Bones Never Lie (Temperance Brennan, #17)(16)

“Tomorrow.”

“Good. I want this bitch in bracelets before she drops another kid.”

After disconnecting, I rewound my conversation with Ryan. Felt anger and resentment at his refusal to help. Then I thought beyond tonight back into the past.

Ryan was one of the good ones. He’d had a few rough years, made a few false starts. But since his rocky youth, he’d done everything right. Played it straight as a cop. Tried hard as a father.

Sure, his loss was unthinkable. But the time for wallowing was over.

I had an idea. Was it callous?

Nope. Enough self-pity.

Decision made, I dug out my Mac, logged on, and went to the US Airways site. When finished, I sat a moment, attempting to calm my frazzled nerves.

Outside, late-night swimmers splashed in the pool. High in the palms, a howler monkey grunt-barked an end-of-day message. Another answered. A small creature, perhaps a gecko, skittered across my window screen.

My thoughts turned to a river cabin shaded by trees soft with moss.

On a whim, I dialed Mama. Got voicemail. I left a rambling message about Samara and fresh seafood and beaches and meeting with Ryan. Said good night. Told her I loved her.

In the moments before sleep came, memories of Ryan again bombarded my mind. His body shielding mine during a biker shoot-out in a Montreal cemetery. Stretched out on a beach in Honolulu. Lying beside me in a hammock in Guatemala.

I dreamed about a cellar beside a rail yard covered in snow.





CHAPTER 7


BY SIX, I was chugging along the beach road again.

The sky was thinning from black to gray. The ocean had calmed overnight. Its surface was rippling yellow-pink in a triangle announcing the return of el sol.

A few vendors were already setting out their wares. Gulls were throwing a party out on the beach. The occasional car or motorcycle passed, now and then a battered pickup. Mostly, I had the pavement to myself.

Ryan was downstairs in one of the blue kitchen chairs, dressed in the same T-shirt and shorts he’d worn the night before. He glanced up when I opened the screen door, then continued spooning Cheerios into his mouth. His face registered nothing.

“Why Costa Rica?” I asked.

“Birds.”

“Over eight hundred species,” I said.

“Eight hundred and ninety-four.”

“Charlie would feel right at home.” I was referring to the pet cockatiel we shared.

“Charlie’s peeps come from down under. Hungry?”

As I settled into the other chair, Ryan retrieved a bowl and spoon from the counter behind us. His face was sallow and baggy-eyed. His sweat smelled of booze. I wondered if he’d finished the entire bottle of Scotch.

I poured myself cereal. Added milk, tamping the urge to check the expiration date.

“There are half a million animal species in this country.” Ryan spoke without looking at me.

“Three hundred thousand of those are insects.”

“Bugs gotta live.”

“What’s your plan?”

“Find every one.”

“How’s that going?”

“Place has something else in its favor.”

I floated a brow. Focused on his O’s, Ryan missed it.

“Thousands of miles between here and Quebec.”

“That’s it? Distance and fauna?”

“Booze is cheap.” Ryan pointed his spoon at me. “And Cheerios can be had by the savvy consumer.”

“This isn’t you, Ryan.”

He feigned looking over his shoulder. “Who is it?”

“I can’t imagine losing a child, and I don’t presume to understand your pain. But wallowing in self-pity, numbing yourself with alcohol, turning your back on life? That’s not you.”

“I thought about keeping a journal.” Spoken with a full mouth. “Like Darwin in the Galápagos.”

“What happened?”

“Can’t draw.”

“I mean what happened to you.”

Ryan’s spoon rattled as it hit the empty bowl. He snagged a pack of cigarettes from the table, tapped one out, drew matches from the cellophane, and lit up. One drag, then his eyes finally met mine. “You found me. Let’s hoist you on our shoulders and march you around the room.”

“Grow a pair, Ryan. Come with me. Do what you do. What we’ve done together for almost two decades. We catch the bad guys. We take freaks like Pomerleau off the streets.”

“Go back and tell your buddies I’m not the guy you need.”

I accessed the flight itinerary and slid my iPhone to him. Ryan studied the screen. “Who paid for this?”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“No way the CMPD’s footing the bill to fly me stateside.”

“Do you have your passport?”

Ryan drew smoke deep into his lungs, exhaled through his nose.

“They want you there,” I said.

“Hope for your sake the fare is refundable.”

“I got a call last night. Skinny Slidell.”

Ryan knew Slidell from a case we’d all worked together years earlier in Charlotte. He said nothing.

“The lab lifted DNA from Lizzie Nance’s clothing.”

Ryan questioned me with bloodshot eyes.