Bones

“You’ve got to find something to do with yourself,” Travis was saying. “You can’t just sit here, getting more and more freaked out about this. Find something to occupy your time.”

Lost in his thoughts about Parrish, for a moment Frank merely stared at Travis. The suggestion that he keep himself busy — which had at first seemed ridiculous — began to take hold, and now made perfect sense.

He reached for his car keys.

“Where are you going?” Travis asked.

“To visit Mr. Newly in his sickbed.”

10

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, MAY 17

Southern Sierra Nevada Mountains

J.C. caught up to us again when about half of the plastic had been uncovered. If he was weary from the additional hiking he had done or by difficulties in helping Phil Newly to the plane, he didn’t show it.

Bingle noticed J.C.’s presence at the other end of the meadow before I did. Because I had been watching the dog, I caught the change in the focus of his attention before the others did. During the last few hours, I had been spending much of my time ensuring that Bingle didn’t sneak closer to the open grave — after he made one nearly successful attempt, David taught me how to say “?Quedate!” — which means “stay” — in a tone of voice that Bingle would obey.

“You can also say, ‘No te muevas,’ ” David said. “If you say it in a no-nonsense tone of voice — let him know you mean what you say — you’ll get him to set aside his other impulses, even the ones that tell him he was on to something really great and now we’re having all the fun. He’d like to join in, but his notions of amusement wouldn’t be too helpful for our purposes.”

I shuddered.

“I know, I know,” David said. “But in order to do this kind of work, he has to be interested in that smell. He behaves himself for the most part, but the trouble is, Bingle tends to feel a little proprietary about his finds.”

Now, as J.C. approached, Bingle’s ears were pitched forward and he watched the ranger closely. Dogs — natural hunters — see motion better than detail, and Bingle’s body posture said that he was on guard against this approaching figure. Eventually he must have managed to catch J.C.’s familiar scent — although how he could do so over the increasingly intense smell of the grave, I’ll never know — because suddenly he let out a happy bark of welcome.

For a time, work stopped as we greeted J.C. and caught up with one another. He applied some smell compound as he listened to the story of Bingle’s find, and praised the dog, who was happy to bask in his attention.

He had seen the coyote tree, and his disgust over it was plain; he was all for bringing charges against Parrish for it. “Not a big deal to someone going down on a double murder rap, I suppose, but still—” He shook his head, as if ridding himself of the memory of the tree. He bent down to pet Bingle. “So you’ve found Mrs. Sayre, eh, Bingle?”

“We don’t know who or what this is yet, J.C.,” Ben reminded him, handing him a pair of gloves. “We haven’t even opened the plastic.”

“Well,” the ranger said, looking amused, “the plastic seems to rule out an American Indian burial site, and I can tell you that there aren’t any legal cemeteries in this meadow, and no hunting allowed here, either. So whoever or whatever it is, it doesn’t belong here.”

“When will the plane be back?” I asked him.

“Tomorrow, weather permitting. Some rain in the forecast, so they might be delayed a day or so. Did you bring rain gear?”

I nodded.

“We’d better get back to work,” Ben said. “The last thing I want to cope with is a flooded site.”

J.C. had apparently done this work before, but even with his help, things could only progress at a certain pace. Eventually, the top surface of the plastic was uncovered. It was a dull, dark green. It appeared to be of a heavier gauge than the plastic used to make trash bags, more like the type used for ground cover by landscapers.

Thompson paced, muttering none-too-quietly about guys who think they’re working on a pharaoh’s tomb instead of a crime scene; about wishing to God he could bring in a backhoe; damning Parrish’s hide for picking this place out beyond East Jesus to bury a body — and other unhelpful remarks that made life a little less pleasant for everyone within earshot.

Ben didn’t gratify Thompson with a response. He walked over to him, though, while Andy, J.C., and David stood back from the grave to allow more photographs to be taken of the lumpy plastic.

“We want to dig down a little more on the sides,” Ben told the detective, “just to see if we can find the edge of the plastic. We’d prefer to keep it intact. But if we can’t find an edge, we’ll go ahead and cut it open.”

Thompson looked up into the sky and said, “Thank you, Lord!”

“We aren’t being careful just to irritate you,” Ben said. “My guess is that the plastic wrapping, the cool temperatures and altitude here, the lack of animal disturbance—”

“What is it you’re trying to say?” Thompson snapped.

“In terms you’ll understand?” Ben shot back.

Thompson’s face was red, but he said, “As a matter of fact, yes — I’d like the nonegghead version.”

Ben looked away from him for a moment, as if trying to regain his temper. “This body may be — let’s see, in ‘nonegghead’ terms? It may be a little soupy. With this much odor, I don’t believe we’ll be looking at completely skeletonized remains — what we’re smelling is not just the scent of bones. That’s one reason why I’m not sure these remains are four years old — perhaps they are, perhaps they aren’t. If they aren’t — you may have a different victim here.”

“Yes, you mentioned that possibility earlier, but—”

Ben raised a hand, and Thompson — with a visible effort — held his peace.