A Conspiracy of Bones (Temperance Brennan #19)(56)

No go. I kept digging, oblivious to the heat and carnivorous insects. To my surroundings.

Finally, a corner yielded. I tugged gently. Millimeter by millimeter, the sticky tape lifted, taking with it a fold-over flap that covered the pouch’s upper border. I shone my light into the interior.

Two incisors and two molars lay along the bottom seam. The small size of the former and the bulbous cusps and slender, divergent roots of the latter told me the teeth had belonged to a child.

I stared, stunned that I’d found even more potentially incriminating material. Had I literally just stumbled across the very proof I needed to obtain a warrant? When does that ever happen?

I wanted to grab the pouch and rush to my car. Instead, I forced myself calm and ran a mental checklist of proper protocol.

Leaving the evidence in situ would be best but far too risky. I’d take the pouch with me. Before removal from the scene, I’d document its provenience. First with establishing shots—the bunker, the clearing, the incinerator. Then the pouch positioned to allow a close-up peek at the contents.

I glanced at my screen. The battery icon was alarmingly short and red. The digits said 3:20.

Hoping enough juice remained, I tapped the camera app and backtracked a few yards into the clearing. I was focusing the final shot when an elongated shadow swept across the frame. Human but distorted. Irrationally, my mind popped an image of the looming Easter Island statues.

I whirled. Saw nothing.

Had I imagined it?

My eyes swept a one-eighty across the trees, the gravelly brush, the fallen-down shed, the incinerator, the debris.

Damn!

I rushed forward, desperate to be wrong. I wasn’t.

Disbelieving, I stared at the spot where I’d placed the folder. At the spot where I’d left the pouch. Neither was there.

I’d heard no car engine, no footsteps, no movement at all. How was it possible?

And who the hell would take them?

And why?

Mental cringe at the reaming I’d get from Slidell.

After a fruitless ten minutes searching the area, I aimed my phone for one final shot. It was dead.

Outta here.

I’d just passed through the gate when something hard whacked the back of my skull. I started to pivot, but a kick struck the small of my back. I fell. My phone dropped and slid across the gravel. A second kick struck my side, fast and vicious. Pain exploded in my ribs.

Gasping, taste of dirt in my mouth, vision afloat with black dots, I rolled to my back and looked up. A figure stood above me, a dark silhouette backlit by shafts of coppery orange sun. The silhouette was slender, about my height, a long, thin implement in its hands, a baseball cap on its head. I couldn’t tell the gender of the wearer.

I struggled to rise. A foot mashed down on my chest.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” The voice sounded wobbly, like wind passing through fan blades. That same tiny chime in my hindbrain. Had I heard it before?

Too freaked to be cautious, or disoriented by the blows, I snapped back, “Who the hell’s asking?”

“None of your goddamn business.” Slurry at the edges. Was the guy drunk? High?

“I’m here officially,” I panted.

“You’re a fucking liar.”

Without thinking, I grabbed the ankle and wrenched sideways. Thrown off balance, Ball Cap hopped backward, arms pinwheeling. I scrambled to my feet and socked him with an elbow to the temple. He collapsed and lay still.

My eyes roved wildly. Saw no one else near.

Ball Cap lay facedown, features hidden from view. I noted cowboy boots, tan with a green floral overlay and turquoise studs, a maroon tee, maybe Gamecocks, faded jeans. A heavy-duty Maglite lay by the guy’s right elbow.

No file. No place it could be hidden on his person.

Shit on a stick!

The tee had ridden up, exposing a strip of pale freckled skin. Vertebrae sharp as oyster shells. Bulges in both back pockets.

The pouch?

Frisk the bastard?

I felt fire in my ribs, a lump rising on my occipital.

Oh, yeah.

I inched close, snatched up the flash, and, alert to the faintest sign of returning consciousness, leaned down and dug the contents from the right jeans pocket. Three keys, one for a Chevy, two probably for doors. The left pocket produced a faux-leather coin purse.

Still no moaning, no movement.

I pulled the purse’s zipper tab. Inside was an impressive wad of cash, which I left in place. Folded around the bills, a note, which I opened.

You find this, you want to live, phone the number below. Now.

I’m not fucking around.

H. Kimrey



The number had a 704 area code.

My impulse was to kick H. Kimrey in the nuts. To wake him and demand the folder and the pouch.

A more rational voice overrode the fury.

I stood a moment, watching the skinny chest rise and fall. The punk was breathing. Wary, I squatted to place a fingertip to his neck. Felt a pulsing carotid. Smelled boozy sweat.

Tossing down the Maglite, the keys, and the purse with its cash, I scooped up my mobile and stuffed the note in my pocket. A quick scurry-and-dart search of the surrounding trees and brush, then I dashed for my car.





20


En route home, I charged my iPhone and dialed Slidell. After explaining my day, and the attack by H. Kimrey, I suggested he call Sheriff Poston. Skinny’s rhetoric was all I’d imagined.