Bare Bones by Kathy Reichs Page A

work.

    Flipping the cover with a one-handed motion, Gul et slid the spiral into his breast pocket.

    “The dispatcher has notified the FAA or the NTSB, or whatever feds need contacting. Between my crew and the fire boys, I think we can handle the scene here. Just tel me what you need on your end, Doc.”

    I’d noticed a pair of ambulances parked on the shoulder where we’d pul ed up.

    “You’ve notified a trauma center?”

    “Alerted CMC down inCharlotte . Paramedics and I took a peek once the fire was under control.” Gul et gave a half shake of the head. “There’s no one sucking air in that mess.”

    As Larabee started explaining how we’d proceed, I snuck a look at my watch. Four-twenty. Visitor ETA at my condo.

    I hoped he’d gotten my message saying I’d be late. I hoped he’d found a taxi. I hoped he’d spotted the key I’d asked Katy to tape to the kitchen door.

    I hoped Katy had taped the key to the kitchen door.

    Relax, Brennan. If there’s a problem he’l phone.

    I unhooked and checked my cel phone. No signal.

    Damn.

    “Ready for a look-see?” Gul et was saying to Larabee.

    “No hot spots?”

    “Fire’s out.”

    “Lead on.”

    Hating my job at that moment, I fol owed Gul et and Larabee through the cornrows and under the police tape to the edge of the wreckage.

    Up close, the plane looked better than it had from a distance. Though accordioned and burned, the fuselage was largely intact. Around it lay scorched and twisted pieces of wing, melted plastic, and a constel ation of unrecognizable rubble. Tiny cubes of glass sparkled like phosphorous in the afternoon sun.

    “Ahoy!”

    At the sound of the voice, we al turned.

    A woman in khakis, boots, and dark blue shirt and cap was striding toward us. Big yel ow letters above her brim announced the arrival of the National Transportation Safety Board.

    “Sorry it’s so late. I got the first available flight.”

    Draping a camcorder strap around her neck, the woman offered a hand.

    “Sheila Jansen, air safety investigator.”

    We took turns shaking. Jansen’s grip was anaconda strong.

    Jansen removed her cap and ran a forearm across her face. Without the hat she looked like a milk commercial, al blonde and healthy and lousy with vitality.

    “It’s hotter here than inMiami .”

    We al agreed it was hot.

    “Everything as it was, Officer?” Jansen asked, squinting through the viewfinder of a smal digital camera.

    “Except for dousing the flames.” Gul et.

    “Survivors?”

    “No one’s reported in to us.”

    “How many inside?” Jansen kept clicking away, moving a few feet left and a few feet right to capture the scene from different angles.

    “At least one.”

    “Your officers walked the area?”

    “Yes.”

    “Give me a minute?” Jansen raised the camcorder.

    Larabee gave a go-ahead gesture with one hand.

    We watched her circle the wreckage, shooting stil s and video. Then she photographed the rock face and the surrounding fields. Fifteen minutes later Jansen rejoined us.

    “The plane’s a Cessna-210. The pilot’s in place, there’s a passenger in back.”

    “Why in back?” I asked.

    “The right front seat’s not there.”

    “Why?”

    “Good question.”

    “Any idea who owns the plane?” Larabee asked.

    “Now that I have the tail registration number I can run a trace.”

    “Where’d it take off?”

    “That could be a tough one. Once you come up with the pilot’s name I can interview family and friends. In the meantime, I’l check whether radar had tracking on the flight. Of course, if it was only a VFR flight, radar won’t have an identifier and it’l be harder than crap to trace the plane’s course.”

    “VFR?” I asked.

    “Sorry. Pilots are rated as instrument flight rule or visual flight rule. IFR pilots can fly in al kinds of weather and use instruments to navigate.

    “VFR pilots don’t use instruments. They can’t fly above the cloud line or within five