Kathy Reichs - Bare Bones

“Let me guess. You want me to take Boyd.”

“Just until Dad gets back.”

“I’m leaving for the beach on Monday.”

“You’re going to Anne’s place on Sullivan’s Island, right?”

“Yes.” Wary.

“Boyd loves the beach.”

“Boyd would love Auschwitz if they fed him.”

“Anne wouldn’t mind if you took him with you. And he’ll keep you company so you won’t be all alone.”

“Boyd isn’t welcome at the town house?”

“It isn’t that he’s unwelcome. Lija’s landlor—”

From somewhere deep in the woods I heard Boyd’s frantic barking.

Seconds later, the barking was joined by a blood-chilling scream.

Then another.

4

I BOLTED FROM MY CHAIR, HEART THUDDING IN MY CHEST.

The picnickers around me appeared as on split screen. Those on the house side of the bluegrass quartet continued their milling and chatting and eating, oblivious to whatever calamity might be unfolding in the woods. Those on the barn side formed a frozen tableau, mouths open, heads turned in the direction of the terrible sounds.

I raced toward the screams, weaving among lawn chairs and blankets and people. I could hear Katy and others close on my heels.

Boyd had never harmed a child, had never so much as growled at one. But it was hot. He was excited. Had some kid provoked or confused him? Had the dog suddenly turned?

Sweet Jesus.

My mind scanned images of mauling victims. I saw gaping slashes, severed scalps. Fear shot through me.

Rounding the barn, I spotted a break in the trees and veered off on a trickling dirt path. Branches and leaves tugged my hair and scratched the skin on my arms and legs.

The screams grew shriller, more strident. The spaces between disappeared and the cries blended together in a crescendo of fear and panic.

I ran on.

Suddenly, the shrieking stopped. The sound vacuum was more chilling than the shrieks.

Boyd’s barking continued, frenzied and unrelenting.

The sweat went cold on my face.

Moments later I spotted three kids huddled behind an enormous hedge. Through a gap in the foliage I could see that the two girls were clutching each other. The boy had a hand on Bible Girl’s shoulder.

The boy and the younger girl were staring at Boyd, expressions of fascination/repulsion distorting their features. Bible Girl had her eyes shut, clenched fists pressed to the lids. Every now and then her chest gave an involuntary heave.

Boyd was with them on the far side of the hedge, lunging forward then backpedaling, snapping at something a yard from the base of the growth. Every few seconds he’d point his nose skyward and let loose with a series of high-pitched barks. His hackles were engaged, giving him the look of an auburn wolf.

“You kids all right?” I gasped, pushing through the gap in the hedge.

Three solemn nods.

Katy and Palmer and one of the McCranie sons raced up behind me.

“Anyone hurt?” Katy panted.

Three head shakes. A tiny sob.

Bible Girl ran to McCranie, wrapped her arms around his waist, and collapsed against him. He began stroking the crooked part between her ponytails.

“It’s OK, Sarah. You’re fine.”

McCranie looked up.

“My daughter’s a little high-strung.”

I shifted my attention to the chow.

And knew immediately what was happening.

“Boyd!”

Boyd whipped around. Seeing Katy and me, he loped forward, nudged my hand, then darted back to the hedge and reengaged.

“Stop!” I shouted, bending to relieve the stitch in my side.

When unconvinced of the wisdom of an order directed at him, Boyd rotates the long hairs that serve as his eyebrows. It’s his way of asking “Are you crazy?”

Boyd turned and did that now.

“Boyd, sit!”

Boyd spun and resumed barking.

Sarah McCranie’s arms tightened around her father. Her playmates watched me with saucer eyes.

I repeated my command.

Boyd twisted his head and did the eyebrow thing, this time with feeling: Are you frigging nuts?

“Boyd!” Keeping my left hand on my thigh, I leveled my right index finger at his snout.

Boyd canted his head, blew air out his nose, and sat.

“What’s wrong with him?” Katy was panting as hard as I was.

“Dork Brain probably thinks he’s discovered the lost colony from Roanoke.”

Boyd turned back to the hedge, flattened his ears, and drew a long, low growl from deep in his chest.

“What?”

Ignoring my daughter’s question, I picked my way through roots and undergrowth. When I drew close, Boyd shot to his feet and looked at me expectantly.

“Sit.”

Boyd sat.

I squatted beside him.

Boyd rocketed up, tail rigid and trembling.

My heart sank.

Boyd’s find was much larger than I’d expected. His last hit had been a squirrel, dead perhaps two or three days.

I looked at the chow. He returned my gaze, the large amount of white visible in each eye an indication of his agitation.

Refocusing on the mound at my feet, I began to share his apprehension. I picked up a stick and poked at the center. Plastic popped, then a stench like rotting meat rose from the leaves. Flies buzzed and darted, bodies iridescent in the sticky air.

Boyd, the self-taught cadaver dog, strikes again.

“Shit.”

“What?”

I heard rustling as Katy worked her way toward the chow and me.

“What did he find?” My daughter squatted beside me, then bounced to her feet as though tied to a bungee. A hand flew to her mouth. Boyd danced around her legs.

“What the hell is it?”

Palmer joined us.

“Something’s dead.” After that masterful observation Palmer squeezed his nostrils with a thumb and forefinger. “Human?”

“I’m not sure.” I pointed to semi-fleshed digits projecting from a tear Boyd had made in the plastic. “That’s definitely not a dog or deer.”

I probed the dimensions of the half-buried bag. “Not many other animals are this big.”

I scraped back dirt and leaves and examined the soil below.

“No evidence of fur.”

Boyd moved in for a sniff. I elbowed him back.

“Holy crap, Mom. Not at a picnic.”

“I didn’t will this here.” I flapped a hand at Boyd’s find.

“Are you going to have to do the whole ME bit?”

“This may be nothing. But on the outside chance it’s something, the remains have to be recovered properly.”

Katy groaned.

“Look, I don’t like this any more than you do. I’m supposed to leave for the beach on Monday.”

“This is so embarrassing. Why can’t you be like other mothers? Why can’t you just”—she looked at Palmer, then back to me—“bake cookies?”

“I prefer Fig Newtons,” I snapped, rising to my feet. “Might be best to take the kids back,” I said to Sarah’s father.

“No!” the boy yelped. “It’s a dead guy, right? We want to see you dig up the DOA.” His face was flushed and glossy with perspiration. “We want to know who you like for the hit.”

“Yeah!” The younger girl looked like Shirley Temple in pink denim coveralls. “We want to see the DOA!”

Inwardly cursing TV crime shows, I chose my words carefully.

“It would be most useful to the case if you’d collect your thoughts, talk over your observations, and then give a statement. Could you do that?”

The two looked at each other, eyes grown from saucers to platters.

“Yeah,” said Shirley Temple, clapping chubby hands. “We’ll give cool statements.”