206 BONES by Kathy Reichs Page B

anxiety.
     
“And amphibians,” I said.
     
Ryan looked at me.
     
“The sign depicts herpetofauna. That includes amphibians.” It was way too early for a biology lesson.
     
“What’s the difference?”
     
“Amniotic egg.”
     
“I prefer scrambled.”
     
“Reptiles can reproduce out of water.”
     
“Breakthrough moment. When did it happen?”
     
“Over three hundred million years ago.”
     
“You’d think they’d be traffic savvy by now.”
     
I chose not to answer.
     
We were traveling a narrow road piled on both sides with snowplow off-load. Trees rose around us like tall, naked sentinels.
     
The downward gradient increased as we moved toward the river. Soon I spotted the shore. Lining it was the usual cluster of vehicles: a second police cruiser, a black transport van, a blue crime scene recovery truck.
     
A uniformed SQ officer waved us to a stop. Her name tag read Naveau. Again, the warm welcome of law and order.
     
We identified ourselves. Naveau told Ryan to park at the back of a rustic wooden structure that was probably a warming hut for cross-country skiers.
     
Ryan did as directed, then we both tugged on hats and got out of the Jeep. The sun was higher now, casting smudgy-edged shadows from tree trunks and branches. The air was so cold it felt crystalline.
     
Good news. A plastic tent had been erected over what I assumed was the spot that had interested the cadaver dog, Étoile. Freshly shoveled snow lay mounded to one side.
     
I recognized the setup from an exhumation I’d done years earlier on an Innu reserve near the town of Sept-Îsles. On that occasion the temperature had peaked at minus 34 Celsius. I knew that inside the tent a portable heater was pumping air through corrugated piping, warming the interior and melting the ground.
     
Four men stood outside the tent. Two wore coveralls and jackets stamped with the same logo as the crime scene truck. Service de l’identité judiciaire. Division des scčnes de crime .
     
One wore a black Kanuk parka not unlike my own sky blue one. In the thickly padded anorak, Joe Bonnet, my new lab tech, looked like a marsh-mallowon a stick. Mercifully, Joe’s head was covered by a tuque. He thought the gel-spiked platinum hair looked punk. I thought it looked goofy, especially on a guy waving bye-bye to his thirties. But I never said so.
     
Joe was competent at his job but fragile. And needy. It wasn’t enough to refrain from censure or criticism. With Joe, you had to constantly praise and reassure. I suck at warm fuzzies. Most people know and accept that about me. Joe wasn’t getting it.
     
Needless to say, there had been blow-ups and pout-outs. His, not mine. Even under cease-fire, Joe and I were like stranger pets thrown together at Grandma’s house. Always edgy, always sniffing the mood of the other.
     
Partly my fault. Two years, and I was still bummed by the loss of my longtime assistant, Denis. What’s this retirement thing, anyway?
     
The fourth man wore an overcoat that barely buttoned across his ample midsection. Jean-Claude Hubert, chief coroner of the Province of Quebec.
     
Hubert waddled in our direction. His face was very flushed and very chapped.
     
“Detective Ryan. Dr. Brennan.” Hubert’s accent was upriver, perhaps Quebec City. “Thanks for coming out so early.”
     
“What’s the story?” I had the basics but wanted Hubert’s version.
     
“Jailhouse canary’s singing about a woman missing two years.”
     
“Florian Grellier,” Ryan said.
     
Hubert nodded. Three chins rippled above his muffler. “The victim was Christelle Villejoin. Grellier says she was murdered and buried out here.”
     
“Murdered by whom?” Ryan asked.
     
“Claims he doesn’t know.”
     
“How’d Monsieur Grellier happen upon this information?”
     
“Says he met some guy in a bar. Swears he never got the guy’s name, hasn’t seen him since the night they banged shots together.”
     
“When was that?” Ryan.
     
“Sometime last summer. Grellier’s a bit hazy on