Bones in Her Pocket: A Tempe Brennan E-Short by Kathy Reichs Read Free Book Online

had someone new in her life.
    Blount cherished his freedom. Would he eliminate a person who threatened it? Or had it been a lovers quarrel? An accident? Eco-terror gone awry?
    Other factors could account for the pattern of trauma in Edith’s vertebral column. Blount could have crouched as he attacked. Perhaps they’d been underground, Edith tying to climb to the surface, prevented by a cord lassoing her neck. I’d been hasty to assume height differential was the sole explanation.
    Irrationally, I slowed on Sample Road. Scanned the woods that ran up to each shoulder. As if I’d spy Blount in the shadows, loping like Bigfoot. I saw not so much as a squirrel. Too many raptors, I guessed.
    At the center, I parked by an eagle totem and entered the building. A blonde in her teens was manning the counter.
    There are two types of gum-chewers in this world. Those who snap, crackle, and pop with openmouthed abandon. Those who hate the sound of loud, spitty bubbles. Blondie and I fell into opposite camps.
    “I’m looking for Doris Kramer.” I cut to the chase.
    “Gone today.” Snap. “Weird. She, like, lives here.”
    “Do you know Herman Blount?”
    “I’ve seen him.” She grinned, jaw working like a radial saw. “Me likey.”
    “When?”
    “With Doris. Twice last week. He seemed, like, intense.”
    “Any idea where I can find him?”
    “Naw. I never talked to the dude.” Pop. “Doris might be able to tell you.”
    “Do you know where she lives?”
    “Up Sample Road, ’bout a mile. You can’t miss the mailbox—it looks like an eagle.”
    Blount was last seen on Sample Road. Doris was uncharacteristically AWOL.
    I thanked the girl and hurried out. If Doris had stumbled onto something tying Blount to Edith’s murder, she could be in danger. If not, she might lead me to him.
    I did another crawl along Sample, this time scanning for the postal eagle. Spotting it, I hung a right.
    Half a mile down, the rutted, weed-choked drive ended at a seedy frame box that hadn’t seen paint since Hoover took office. I parked next to a Corolla with a HAWKS LOVE ME bumper sticker and got out.
    Three bowed steps led to a porch hosting a plastic table and a saggy armchair bursting its innards. I crossed to the door, instincts all prickly. Given Doris’s carefully constructed appearance, the squalor felt wrong. A private shame, unintended for guests.
    A note taped to the doorbell read “Broken. Please knock.” I did. No response. I waited a moment and knocked again, louder. Nothing. I recalled the Corolla, the bumper sticker. Was pretty sure the car belonged to Doris. My concern mounted.
    I took a moment and a breath to consider. Heard what sounded like muffled barking.
    Doris won’t like that. Odd, but that’s what my mind sent up.
    Circling the house, I spotted a structure about a hundred yards down an expanse of very dead grass. I set off.
    Drawing close, I could see that the shed was leaning badly, barely maintaining contact with its cracked foundation. The boards were weathered, the hardware corroded and orange with rust.
    To the shed’s right, a dozen indentations rippled the earth. Something cold traveled my spine. I dismissed the sensation as paranoia. Every depression isn’t a burial. And the hollows were too small to represent graves.
    Still, I stepped gingerly, avoiding branches that might snap underfoot. Stilling keys that might jingle in my pocket.
    Reaching the derelict building’s nearest door, I didn’t knock or call out. I tried the knob. It turned. I shoved. The door creaked back on its hinges.
    I squinted into the dim interior.
    My hands flew to my mouth. I tasted bile and felt tremors beneath my tongue.

T HE STENCH HIT FIRST. An overpowering reek of urine and feces, like a wet blanket slapping my face and molding itself to my skin.
    A few deep breaths, then I stepped through the door. The building erupted in sound. A cacophony of yipping, whining, howling, and barking.
    My brain moved slowly, reluctant