Bones of the Lost: A Temperance Brennan Novel

FISHER ADDRESSED A NUMBER OF points concerning logistics, then, wishing us Godspeed, withdrew. Welsted took over.

“It’s essential that we dot every i and cross every t while exhuming, transporting, and examining these remains. We screw up, go off task just once, the locals have the right to pull the plug. And we’ll have eyes on us every minute.”

“Friggin’ nightmare.”

“I realize that displeases you, Mr. Blanton. But that’s the agreement. Two local nationals observe throughout.”

Blanton pooched air through his lips but said nothing.

“The team will assemble at the staging area at oh-five-hundred tomorrow. Estimated flight time to Sheyn Bagh is two hours, which should put us wheels-down no later than oh-eight-hundred. Count an hour for a meet and greet with the mayor and his honchos, that puts us on-site at the cemetery by oh-nine-hundred. Wheels up by seventeen hundred. Either of you have a problem with that?”

“It’s hard to estimate how long an exhumation will take without knowing what conditions we’ll encounter,” I said.

“You’ll have eight hours.” Read: end of discussion.

“Suits me,” Blanton said. “No way I’m overnighting outside the wire.”

“NCIS has final say during the dig and analysis, with input from Doctor Brennan.” Welsted looked my way. “But any disagreement, it’s Blanton’s call.”

Though troubled, I nodded understanding.

“Blanton will oversee the actual digging. His crew will consist of two marines from Delaram and two LNs—”

“Like Ali Baba and his buddy will know how to trowel.” Disdain dripped from Blanton’s words. “Or how to keep their friggin’ sandals from crushing the evidence.”

“Lack of local participation was a deal breaker.” Welsted’s patience was wearing thin. “The Afghans insisted, the Pentagon agreed.”

“Christ.”

I looked at the NCIS agent, surprised by his contempt for the Afghan people.

But was that it? Was it the locals Blanton disliked? Or a malignancy that had taken root among them?

I try to be open-minded, to judge each individual on merit and accomplishment. I hold no bias against any belief system, sexual orientation, or skin color that differs from mine. I do not hate in stereotype.

But I have no tolerance for a creed that not only denies an education to girls, but condones, even encourages, the abuse of women. For dogma that allows men to beat, mutilate, even execute members of my gender.

My one prejudice. I despise the Taliban. And I firmly believe that the arrogance and cruelty of its followers stems from ignorance, fear, and male insecurity.

“Mr. Blanton will handle all video and photography,” Welsted continued. “Villagers wishing to observe will be allowed to do so, but will be kept at a distance of at least ten yards.”

“We gonna serve ice cream? Maybe sing a few camp songs?” Blanton slumped back in his chair. “Friggin’ circus.”

Welsted spoke to me. “You know your equipment needs?”

I pulled a list from my backpack and handed it to her.

Welsted looked around the table. “Any questions?”

I had one.

“Where will I perform my analysis?”

“At the hospital here on base.”

“I’ll need X-ray capability.”

“All arranged.”

I had another.

“Why couldn’t we do this today?”

“The army is providing transport. The Blackhawk is available tomorrow.”

Blanton started to speak. Welsted cut him off.

“Have a good one, people.”

Blanton shot to his feet and strode from the room.

I gathered my backpack and jacket and made my way outside. As I reached the sidewalk, Blanton was disappearing around a corner of the building.

“Dr. Brennan?”

I turned. Welsted was coming through the door.

“Do you have plans right now?”

“Got a date with a case file.”

“Are you qualified with a weapon?”

“I’ve done some shooting at Quantico, but—”

“I’m heading to the firing range. How about coming along?”

“Guns aren’t really—”

“A woman needs skills, especially over here.”

Taking my silence as assent, Welsted elbow-steered me toward the van that had brought us. During the drive, she exhibited an unsettling level of enthusiasm for, and encyclopedic knowledge of, firearms.

“You have your M16, M4 carbine, M27 automatic rifles. Sniper rifles like the M110, M40. The M1014 semiautomatic shotgun. Used by forces in Britain, Australia, Malaysia, Slovenia, the L.A. cops. Nice. Under a yard long. Less than nine pounds.”

Welsted had never met a weapon she didn’t like.

“I’ll stick to handguns,” I said.

“More useful stateside, if you get my meaning.” Welsted actually winked.

The range was open-air and located on the periphery of the base. Beyond the uprights serving as targets, past the outer fence, stretched mile after mile of barren rock and sand. In the far distance, a walled village rose like a tiny, wavery bump in the endless expanse.

“Be right back,” Welsted said after checking us in.

She was. With a weapon familiar to me.

“Beretta M9. Semi. Range of fifty meters. Fifteen-round detachable magazine.”

I took the Beretta. Remembered why I liked it. Not too large, not too heavy. Nice heft. Grip that felt good in my hand.

“Reuben will assist you. See you in sixty.”

Welsted moved to a target four down from mine.

Reuben was large and mustached, and definitely not a talker. He handed me earplugs and goggles, then set up a target and watched me shoot. After a few corrections to my grip and stance, he disappeared.

An hour after starting, I was leaving a tight circle of holes in the black bull’s-eyed human form.

I was removing my earplugs when Welsted reappeared, face flushed either from heat or excitement.

“Good?”

“Good,” I said.

Reuben materialized as Welsted called for the van. I handed over the Beretta and protective eyewear. Thanked him.

We were barely rolling when Welsted began punching keys on her mobile. Her end of the conversation suggested firming up of arrangements for the next day. Politeness was not the woman’s strong suit.

I checked my iPhone. No signal.

“Pain in the ass dealing with these people.” Welsted shoved the phone into a pocket of her fatigues. “Customs vary from tribe to tribe, subtle differences mostly. Pays to make sure everyone’s on the same page.”

“No surprises,” I said.

“It’s rare that a surprise here brings good news.”

General rule or personal recollection?

After another two calls, Welsted turned and jabbed a thumb toward the window.

“You gotta try the Green Bean. Awesome coffee.”

Except for the weapons, fatigues, and sign stating NO SALUTE AREA, I could have been viewing a gathering spot on any college campus.

Painfully young men sipped from paper cups in the shade of a gazebo. A couple held their heads close while reading something in their laps. A woman wrote alone at a picnic table, sun sparking her short brown hair.

Were the men just back from a convoy? Preparing to set out? Was the couple deciding what movie to see? Was the woman composing a postcard home?

In a year, how many would still be alive and intact?

My eyes began their reflex search for Katy.

And the guilt surged anew.

“Cup of java now?” Welsted asked.

“I should go back to my quarters and read the case file.”

And check for messages.

“Your call.”

Back in my room, I logged on to the dusty old PC. Found no word from either Katy or Blanton. No voicemail.

What the hell?

I checked my watch.

12:40.

I paced, agitated to be doing nothing. Anxious about my daughter.

I’d been at Bagram for twelve hours. Where was Katy? Why hadn’t Blanton located her?

More senseless back-and-forth across the floor.

Why hadn’t I brought Welsted into the loop?

I knew Katy’s unit. Could find her myself.

No, a tiny voice advised.

For once, I listened.

Pulling a bottle of water from the cabinet, I shoved aside papers and magazines, pulled the Gross file from my backpack, and began reading.

Very quickly, my eyes grew heavy. My mind refused to focus.

Thinking food and a little exercise might reinvigorate me, I set out for the DFAC.

Forty minutes and an epic salad later, I rounded the corner of my B-hut row. My pulse quickened at the sight of a pink paper wedged into the doorjamb of my unit. I hurried forward, hoping it was a note from Katy.

It was.

Can’t believe you’re here. Awesome! Off with unit today, tomorrow. Meet tomorrow night. Lighthouse Coffeehouse. 10 pm. (Too late for you, old lady? Tee hee!) No comments on my hair.

Katy

Yes!

With a lighter heart and renewed energy, I returned to the file.