Bare Bones by Kathy Reichs Page B

the shed when his muscle tonus changed. His head and ears shot forward and his bel y sucked up.

    One beat.

    Snout to the ground.

    Another beat.

    Muscles rigid, Boyd inhaled then exhaled through his nostrils, sending dead vegetation spiraling outward.

    Then the dog went absolutely, utterly stil .

    A heartbeat. A lifetime.

    Boyd’s ears flattened, his hackles rose, and an eerie sound crawled from his throat, more keening than growl.

    The hairs on my neck went vertical. I’d heard it before.

    Before I could speak, Boyd exploded. Lips curled, teeth gleaming, the keening gave way to frenzied barking.

    “Easy, Boyd!”

    The chow lunged forward and backward, delivering his threat from every angle.

    I tightened my grip and braced both feet.

    “Can you hold him?” I asked.

    Without a word, Ryan took the leash.

    Heart pounding, I circled the shed, searching for a door.

    The radio crackled. Larabee said something.

    I found the entrance on the south side, away from the house. Gingerly brushing back spiderwebs, I pul ed on the handle.

    The door wouldn’t budge.

    I looked up and down along the frame. Two nails held the door in place. They looked new compared with the dry, flaky wood around them.

    Boyd’s frenzy continued. Ryan held tight to the leash, cal ing “Hooch,” then “Boyd” to calm him.

    Unfolding my Swiss army knife, I gouged out one nail, then the other.

    Larabee’s voice sounded smal and tinny on the radio, as though emanating from some alien star system.

    I depressed the button and reported my position.

    When I tried again, the door creaked open, and a fetid, earthy smel drifted out, like dead plants and garbage left too long in the sun. Flies buzzed in agitation.

    Cupping a hand across my mouth and nose, I peered in.

    Flies danced in threads of light slicing in through gaps in the boards. Slowly, my eyes adjusted to the dim interior.

    “Perfect,” I said. “Picture fucking perfect.”

11
    IWAS STARING INTO A PRIVY.

    At one timechez toiletteoffered state-of-the-art comfort in human waste disposal technology: insect control, toilet paper, a spiffy one-seater with a flip-top lid.

    Al that was gone now. What remained were dried and shriveled pest strips, a rusted flyswatter, two nails driven into a board at sitting height, a pile of splintered wood, and a chipped and flaking wooden pink oval.

    A pit approximately two feet square yawned through an opening in the floorboards at the far end of the shack.

    The stench was familiar, bringing to mind privies in summer camps, national parks, and Third World vil ages. This one smel ed sweeter, softer, somehow.

    My mind added a string of expletives to those Ryan and I had floated during our walkabout with Boyd.

    “Crap!” I said aloud for emphasis.

    Not three months earlier I’d been up to my elbows investigating debris in a septic tank. I’d vowed never to slog through feces again.

    Now this.

    “Crap! Crap! Crap!”

    “Not very ladylike.”

    Larabee craned over my shoulder. I stepped aside. Behind us Boyd continued his frenzy and Ryan continued his attempts to calm him.

    “But entirely apropos.” I slapped a mosquito that was lunching on my arm.

    Larabee stuck his head into the privy, pul ed it back quickly.

    “Could be Boyd was just rocked by the smel .”

    I scowled at Larabee’s back.

    “Could be. But you’re going to want to check it out,” I said. “Make sure no one’s been pissing on Jimmy Hoffa.”

    “No one’s been pissing on anyone in here for some time.” Larabee let the door bang shut. “The grand-finale whiz probably took place during the Eisenhower years.”

    “Something’s going bad in that pit.”

    “Yep.”

    “Suggestions?” I backhanded gnats from my face.

    “Backhoe,” he said.

    “Can we take a look in the house first, try to estimate when Farmer John splurged for the indoor pipes?”

    “Find me one human bone, I’l have CSU shooting close-ups under the sink.”

    A metacarpal