bones_GEN

by Lila Dubois

  His words were the most beautiful, moving thing anyone had ever said to her. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and Melissa threw herself against him. Tristan gathered her against his chest, stroking her hair and whispering of her beauty and strength in French.

  “I’m falling in love with you too,” she whispered.

  “And if you weren’t, I would fuck you until you were.”

  Melissa let out a startled laugh, then smacked his chest. “You ruined the moment.”

  “Sex never ruins anything.” Tristan tipped his head down and grinned at her while wiggling his eyebrows.

  Melissa rolled her eyes and lay down on his chest once more. He really was perfect for her. As she drifted back to sleep, she was smiling.

  Chapter 15

  “Dr. Heavey!”

  Melissa looked up as Victor came running into the church. She set aside the damaged skull she was examining.

  “Victor?”

  “There’s a man with a knife threatening Susan!”

  “What?” Melissa stripped off her coveralls and tossed them in the bin. “You stay here. I’ll deal with it.”

  She blinked as she emerged into the midday sun and jogged through the gardens to the kitchen. “What’s going on?” she demanded as she burst through the exterior entrance.

  Susan, a tiny little half-Japanese girl, was standing protectively in front of a large stockpot with her arms spread. Tristan was looming over her, his arms crossed and a large knife clenched in one hand.

  “Get that out of my kitchen,” he shouted.

  “What are you doing?” Melissa demanded.

  Tristan looked at her, then relaxed.

  “Leave her alone,” she scolded him.

  “Wait, you’re speaking to me? Asking me what I’m doing?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am trying to run a restaurant. I’m trying to cook food for the horde of morbid gossips who’re demanding to eat in my restaurant.”

  Melissa waved that away. “You knew we’d need to clean some of the bones.”

  “I did not know that, and if I had, I would have told you not to do it in my kitchen.”

  “Well, that’s what I did before.”

  “And I hated it then.”

  “Just put that plastic back up.”

  “Non. The pub is full, and there were so many people waiting we had to open the restaurant. I’m serving pub food—fish and chips!—in my Michelin star potential restaurant.”

  Melissa pursed her lips. “So…we can use this section of the kitchen?”

  Tristan turned and stabbed the knife into a wood butcher block. “Non. It is your fault all these people are here.”

  “I really can’t see how it’s my fault.”

  “They’re here to see you, you and those bones.”

  Melissa narrowed her eyes. “They know?”

  “Yes. I told you if you brought in these people—” he gestured at Susan, “—that it would not stay a secret.”

  “Dr. Heavey, I didn’t tell anyone, I swear.” Susan looked panicked.

  “It’s fine, Susan. What’s important is that we don’t have anyone tramping around trying to get a look. I’m calling the Gardaí.”

  “What?” Tristan threw his hands in the air. “That is not what I want. More people…”

  “I thought you like feeding people.”

  “I like feeding them fine cuisine.”

  “Then make them order fine cuisine. I’m still calling Detective Sergeant Oren. The bodies aren’t a police concern, and I doubt they’ll open a case about the vandalism, but we’ll need the protection. Is Sorcha here?”

  “Yes, she’s with Elizabeth, in the lobby.”

  “Really? Okay, good. I can talk to both of them. Well…sort of.”

  Melissa marched past Tristan, who reached out and grabbed hold of her ponytail. She heard Susan gasp.

  “We are not done, Dr. Heavey.” He took hold of her shirt and pulled her close. His eyes were bright, and his lips were firm.

  He was so hot when he was angry.

  “Of course not.” Melissa gave him the prettiest smile she knew how to make, fluttered her lashes, then raised her voice and said, “Kitchen people, could you put up the plastic and section off this counter? Also, if you could clear out any other large pots, that would be helpful. We have quite a few more bones that I’m going to need to clean.”

  Tristan covered his face with one hand and cursed eloquently.

  Melissa nodded to Susan. “Keep going. I’ll be back.”

  Susan’s eyes were wide as she looked between Melissa and Tristan. Reminded that projects like this were meant to be learning experiences for students, Melissa patted Susan’s shoulder.

  “Don’t worry about Chef Fontaine. When you’re out in the field, you’re often confronted by resistance. What we do is upsetting to a lot of people. However, it’s never okay for someone to manhandle you the way Chef Fontaine just manhandled me. The reason I’m okay with it and didn’t address his behavior is because I’m sleeping with him.”

  She patted Susan a second time, then exited through the restaurant, going in search of Sorcha.

  *

  Tristan watched her disappear, then turned to look at the shocked faces of his staff. The grad student who’d defiled his kitchen giggled. He glared at her until she shut up. Jerking the knife out of the butcher block, he sighed and gave in.

  “Plastic. Get it up. Seal off this section.”

  The kitchen jumped into action, the sous chefs getting to work while the rest of them went back to filling orders. As Tristan called for a server and set a container of tartar sauce on a plate of fish and chips, he was smiling.

  That woman was maddening.

  He loved her.

  * * * *

  “We have a problem.”

  Melissa grunted, not really paying attention to the speaker. The clavicle she was examining had been broken and partially healed sometime before death. Broken clavicles weren’t uncommon, even in modern times. The bones were thin the way ribs were—they were for protection of organs rather than structural support.

  “Dr. Heavey.”

  This one had a spiral fracture more common in ankles or wrists, where the combination of weight and impact twisted the bones as they broke. The resulting calcification and new bone growth had created lumpy knobs that would have continued to grow as the bone healed. If this person had survived, the lumps of bone would have been visible under their skin.

  “Melissa.”

  She’d heard of instances where skiers and snowboarders had spiral rather than clean breaks of this bone, but she couldn’t imagine an equivalent activity that would have been common when this person was alive. Even being thrown from a horse wouldn’t cause this, unless it was a seriously odd fall.

  “Melissa!”

  Someone touched her shoulder, and Melissa looked up at Sorcha. “I believe this person was tortured,” she said.

  Sorcha opened her mouth, then closed it.

  “This break is unusual for this bone.” Melissa held up the clavicle to show Sorcha. The redhead paled and took a step back. “Though it’s possible that this person was injured in an accident and the angle of their fall was so uncommon that it caused this break.”

  Susan, who’d been cataloguing bones at another table, came running over when Melissa started talking. She switched her attention to the student, who would appreciate what she had to say more that Sorcha did.

  “Could it be a genetic deformity? The bone growth is huge,” Susan asked.

  “I can see why you would think that,” Melissa said, “but in this case what you’re looking at is a badly healed and unusual break. This bone—” Melissa reached toward Sorcha, who was closest to her, intending to use her as a model. Sorcha batted her hands away.

  Melissa shrugged, then pointed to her own clavicle. “Unlike a leg or arm bone, here there aren’t supporting muscles that will hold it in place as it heals. Clean breaks will set without too much excess growt
h, but this is a spiral break.”

  “But that’s a sports injury.”

  “Exactly. Now look at this.” Melissa set down the clavicle and motioned to the table, where she’d laid out the skeleton of this young man. He’d been seventeen or eighteen when he died, which might be an indication that his injury was due to an accident—Melissa had a cousin who’d broken ten bones by the time he turned twenty, most of them doing something stupid, but there was more to this story.

  “What am I looking for?” Susan’s tone was sheepish, as if she was embarrassed to ask.

  “The right wrist—bottom of the ulna and the triquetrum and the carpal bones.”

  “Melissa, I need to talk to you.” Sorcha’s words and tone were polite, but she was grinning in a way that seemed more feral than friendly.

  “What happened? Why are the carpal bones marked like this?” Susan had picked up a magnifying lamp and was holding it close to the table.

  Melissa wanted to talk Susan through it so the student would experience the thrill of putting the pieces together, but based on Sorcha’s attitude, she didn’t have time.

  “I believe he was hung by that wrist. Assuming his whole body weight was on his arm, after a time the joint would have weakened and his shoulder would have dislocated. Once that happened, his clavicle took the stress and weight. It wouldn’t have taken much to cause a break like this, especially if he were attempting to get away.” Melissa raised her right arm in demonstration, rotating her torso side to side.

  “He was hung by one arm and tortured until his shoulder dislocated and his bones started breaking.” Sorcha’s voice quavered and the grin was gone.

  “That’s my supposition. Susan, I have to go do whatever it is Sorcha needs. Take a minute and look over the bones again. Note any other marks.”

  “Any other evidence of torture.”

  “No, just other evidence. My hypothesis is only that. What we collect next may point to an accidental death.”

  Susan nodded. “I’m sorry. I won’t make assumptions. It’s just that it’s hard not to.”

  “I understand, and at a certain point contextual evidence can speed up the process. When I’m working on a mass grave, I don’t assume that a broken tibia was the result of a bike accident. I assume it was pre-mortem torture and check for other common bone notations.”

  With that, Melissa stripped off her gloves and gave Sorcha her full attention. “What do you need?”

  “Can you come with me?” Sorcha swallowed, looking away from the multiple skeletons that were laid out for examination. Her gaze lingered on the first skeleton they’d pulled out—Tadhg, who’d had broken ribs, a fractured skull and knife marks in the bones of his left hand that indicated three of his fingers had been cut off before his death. “There’s a problem.”

  They stopped at the door so Melissa could take off the suit, stashing it to use again. She made Sorcha detour to the graveyard so she could check on the progress. They had columns A through E of the grid cleared.

  “How many?” Sorcha asked when Melissa was done speaking with Dr. Drummond.

  “So far we have eleven. I’d estimate we’re about a quarter of the way through.”

  “That’s it? It’s been a week.”

  “A site like this should take months, if not years, to clear. We can’t go any faster.”

  They made their way into the garden, then headed back to the castle. Sorcha had had the groundskeeper create a stone path that led directly from the garden gate to the rear of the castle. Considering how often people were walking back and forth, that was a better solution than tromping on the plants.

  Melissa nodded to the patrolman who was leaning against the wall. He nodded back. Detective Sergeant Oren hadn’t wanted to send someone to guard the cemetery, but after some extended persuasion, and testimony from Tristan and Rory that someone had tried to rob the graves, he’d given in. They left out the part about who had been grave robbing, instead saying the person ran away.

  “So what’s the problem?” Melissa asked.

  “Two reporters showed up. They heard about what you’re doing.”

  “How?”

  “The glen is a small place. We’ve had far more people than normal coming through the pub and restaurant. I assume they’re curious.”

  “I heard all about the extra people who keep showing up. Tristan is less than pleased.”

  Sorcha’s lips twitched. “I heard he hasn’t been back to his apartment in a few days.”

  “He’s staying with me.”

  “I know. Congratulations.”

  “Congratulations? For what? Though I suppose it is an accomplishment to have someone that attractive and creative in my bed.”

  “Creative?” Sorcha raised one brow, then shook her head. “We’re getting off the subject.”

  “The reporters?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you need me?” Melissa asked as they started up the patio steps. Sorcha used a key to open the large doors that led into the morning room.

  “They know you’re excavating a cemetery, but they don’t know anything else.” Sorcha held up her hand to stop Melissa.

  “You mean they don’t know that it was purposefully desecrated.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What about the nursery?”

  “They know about that, but not that the people we found were murdered. One of them is under the impression that the room was sealed to prevent the spread of sickness. I didn’t say otherwise.”

  “That’s not a bad guess as to why a room, especially a nursery, would have been sealed. I’m still not sure why you need me.”

  “I need you to give them a story.”

  “You want me to tell them what I’m finding?”

  “No!” Sorcha practically shouted it, then cleared her throat. “No, please don’t. I should have said I need you to be the story.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re a famous scientist. I doubt they’d be here if it was just Dr. Drummond and other people from the museum. It’s news that we have such an important expert working with us.”

  “I don’t like media attention.” Melissa had turned down more than one reporter who’d wanted to write about what had happened to her in Ivory Coast.

  “I’m not asking you to give them any personal information. But if you could talk to them, give them something to write about without actually telling them that we had murdered children and their mother hidden away in a secret room, we would be grateful.”

  “You keep saying ‘we’.”

  Sorcha pursed her lips. “Elizabeth and I. She’s meeting with the reporters right now.”

  “They can see her?”

  “Yes. They shook her hand.”

  Melissa blew out a breath. “And did you talk to her?”

  “Of course I talked to her. She’s my boss.”

  “No, I mean, did you talk to her about the fact that she’s not real?” Melissa held up her hand. “Let me rephrase. It’s clear that she’s real to you. Did you talk to her about the fact that she’s not alive?”

  “I…didn’t.” Sorcha’s shoulders sagged. “I can’t believe it. I saw her disappear when you tried to touch her, but I just…”

  “It’s fine. I’ll talk to them. I can give them a lecture on the science of forensic anthropology. I think I have one of my standard keynote presentations on my laptop.”

  “That would be perfect. They’re in the Rose Room. I’ll take you there.”

  “Sorcha, wait.”

  “What is it?”

  “I think I understand what this place is—everyone I’ve met who works here is healing from something. This place is safe to you, to Tristan. I completely understand. That’s why I was in Dublin—my grandmother’s house is my safe place.”

  Sorcha looked shocked by her words, but nodded.

  “But you need to know that these secrets can’t be kept much longer. Whatever Glenncailty is now, in the past it was a dark place. It’s not just the woma
n and children we found in the nursery that were murdered. I think everyone in that graveyard was too.”

  “No…” Sorcha swallowed and looked away. “Maybe they were victims from one of the uprisings.”

  “I’m afraid not. From what we’ve seen of the headstones and what we’ve been able to reconstruct there’s a hundred-year time span represented—and all of it predates the remains in the nursery. I’ve heard of things like this, primarily in the Middle East.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “People who are killed by some authority, or a member of a ruling family, are sometimes placed in different burial grounds. Sometimes it’s a way of hiding the crime. Other times it’s a form of post-mortem torture for the deceased—the burial defying religious or cultural customs.”

  “You mean that people were killed by the Lord of Glenncailty, and then they were buried outside holy ground, damning them.”

  “Yes.”

  Sorcha crossed herself, then pressed her fingers to her lips. Melissa gave her a moment to pray. She understood the urge—two days ago, when the fifth body showed signs of unnatural death, she’d started to get a sinking feeling. Though she hoped she would be proved wrong, she would have bet money that she was right.

  “I love this place,” Sorcha said. “I shouldn’t—it’s haunted and holds so many secrets, but I love it. Without this job I would never have met Séan.”

  Melissa knew how she felt—without the bones, she would never have met Tristan.

  “I know we can’t keep it a secret forever, but I don’t think we’re ready to expose our secrets to the nation.”

  “That I agree with. I don’t like to present anything until the entire project is complete.”

  “Then you’ll speak with the reporters?”

  “I will.”

  “Thank you.”

  Melissa followed Sorcha into the Rose Room. Sorcha put a hand on her arm, stopping her just inside the door. Two men sat in armchairs facing an empty couch.

  “Elizabeth, do you have a minute?” Sorcha asked, squeezing Melissa’s arm.

  Melissa stepped to the side, standing perfectly still as Sorcha ushered empty air out the door. When the portal was closed, she took a seat on the couch and examined the reporters.

  “You both have some Mongoloid features. That’s interesting.”