Speaking in Bones by Kathy Reichs Page B

Slamming to a stop beside my Mazda, Hazel Strike killed the engine and flew from the car, showing none of the restraint the dog had exhibited.

    As Strike stormed toward us, Ramsey spread his feet and curled one end of the leash around a palm. Gunner tensed.
    “Didn’t know we’d have company,” a scowling Strike said to me, back pointedly turned to Ramsey.
    “Mrs. Strike, this is Deputy Ramsey.”
    “Don’t see no reason for an army of cops.” A tiny vein snaked the center of Strike’s forehead, blue and sinuous and pumping like mad.
    Unsure of the source of Strike’s anger and, frankly, not caring, I ignored the comment. “The dog’s name is Gunner.”
    More of the hard stare, then Strike started to speak. I cut her off.
    “Deputy Ramsey and I will walk Gunner in a systematic pattern, using standard search procedure. If remains or evidence are found, all materials will be photographed in place, then sealed into containers following chain of custody protocol. You may come along if you walk directly behind us in terrain that’s already been searched. If that’s unacceptable, I will have to ask you to wait up here in your car.” Firm, and not all that gentle.
    “Christ almighty,” Strike said to the sky, maybe swearing, maybe praying.
    Feeling a bit guilty for my brusqueness. “Can you point out where you found the key chain recorder?”
    “Course I can. I’m not an idiot.”
    I turned to Ramsey. “The remains were discovered ten yards downslope, on the Brown Mountain side.” The night before, I’d reviewed the file on ME229-13. And the lousy photos provided by Opal Ferris. “I’ll get my kit and meet you at the guardrail.”
    Ramsey reclipped Gunner’s leash, and the two led the way. I followed. Strike brought up the rear.
    Below the guardrail, the gradient dropped sharply. As we picked our way downhill, clutching branches of mountain laurel to keep from sliding, I could hear Strike panting above and behind me. And feel the crosshairs of her glare on my back.
    Twenty feet of fighting gravity brought us to a fairly wide ledge. Though the yellow-pink dawn had yielded to crystalline blue day, towering loblolly pines blocked practically every square inch of sky. Perpetual shadow created by the overhead branches and the steep valley sides kept the space between trunks devoid of underbrush. A thick carpet of needles covered the ground.

    Slipping my pack from my shoulders, I pulled out Ferris’s pics and searched them for a landmark. The others watched, Strike panting, Ramsey stoic. Or bored.
    Around me, every tree looked the same. In my mind, I reviewed Ferris’s verbal description. Though it wasn’t stellar, from the wording I suspected we’d descended at the same end of the guardrail that she had.
    “According to Ferris, the remains were found scattered over in that direction.” I pointed east.
    We set out, needles soft and spongy beneath our boots. We hadn’t gone five yards when Strike spoke, sounding winded and sulky.
    “That tree. There. That’s where I picked up the key chain.”
    I turned, wondering at the woman’s certainty. At the clues she was noting that I was not.
    Behind me, Ramsey asked,“What key chain?”
    I gestured that I’d fill him in later. Gunner continued snuffling the ground, still on task.
    “You’re sure?” I asked Strike.
    “Can we skip the part where you and Johnny Law both act like I’m dumbass stupid?”
    Not waiting for a directive, Strike veered toward a pine that looked identical to the others around it. I followed. So did Ramsey and Gunner.
    “That’s my mark.” Strike pointed to a V-shaped gash in the bark, three feet up the trunk. “Made it with my knife.” She dropped to one knee and brushed back needles, revealing half-buried roots worming across the ground. “Thing was right there.” Indicating a recess where two gnarly tributaries V’ed together.
    I looked at Ramsey. He looked at me.
    “This tree’s as good a starting point for our grid