Fire and Bones (Temperance Brennan #23)

Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

Before she spoke, I knew Thacker’s ask.

“Tempe, I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Not at all.”

“I won’t keep you up.”

That was for damn sure.

“I have potential IDs for the Foggy Bottom DOAs. My investigators have requested dental records and alerted family members of the need for DNA samples. Hopefully, the dentals will arrive within the next twenty-four hours.”

“I understand there may be foreign nationals in the mix.”

“Yes.” A note of surprise that I knew that? “Autopsies will begin first thing Tuesday morning. I hope you can attend. Visual IDs will not be possible.”

Crap!

“Of course.”

Thus died my last lingering hope of recouping a sliver of the holiday weekend to spend with Ryan.

With a sigh nearly as dramatic as Burgos’s, I disconnected and hit speed dial.

Ryan picked up with his usual cheery salutation.

“ Ma chérie . What a lovely surprise. I figured you’d be asleep by now.”

“I’m in bed and about to turn off the light.”

“What are you wearing? Is it that lacey—”

“I’m in a UNCC tee and plaid boxers.”

“Très sexy.”

The guy never changed. I loved that about him.

“Thanks.”

“Will you model your chic ensemble for me tomorrow?”

“Ryan, somethi—”

“I’ve cleared my schedule for the entire week. How about I take the dawn flight to DC tomorrow, then we set off for Savannah together? Road trip! You can be Thelma, I’ll be Louise.”

“They were both women.”

“I’ll work on my costuming.”

“They died at the end of the movie.”

Ryan ignored that.

“Lordy chile, I hear the song of Dixie calling me home.”

“That’s the worst southern accent I’ve ever heard.”

“I surely do thank you, ma’am.” Thick as syrup on grits.

“Stop,” I said.

“Oui, Madame.”

I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath, hating that I was about to disappoint him again.

“I’ve got bad news.”

Five hundred miles to the north, I sensed Ryan stiffen.

“Thacker has asked me to attend the postmortems for the Foggy Bottom fire victims.”

“Why does she need you?”

“There’s no possibility of visual IDs. And trauma analysis could be complicated.”

“Why you?”

“She’s heard I’m a superstar?”

Ryan didn’t laugh at my joke.

“When?”

“The autopsies will begin Tuesday morning.”

“Four of them.” Flat.

“Yes.”

“You’ve agreed?”

“I have.”

Ryan is affable by nature, his ignition for annoyance or offense less sensitive than mine. That said, I could sense that I’d triggered it.

“You’re telling me not to come,” he said.

“I’m sorry.”

Ryan’s breathing shifted and started going hard through his nose. I pictured his lips compressing, the skin around them turning white.

For at least ten seconds, there was no other sound on the line. Just that breathing.

I broke the tense silence.

“It’s not what I want. I feel terrible.”

“You always do.” The words sluiced like cold shards through the miles between us.

“I—”

“This happens all the time, Tempe. We make plans, you back out. Your commitments to me mean nothing. Rien .”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

We were both forcing our voices calm. But I sensed an entire soap opera’s worth of anger and resentment pouring from Ryan.

Felt similar emotions sprouting in me.

“You would have me refuse Thacker?” I asked, the effort to keep my voice down actually hurting my throat. “Have me turn my back on the innocent people who lost their lives in that fire?”

“Here’s the thing, Tempe. I’m tired of performing somersaults to fit into your schedule. Tired of always putting my needs second to yours. Maybe this is for the best. Maybe we need some time apart.”

Three beeps.

Dead air.

I sat, mobile pressed to my sternum, emotions roiling in my brain. Anger. Hurt. Confusion.

Mostly confusion.

Why such flash-fire rage? It wasn’t like Ryan. Was he correct? Was I always putting myself before him? Was I taking him for granted?

Or was Ryan being unreasonable? I felt a responsibility to the Foggy Bottom victims. Was his reaction to my commitment inapprop-riate?

Contrary to my earlier expectation, sleep was a long time coming.

When it came, it did so hard and deep.

It was almost nine when I awoke from a dream I couldn’t remember. Uncertain of my location, I sleepily surveyed my surroundings. Cavernous room. Space rocket lamp. Wooded view of half the East Coast.

Right.

Lan insisted on making an omelet for me. Doyle was gone, so I ate her marvelous eggs alone at the shiny marble table.

My mind kept replaying the previous night’s quarrel. I debated whether to call Ryan to apologize.

A gaggle of kindhearted neurons urged me to pick up the phone. A less-forgiving cluster said absolutely no.

In the hours since the argument, I’d decided that Ryan’s response had been childlike and selfish. I was certain I’d never ask him to put my desires ahead of his professional obligations.

Given that, I decided to go with the nos. Let the guy cool down for a while.

After breakfast, I took coffee to my room and booted my laptop.

I began by checking my inboxes.

Seven emails from political candidates, all asking for money. Three from TV stations informing me of upcoming shows. Two from Chewy alerting me to products for cats. One from an online retailer from whom I’d purchased makeup two years earlier. One from an outfit trying to sell me solar panels.

The only personal message had come from my mother. Daisy was considering signing up for a cruise along the western coast of Africa. Wanted my thoughts.

Deleting all but Mama’s communique, which I would address later, I began my research by googling the phrase “historic burlap sack.” This produced a half dozen links for buyers and sellers of antique bags. Apparently, there was a small but enthusiastic community of collectors. Who knew?

I clicked over to the website of the NYP Corp., a company that described itself as a provider of burlap and other agricultural supplies and textiles. NYP’s home page offered contact information for locations in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Tennessee, Missouri, Ohio, and my own fair state.

I prowled around on the NYP website a while, clicking from page to page. Learned many useful facts, including the following.

Jute is an annual plant of the genus Corchorus .

Jute is grown entirely for its fiber.

Burlap is made from jute.

For centuries, people in India used jute to make rope, paper, and handwoven fabrics.

Early on, English traders saw jute’s potential as a substitute for hemp and flax.

The East India Company exported its first hundred-ton shipment of jute in 1793.

While interesting, none of this info was relevant to the question I wanted answered.

Ninety minutes after starting, I sat back, frustrated.

Returning to the NYP home page, I drank tepid coffee while staring at the shifting images topping the screen. Tree root baskets. Deer corn bags. Ground covers. Seed sacks.

What were the chances anyone at NYP would be at the office on Memorial Day?

Zero to none sounded like a reasonable estimate.

What the hell.

Figuring shared roots might make the person answering my call more receptive, I phoned the plant in Lumberton, North Carolina.

Four rings. A voice answered as I was about to disconnect.

“NYP Corp. Colt’s my name. Burlap’s my game.” Drawl thicker than sludge in a sewage pipe.

I was so stunned I didn’t respond immediately.

“Y’all there?”

“Sorry, Mr. Colt. I didn’t expect to find anyone working on a holiday.”

“That’s not how I view it, ma’am.”

“Excuse me?” At a loss what Colt meant.

“For me, burlap is a labor of love.”

“I see.” I didn’t. “I’m interested in a particular item. Wondered if you might—”

“Is that a Carolina twang I’m hearing?”

“Yes, sir. I live in Charlotte.”

“Privileged to make your acquaintance. Go Panthers!”

“Yahoo. I’m calling because I have some questions about the manufacture of burlap.”

“What do you know about our little op?” Colt asked.

“Not much.”

“Well, then.”

Cellophane crinkled, then a pop-top whushed. I feared I was about to learn far more than I needed. I was right.

“NYP has been a wholesaler of burlap products since 1936. Nursery and horticulture needs. Agricultural and industrial packaging. We do it all.”

“I read that on your website.”

Colt made a throaty noise meant to convey contempt, I think.

“Upholstery supplies, emergency sandbags, landscaping materials, ground covers, bales and rolls—”

“I’m wondering if someone could provide details about one particular sack. I’m especially interested in pinpointing the period during which it was produced.” I left out that the sack in question had held a corpse.

“And you would be?”

“Dr. Temperance Brennan.”

“Are you a collector?”

“Mm.”

“Can you describe y’all’s sack?”

“It’s big and has the words Swifty Spud written above a cartoonlike potato, the word Potatoes written below.”

“Are the lettering and the picture in color?”

“Both are red and green.”

“What’s the potato doing?”

“Running.” Weird question.

Colt gave a noncommittal grunt. Then,

“Where was the sack found?”

“In a basement in Washington, DC. The image is faded but readable. I—”

“Shush. I’m thinking.”

I waited.

“What’s the bag’s capacity?”

“It measures approximately forty-eight by seventy-two inches.” Big enough to hold a body.

Colt tsked , displeased with or skeptical of my answer.

“Can you text me a photo?” he asked.

“Of course. To this number?”

“To my personal cell.” Colt slowly and carefully dictated the digits for his mobile.

“I’ll do it right now, sir.”

Seconds later I heard the text land with a soft bong on his end.

A beat, then a sharp intake of breath.

“This gage thingy. Is it accurate?”

“Very.” Out of habit, I’d included an ABFO ruler in the shot for scale.

“Oh, my stars,” Colt said.

“What?”

“This is an ultra-large sack. And a real beauty. What did you say your name was?”

“Brennan. Do you recognize the logo?”

“No. Well, maybe. I’ll have to do some digging to establish when and where this burly gal was made. This is truly exhilarating.”

“How long might that take?”

Colt ignored my question. Or missed it in his excitement over the burly gal.

“This is a marvelous specimen. May I phone you back on this number?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you so, so much for sharing your find with me.” Gushy.

“I appreciate your willingness to help.”

Colt lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I will be totally discreet.”

“Thank you.”

“No. Thank you .”

By the time we disconnected I was sure Colt was planning to send me flowers and candy.

Instead, by day’s end I’d get a far less pleasant surprise.