Cold, Cold Bones (Volume 21) (A Temperance Brennan Novel) - Softcover

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Kathy Reichs’s first novel Déjà Dead, published in 1997, won the Ellis Award for Best First Novel and was an international bestseller. Evil Bones is Reichs’s twenty-fourth novel featuring forensic anthropologist Temperance Brennan. Reichs was also a producer of Fox Television’s longest running scripted drama, Bones, which was based on her work and her novels. One of very few forensic anthropologists certified by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology, Reichs divides her time between Charlotte, North Carolina, and Charleston, South Carolina. Visit her at KathyReichs.com or follow her on X @KathyReichs, Instagram @KathyReichs, or Facebook @KathyReichsBooks.

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#1 New York Times bestselling thriller writer Kathy Reichs’s twenty-first novel is “her masterpiece―smart, scary, complicated, and engrossing” (Michael Connelly)―and features forensic anthropologist Temperance Brennan who uncovers a series of gruesome killings eerily reenacting the most shocking of her prior cases.

Winter has come to North Carolina and, with it, a drop in crime. Freed from a heavy work schedule, Tempe Brennan is content to dote on her daughter Katy, finally returned to civilian life from the army. But when mother and daughter meet at Tempe’s place one night, they find a box on the back porch. Inside: a very fresh human eyeball.

GPS coordinates etched into the eyeball lead to a Benedictine monastery where an equally macabre discovery awaits. Soon after, Tempe examines a mummified corpse in a state park, and her anxiety deepens.

There seems to be no pattern to the subsequent killings uncovered, except that each mimics in some way a homicide that a younger Tempe had been called in to analyze. Who or what is targeting her, and why?

Could this elaborately staged scene be the prelude to a twist that is even more shocking? Tempe is at a loss to establish the motive for what is going on…and then her daughter disappears.

“The crowning achievement of a master storyteller” (Nelson DeMille), Cold, Cold Bones is a novel of revenge―one in which revisiting the past may prove the only way to unravel the present.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter 1 1
It began with an eyeball.

The pupil was wide as a Texas prairie, the iris the color of faded denim. Crimson vessels spiderwebbed the yellow-white sclera.

More on that later.

SUNDAY, JANUARY 30

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

“I’ve got this.” Despite the cold and damp, my palms were sweaty. My everything was sweaty.

The carton slipped from my hands as the words left my mouth. Thunk!

“Damn.”

Sighing in irritation, Katy set down a lamp, a peculiar Alice-in-Wonderland arrangement with a long, crooked neck.

“Did you notice the word on top?” Assuming I hadn’t, she spelled it out. “B.O.O.K.S. What do you suppose that means, Mom?” We’d been at this for hours and, in addition to clammy, we were exhausted and sick of the whole bloody thing. And cranky as hell.

“The box contains books.” Terse.

“And what is one property of a box of books?” Lips barely moving.

I said nothing.

“They’re heavy!”

“Let’s break for lunch.”

“Let’s.”

We hopped from the back of the truck. Grabbing the lamp, Katy crossed a small patch of winter-dead lawn fronting a mid-century brick bungalow whose entrance was standing wide. I followed her inside, for the zillionth time that day, and closed the bright red door behind me.

As Katy climbed the stairs with Alice’s curious illuminator, I continued down the hallway to the kitchen. Which, given the home’s aged exterior, was astonishingly state of the art. Marble countertops, College of Surgeons–level lighting, built-in coffee extravaganza, adult beverage center, top-of-the-line stainless-steel appliances.

Crossing to a Sub-Zero refrigerator the size of a boxcar, I withdrew two cans of cream soda and placed them on the island beside a white takeout bag. I was adding paper towel napkins for flair when Katy reappeared.

Seeing the bag, she beamed. “Please tell me you hit the Rhino.”

“I hit the Rhino,” I said. “Got your deli favorite.”

“The Stacked High?”

“Yes, ma’am. A Sicilian for me. Cold.”

Hands washed, we unwrapped our sandwiches and popped open the sodas. Were messily chewing when Katy asked, “How’s your back?”

“Dandy.” Though my lumbar was registering displeasure with the morning’s activities.

“You really should leave the heavy stuff for me.”

“Because I’m a nerd scientist and you’re a badass combat veteran?”

“Was.”

“Hallelujah!”

“What? You didn’t approve of me serving my country?”

“I approved of your service. I hated that much of it was done in a war zone.”

“That’s generally what serving your country is all about.”

Following a post-college period of, I’ll be kind and call it “uncertainty,” my naive and reckless daughter went full circle and answered Uncle Sam’s call. Awesome, I told myself. She’ll find direction. Self-discipline. Being female, she’ll be in no peril. Sure, my attitude was sexist. But this was my twentysomething golden-haired child who was boarding a bus for boot camp.

Then the regs changed to allow women in the trenches. En masse, the ladies shouldered their M16s and marched off to fight alongside their brothers-in-arms.

Following basic combat training, the golden-haired child chose her occupational specialty, 11B. Infantryman. Katy’s time in uniform re-introduced me to military acronyms and jargon I hadn’t heard since my ex, Pete, was a Marine.

In a nanosecond, or so it seemed to me, Katy was deployed to Afghanistan to join a brigade combat team. Not so awesome. Lots of anxious days and sleepless nights. But her tour went well, and twelve months later she returned home with only a small scar on one cheek.

Life in the field artillery agreed with my daughter. When her enlistment ended, to my dismay, she re-upped. To my greater dismay, she signed on for another Middle East deployment. Hello darkness, my old friend.

All that was past, now. The tossing and turning was over. Well, mostly.

Last fall, Katy had decided to hang up her boots and camos and return to civilian life. She was honorably discharged and, to my surprise and delight, decided to settle in Charlotte. At least for a while. Why? She won’t say.

Katy also refuses to talk about her time in the army. Her friends. Her overseas duty. The scar. So, we’re playing it like her former employer: don’t ask, don’t tell.

We ate in companionable silence for a while. Katy broke it.

“Is the nerd scientist currently working on any rad bones?”

“A few.”

Katy curled her fingers in a give-me-more gesture. They were coated with shimmery creole mustard.

“Last week a barn in Kannapolis burned to the ground. When the rubble cooled, firefighters found the remains of two horses and one adult male, all charred beyond recognition.”

“Shitty deal for the horses.”

“Shitty deal for everyone.”

“Let me guess. Farmer Fred was a smoker.”

“The body wasn’t that of the property owner.”

“Did you ID the guy?”

“I’m working on it.”

“The horses?”

“Chuckie and Cupcake.”

“Were they valuable?”

“No.”

“Weird.”

“What’s weirder is that the man had a bullet hole right between his eyes.”

“Whoa. Someone went kinetic.”

Katy fell quiet again, thinking about bullet holes, maybe horses. Or creole mustard.

I am a forensic anthropologist. I consult to coroners and medical examiners needing help with corpses unfit for standard autopsy—the decomposed, dismembered, burned, mutilated, mummified, and skeletal. I help recover those with the misfortune to die away from home or a hospital bed. I give names to the nameless. I document postmortem interval and body treatment. I consider manner of death, be it by suicide, homicide, accident, or natural causes.

Mine was not the job of any parent Katy encountered growing up. But she was good with my being different, and in her teens began asking questions. Some things I shared, others I didn’t. Many others.

In my experience the world divides into two camps: those fascinated by my profession and those repelled by it. Katy, never squeamish, has always been a member of Camp Fascination.

I glanced up. Katy’s eyes were looking past me, focused on a point elsewhere in the room. Elsewhere in time? I didn’t ask what she was thinking. Waited until she spoke again.

“What’s the sitrep with Monsieur le détective?”

“Sitrep?”

“Situation report.”

My daughter was asking about Lieutenant-détective Andrew Ryan, a former Sûreté du Québec homicide cop with whom I currently was living. In Montreal and Charlotte. C’est compliqué.

“Ryan?” I asked.

“No. Inspector Clouseau,” she said, rolling her very green eyes.

“We’re good.”
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