Free Bones Never Lie by Kathy Reichs Page A

sure she’ll be fine.”
    Jesus Christ. Fine was the last thing she’d be. The woman was dying.
    “Shall I try to speak to her?” I was pleased with my tone. Not a hint of the fear churning inside me.
    After a slight pause, “Wait an hour. She’ll have a snack, then settle into bed with her journal.”
    I disconnected. Turned on the ringer, then dropped the phone into my purse. Stood a moment, steadying my nerves.
    Mama was journaling. Always a prelude to the downward spiral.
    Ryan was ten feet up the walk. In the glow of the Epicentre’s copious neon, his face looked eroded down to orange and green bone.
    I wormed toward him through the throng of Friday-night revelers.
    “Everything okay?” Crushing the cigarette with his heel.
    “Dandy.”
    An awkward beat, then, “Buy you a sarsaparilla, ma’am?” Bad cowboy drawl.
    We both tried to smile at the old shtick. Didn’t really pull it off.
    “I’d better get home,” I said.
    Ryan nodded.
    That was when the call came in. Thinking it was Finch again, and fearing a crisis, I clicked on.
    “It’s Slidell.”
    Skinny never opened by identifying himself. I waited.
    “We’ve got her.”
    It took a moment. Then terrible realization. “Shelly Leal?”
    “A guy collecting weeds or seeds or some shit stumbled across her body about seven-fifteen.” Tight.
    “Where?”
    “Lower McAlpine Creek Greenway, under the I-485 overpass.” In the background I could hear voices, the hum of traffic. Guessed Slidell was at the scene.
    “Has Larabee arrived?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Does he need me?” Leal had been missing a week. Depending on how long she’d been there and the severity of animal scavenging, body parts could be dragged and scattered.
    “Doc says he’s got it covered. Just wanted you to have a heads-up that he’ll be doing the post first thing tomorrow. Says he wouldn’t mind you being present.”
    “Of course.” I was silent a moment as I thought about what to ask. “The weed collector. Does he seem solid?”
    “Hasn’t stopped crying and puking since I been here. I doubt he’s in play.”
    “Same MO?”
    “Clothed and posed.” Clipped.
    “Does Tinker know?”
    “Oh, yeah. The asshole’s acting all mind-hunter, pissing everyone off.”
    “He’s not a profiler.”
    “Try telling him that. Is Ryan with you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Loop him in.”
    “I will.”
    I heard a staticky radio voice. “Gotta go,” Slidell said.
    “You’ll attend the autopsy tomorrow?”
    “Wearing bells.”
    I disconnected.
    “The child is dead?” Ryan asked.
    I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
    “They want us to join them?”
    I shook my head.
    “Larabee’s doing the autopsy tomorrow?”
    I nodded again.
    People flowed in two directions around us. A girl passed, maybe twelve or thirteen, a parent at each elbow. All three were eating chocolate ice cream cones. I pictured lights rippling blue and red across a small, still body on filthy concrete. I watched the girl melt into the crowd, my stomach clamped into a hard, cold lump.
    Suddenly, my hands began to tremble. I pressed them to my thighs. Looked down at my feet. Noted a lone weed growing from a crack in the pavement.
    Shelly Leal. Mama. Ryan. Or maybe it was the tail end of the cold. Or simply lack of sleep. I had no energy left to block the despair.
    Tears welled. Broke free. I backhanded fat salty drops from my cheeks.
    “I’ll walk you to your car,” Ryan said. No questions about Leal. About the call from Finch. I appreciated that.
    “I’m a big girl.” Not looking up. “Go on to your hotel.”
    Music swelled as a door opened in the colossus behind us. Receded. Somewhere, a truck beeped rhythmically, backing up.
    Ryan reached out and took both my hands in his. Clamped tight to stop the shaking.
    “I’ll pick you up in the morning,” I said.
    Ryan’s gaze burned the top of my head. “Look at me.”
    I did. The irises were too bright against the backdrop of bloodshot. Electric blue.