Free Swamp Bones by Kathy Reichs Page B

when a discoloration on one nail caught my eye. I teased it free and cranked the magnification.
    My breath froze.
    A layer of flesh adhered to the back of the nail. Visible on it was a circle sliced top to bottom by three lines, three more concentric curves to each side within the larger circle.
    Twenty-something Native American male. With a unique nail bed tattoo. And a historywith Kiley James.
    Hot damn. I had a name for my unknown.
    I grabbed my phone and punched in a number. My call was answered on the first ring.
    “I’d bet my ass the second vic is Buck Cypress.”
    I explained the inked nail. The Fordisc. Yellen already knew the connection to James.
    “It’s a positive?” The sheriff sounded almost upbeat.
    “Not yet. But the vic also sustained a bad break of the lower right arm two or three years back. Looks like the fracture was treated by a professional. If so, there would be X-rays. If no one kept them, one of the brothers could confirm the break.”
    “Well shite in a bucket.” Yellen exhaled. “Those knuckle draggers don’t have a damn phone and I’m tied up with this firebug mess. Got no time to haul back out to the swamp right now.”
    “I can go.”
    I could hear chaos in the background. Agitated voices. Someone calling Yellen’s name.
    “Hold on.” The air went thick, as though Yellen had pressed the phone to his chest.
    “Sorry ’bout that.” He was back. “It’s a circus here. My doer may not have acted alone. What’d you say?”
    “I’ll go see Deuce. Confirm ID.”
    “By yourself? That’s nuts.”
    “Why not?”
    “You gotta ask?”
    “This ain’t my first rodeo,” I said dryly, mimicking Yellen’s comment.
    “You’ve got balls, Doc, I’ll give you that.” A pause. Then, “I’ll send a deputy out with you first thing tomorrow morning.”
    “Fine.” It wasn’t.
    “Almost forgot. You’ll love this one.” Yellen made a throaty noise I took to be a chuckle. “Scott Pierce’s name was on the list of applicants for the Eugene ad campaign. Pretty boy made it all the way to the final cut.” A door slammed. The background noise level rose. “Hell, I gotta go. My deputy will call when he sets out.”
    Three beeps told me Yellen had disconnected.
    Sonofabitch.
    I didn’t want to go the swamp tomorrow. I wanted to sleep in. Lie on the beach. Eat stone crabs with Lisa.
    I looked at my watch. 5:30 P.M . Quick calculation. Forty-five miles, fast chat with Deuce Cypress, half an hour back to Homestead. If I left now, I could confirm ID and meet Lisa by 7:00. And tomorrow I’d be free. Finished. Done. On vacation.
    Why the hell not? I’d been deputized. The boys and I had bonded over fingernail tats. They might dislike authority, but they weren’t going to shoot a cop.
    Impulse decision. I packed everything back into the cooler, grabbed Lisa’s keys, and headed for the car.
    I hadn’t counted on Miami’s rush-hour traffic. Or the brain-scorching glare of the setting sun. Or the geriatric way I navigated the dirt track.
    By the time I pulled up to the Cypress brothers’ shack it was almost 7:00. I dug out my phone to let Lisa know I’d be late. Cursed. No signal.
    As dusk gathered and the light faded, I began to regret my impetuous move. Deuce and Ernie pose no threat, I told myself. And Buck is definitely not home. No worries. Ask about the broken arm and vamoose.
    I got out of the car. Listened. No gunshots. No
tic-tic
ing from Lisa’s Prius. Nothing but the croaking of frogs and the whine of mosquitoes.
    I was debating my approach when the little bloodsuckers hit. That got me moving. Again cursing the swamp, I mounted the front porch and knocked on the screen door. It rattled against the jamb. No one appeared. I banged harder. Same nonresponse.
    I hadn’t considered that the brothers might not be home. I was slapping and scratching when my ear caught a sound that wasn’t a night bird or some small hunting creature. I cocked my head and held my breath, trying to