Bare Bones by Kathy Reichs

high ceiling and clear sky, I pictured Harvey Pearce and wondered why the man had augered into a visible rock face on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

    I pictured the macabre black residue coating Pearce and his passenger, and wondered again what that substance could be.

    I also wondered about the passenger’s parentage. And about his odd nasal lesion.

    “What are you thinking?” Ryan pushed Boyd’s snout from his ear.

    Boyd shot to the window behind me.

    “I thought men hated to be asked that question.”

    “I’m not like other guys.”

    “Real y.” I cocked an eyebrow.

    “I know the names of at least eight colors.”

    “And?”

    “I don’t kil my own meat.”

    “Hmm.”

    “Thinking about last night?” Ryan flashed his eyebrows. I think he was picking the schtick up from Boyd.

    “Something happen last night?” I asked.

    “Or tonight?” Ryan gave me the have-I-ever-got-something-in-mind-for-you look.

    Yes! I thought.

    “I was thinking about the Cessna crash,” I said.

    “What troubles you, buttercup?”

    “The passenger was in back.”

    “Why was that? No upgrades?”

    “There was no right front seat. He flew forward on impact. Why wasn’t he buckled in?”

    “Didn’t want to wrinkle his leisure suit?”

    I ignored that.

    “And where was the right front seat?”

    “Blasted out on impact?”

    “I didn’t see it among the wreckage.” I spotted the turnoff and made a left. “Neither Jansen nor Gul et mentioned one.”

    “Gul et?”

    “Davidson PD. The local cop on the scene.”

    “Could the seat have been removed for repairs?”

    “I suppose that’s a possibility. The plane wasn’t new.”

    I described the black gunk. Ryan thought a moment.

    “Don’t you people cal yourselves tarheels?”

    For the rest of the trip I listened only to Public Radio.

    When I pul ed up at the farm adjoining McCranies’, vehicles clogged one side of the road. This time the assemblage included Tim Larabee’s Land Rover, a police cruiser, the CMPD crime scene truck, and the MCME transport van.

    Two kids watched from the opposite shoulder, spindly legs hanging from cutoff jeans, fishing gear strapped to their bikes. Not bad as far as gawkers go.
    But it was stil early, just past eight. Others would arrive once our little army was spotted. Passersby, the neighbors, perhaps the media, al salivating for a glimpse of the misfortune of others.

    Larabee was standing on the lawn with Joe Hawkins, two CMPD uniforms, one black, one white, and the pair of crime scene unit techs who’d helped recover the bear bones.

    Someone had made a Krispy Kreme run. Everyone but the black cop held a Styrofoam cup and a doughnut.

    Boyd leaped up, nearly knocking himself unconscious against the roof when Ryan and I left him in the backseat. Righting himself, he stuck his snout through the six inches of open window and began licking the exterior glass in a circular pattern. His yips fol owed us to the little circle beside the blacktop.

    After introductions, during which I simply identified Ryan as a visiting police col eague from Montreal, Larabee laid out the plan. Officers Salt and Pepper looked hot and bored, seeming curious only about Ryan.

    “This property is supposed to be abandoned, but the officers are going to look around to see if they can interest anyone in their warrant.” Officer Salt shifted his feet, finished the last of his chocolate with sprinkles. Officer Pepper folded his arms across his chest. The muscles looked the size and strength of banyan roots.

    “Once the officers give the go-ahead, we’l cruise the dog around, get his thoughts on the place.”

    “His name is Boyd,” I said.

    “Boyd sociable?” asked the CSU tech with the granny specs.

    “Offer him a doughnut, you’ve got a buddy for life.”

    Red sun flashed off a lens as she turned to look at the chow.

    “Boyd hits, we dig,” Larabee went on. “We find any human remains our anthropologist here determines to