielle did it on purpose.”

I could think of nothing to say.

“My sister is pretty fragmented. Crises are not her forte.”

Ryan’s Adam’s apple rose and fell.

“Motherhood is not her forte.”

Though curious to know what had happened, I didn’t push. Ryan would tell the story in his own way.

“Danielle’s had problems with substance abuse in the past, but she’s never done anything like this.”

Boyd licked Ryan’s pants leg. The refrigerator hummed on.

“Why the hell—” Shaking his head, Ryan let the question die on the air.

“Your niece may be crying out for attention.” The words sounded clichéd as I said them. Spoken solace is not my forte.

“That poor kid doesn’t know what attention is.”

Boyd nudged Ryan’s knee. Ryan did not respond.

“When is your flight?” I asked.

Ryan blew air through his lips and slumped back in his chair.

“I’m not going anywhere while some brain-fried psycho’s got you in his viewfinder.”

“You have to go.” I couldn’t bear the thought of his leaving, but wouldn’t let on.

“No way.”

“I’m a big girl.”

“It wouldn’t feel right.”

“Your niece and sister need you.”

“And you don’t?”

“I’ve outwitted the bad guys before.”

“You’re saying you don’t need me around?”

“No, handsome. I don’t need you around.” I reached out and stroked his cheek. His hand rose and made a strange, faltering movement. “I want you around. But that’s my problem. Right now your family needs you.”

Ryan’s whole body radiated tension.

I looked at my watch. Seven thirty-five.

God, why now? As I picked up the phone to dial US Airways, I realized how very much I wanted him to stay.

Ryan’s flight departed at nine-twenty. Boyd looked deeply wounded as we left him at the annex.

From the airport, I went directly to the MCME. No fax had arrived from Cagle. Settling in my office, I looked up the number, and phoned the FWS field office in Raleigh.

A female voice informed me that the resident agent in charge was Hershey Zamzow.

Zamzow came on after a brief hold.

I explained who I was.

“No need for introductions, Doc. I know who you are. Hot down there as it is up here?”

“Yes, sir.”

The temperature at nine had been eighty-two.

“What can I do for you this fine summer morning?”

I told him about the Spix’s feathers, and asked if there was any local black market trade in exotic birds.

“A huge amount of wildlife flows through the Southeast from the Southern Hemisphere. Snakes, lizards, birds. You name it. If a species is rare, some pissant with mush for brains will want it. Hell, the Southeast is one big poachers’ paradise.”

“How are live animals smuggled into the country?”

“All sorts of clever ways. They’re drugged and stuffed into poster tubes. They’re hidden inside elasticized vests.” Zamzow didn’t try to conceal his disgust. “And the mortality rate is astronomical. Think about it. You taken a flight lately that ran on time? How clever do you think these cretins are at calculating the amount of oxygen in a concealed storage space?

“But getting back to your feathers, birds are a popular sideline for South American cocaine smugglers. Guy scores a few parrots from the village poacher, runs them up to the States with his next shipment of blow. Birds live, he turns a nice profit. Birds die, he’s out beer money for the week.”

“What about bears?” I asked.

“ Ursus americanus. No need for smuggling. Got black bears right here in the Carolinas. Handful of young bears are trapped each year for ‘bear baiting’—that’s bear fighting for the unenlightened. Genteel entertainment for the red of neck. Used to be a market for live bears, but with zoo populations skyrocketing, that’s pretty much dried up.”

“Are there a lot of bears in North Carolina?”

“Not as many as there ought to be.”

“Why is that?”

“Habitat destruction and poaching.”

“There’s a season when bears are hunted legally?”

“Yes, ma’am. Varies by county, but mostly in the fall and early winter. Some South Carolina counties distinguish between hunting stationary and hunting with dogs.”

“Tell me about the poaching.”

“My favorite topic.” His voice sounded bitter. “Illegal killing of black bears was made a misdemeanor by the Lacy Act in 1901, a felony in 1981. But that doesn’t stop the poachers. In season, hunters take the whole bear, use the meat and fur. Out of season, poachers take the parts they want and leave the carcasses to rot.”

“Where does most bear poaching take place?”

“Ten, twenty years ago it was pretty much restricted to the mountains. Nowadays coastal animals are getting hit just as hard. But it’s not just a Carolina problem. There are less than half a million bears left in North America. Every year hundreds of carcasses turn up intact except for the paws and gallbladders.”

“Gallbladders?” I couldn’t mask my shock.

“Hell of a black market. In traditional Asian medicine, bear gall ranks right up there with rhino horn, ginseng, and deer musk. Bear bile is thought to cure fever, convulsions, swelling, eye pain, heart disease, hangover, you name it. And the meat ain’t chopped liver, either. Some Asian cultures view bear paw soup as a real delicacy. A bowl can sell for as much as fifteen hundred bucks in certain restaurants. Off the menu, of course.”

“What are the main markets for bear galls?”

“South Korea ranks number one, since the native supply is nonexistent. Hong Kong, China, and Japan aren’t far behind.”

I took a moment to digest all that.

“And bear hunting is legal in season in North Carolina?”

“As in many states, yes. But selling animal body parts, including gallbladders, heads, hides, claws, and teeth, is illegal. Few years back, Congress considered legislation aimed at halting the trade in bear organs. Didn’t pass.”

Before I could comment, he went on.

“Look at Virginia. State has about four thousand bears. Officials estimate six hundred to nine hundred are killed legally every year, but have no numbers as to how many are poached. Busted a ring up there not long ago, seized about three hundred gallbladders and arrested twenty-five people.”