Part 10 (2/2)

Hippo nodded, then turned. Ryan and I followed him into the trees. The air smelled of moss and loamy earth. The thick foliage hung undisturbed by even a whisper of movement. Within yards, I was perspiring and breathing deeply.

In thirty seconds we were at the barn. The structure rose from a clearing barely larger than itself, leaning like a s.h.i.+p in an angry sea. Its planks were gray and weathered, its roof partially collapsed. What I a.s.sumed had been its main double doors now lay in a heap of rotten lumber. Through the opening, I could see dimness pierced by shafts of dust-filtered sunlight.

Hippo, Ryan, and I stopped at the threshold. Crooking two fingers, I pulled my s.h.i.+rt by the collar and flapped. Sweat now soaked my waistband and bra.

The barn's interior was ripe with the mustiness of moisture and age. Rotting vegetation. Dust. And something sweetly organic.

The CSU techs looked like astronauts in their masks and white coveralls. I recognized each by movement and body form. The daddy longlegs was Renaud Pasteur. The Demster Dumpster was David Chenevier.

Hippo called out. Pasteur and Chenevier waved, then resumed their tasks.

Chenevier was guiding a three-wheeled apparatus in parallel paths back and forth across the barn floor. A rectangular red box hung below the rig's main axle, its bottom inches from the ground surface. A small LCD screen rested on the handlebars.

Pasteur was alternating between shooting stills and video, and clearing debris in front of Chenevier. Rocks. Soda cans. A length of rusted metal stripping.

Drew the short straw, I thought, seeing Pasteur pick something up, examine it, then toss it aside.

Forty minutes later Chenevier was covering the last and farthest corner of the barn. Pausing, he made a comment. Pasteur joined him, and the two discussed something on the monitor.

A chill replaced my hotness. Beside me, I felt Ryan tense.

Chenevier turned. ”We got something.”

10.

R YAN AND YAN AND I I PICKED OUR WAY ACROSS THE UNEVEN GROUND PICKED OUR WAY ACROSS THE UNEVEN GROUND. Hippo zigzagged behind. He was wearing a s.h.i.+rt that could only have been purchased at a discount store. A deep-discount store. s.h.i.+ny penguins in m.u.f.flers and berets. The fabric looked flammable.

Chenevier and Pasteur opened a s.p.a.ce to allow us a view of the monitor. A layer cake of colors squiggled across the screen. Reds. Greens. Blues. Centered in the cake was a pale gray hump.

GPR isn't as complicated as the name implies. Each system includes a radio transmitter and receiver connected to a pair of antennae coupled to the ground.

A signal is sent into the soil. Since a subsurface object or disturbance will have electrical properties different from those of the surrounding dirt, a signal reflecting off that object or disturbance will bounce back to the receiver slightly later in time. A different wave pattern will appear on the monitor.

Think of a fish finder. The thing tells you something's down there, but can't tell you what.

”Could be an animal burrow.” Chenevier's face was soaked with sweat. ”Or a trench for old piping.”

”How far down?” I asked, studying the inverted gray crescent.

Chenevier shrugged. ”Eighteen or twenty inches.”

Deep enough for a hurried gravedigger.

Mia was summoned and led to the spot. She alerted by sitting and barking once, sharply.

By noon I'd marked off a ten-foot square with stakes and string. Ryan and I started in with long-handled spades. Pasteur shot pics. Chenevier sifted.

Hippo stood to one side, mopping sweat and s.h.i.+fting from foot to foot. Now and then one hand would go into a pocket. The jangle of keys would join the click of Pasteur's shutter and the hiss of soil trickling through mesh.

The barn floor was rich with organics, easy to dig, easy to sift.

By twelve-thirty we'd exposed an amoeba-like splotch visibly darker than the surrounding earth. Soil staining. A sign of decomposition.

Ryan and I switched to trowels and began sc.r.a.ping dirt, both antic.i.p.ating and dreading what we'd find beneath the discoloration. Now and then our eyes would meet, drop back to the hollow we were creating.

The first bone turned up in the screen.

”Got something.” Chenevier's voice cut the silence.

”Gaubine!” Hippo popped antacid. Hippo popped antacid.

Chenevier crossed to me and extended a hand.

Sitting back on my heels, I took what lay in his palm.

There are 206 bones in the adult human skeleton, all varying in size and shape. Singly, they yield few clues about a person's life story. But together, like interlocking puzzle pieces, they say a lot. Age. s.e.x. Ancestry. Health. Habit. The more bones, the more is revealed.

Chenevier's find, however, disclosed the jigsaw solo.

Slender and less than ten centimeters long, the bone looked like a pin that might be worn to keep a topknot in place. Thicker at one end, it tapered to a subtle k.n.o.b on the other.

I looked up to eight curious eyes.

”It's a baculum.”

Four blank stares.

”A bone found in the p.e.n.i.s of most mammals. I'd guess this one comes from a large domestic dog.”

Still no one spoke.

”The os baculum aids in copulation when mating must take place during brief encounters.”

Pasteur cleared his throat.

”When animals have to perform quickly.” I adjusted my mask.

”Pour l'amour du bon Dieu!” Hippo's expletive suggested the same emotions swirling in me. Relief. Bewilderment. Hope. Hippo's expletive suggested the same emotions swirling in me. Relief. Bewilderment. Hope.

I handed the bone to Pasteur. As he photographed and bagged it, Ryan and I resumed digging.

<script>