The Bone Collection: Four Novellas

by Kathy Reichs

  “Gone today.” Snap. “Weird. She, like, lives here.”

  “Do you know Herman Blount?”

  “I’ve seen him.” She grinned, jaw working like a radial saw. “Me likey.”

  “When?”

  “With Doris. Twice last week. He seemed, like, intense.”

  “Any idea where I can find him?”

  “Naw. I never talked to the dude.” Pop. “Doris might be able to tell you.”

  “Do you know where she lives?”

  “Up Sample Road, ’bout a mile. You can’t miss the mailbox—it looks like an eagle.”

  Blount was last seen on Sample Road. Doris was uncharacteristically AWOL.

  I thanked the girl and hurried out. If Doris had stumbled onto something tying Blount to Edith’s murder, she could be in danger. If not, she might lead me to him.

  I did another crawl along Sample, this time scanning for the postal eagle. Spotting it, I hung a right.

  Half a mile down, the rutted, weed-choked drive ended at a seedy frame box that hadn’t seen paint since Hoover took office. I parked next to a Corolla with a HAWKS LOVE ME bumper sticker and got out.

  Three bowed steps led to a porch hosting a plastic table and a saggy armchair bursting its innards. I crossed to the door, instincts all prickly. Given Doris’s carefully constructed appearance, the squalor felt wrong. A private shame, unintended for guests.

  A note taped to the doorbell read “Broken. Please knock.” I did. No response. I waited a moment and knocked again, louder. Nothing. I recalled the Corolla, the bumper sticker. Was pretty sure the car belonged to Doris. My concern mounted.

  I took a moment and a breath to consider. Heard what sounded like muffled barking.

  Doris won’t like that. Odd, but that’s what my mind sent up.

  Circling the house, I spotted a structure about a hundred yards down an expanse of very dead grass. I set off.

  Drawing close, I could see that the shed was leaning badly, barely maintaining contact with its cracked foundation. The boards were weathered, the hardware corroded and orange with rust.

  To the shed’s right, a dozen indentations rippled the earth. Something cold traveled my spine. I dismissed the sensation as paranoia. Every depression isn’t a burial. And the hollows were too small to represent graves.

  Still, I stepped gingerly, avoiding branches that might snap underfoot. Stilling keys that might jingle in my pocket.

  Reaching the derelict building’s nearest door, I didn’t knock or call out. I tried the knob. It turned. I shoved. The door creaked back on its hinges.

  I squinted into the dim interior.

  My hands flew to my mouth. I tasted bile and felt tremors beneath my tongue.

  The stench hit first. An overpowering reek of urine and feces, like a wet blanket slapping my face and molding itself to my skin.

  A few deep breaths, then I stepped through the door. The building erupted in sound. A cacophony of yipping, whining, howling, and barking.

  My brain moved slowly, reluctant to process the horror my senses were taking in.

  Rows of cages ran the length of the shed. Double-decker. Thirty, forty, maybe a hundred.

  Jammed in each cage were anywhere from three to eight dogs, eyes crusty, snouts raw from contact with the rusty chicken wire. Many had obscene tumorous nipples hanging like stretched and distorted fruit from their bellies.

  My heart splintered.

  I’d read of them, opposed them on principle. But I’d never actually seen a puppy mill. Dogs living their entire lives in tiny prisons. No toys. No comfort. No love. No hope.

  I looked down the row. Saw cockers, Yorkies, Rottweilers, Labs. The larger breeds were in pens just three feet high, barely tall enough to allow them to stand or turn.

  Doris Kramer wasn’t a victim. She was a monster.

  Sweat began trickling down my back. The interior temperature had to be ninety-five. How could any creature endure these conditions?

  Knowing the barking would soon blow my cover, I reached for my iPhone. It wasn’t in my pocket.

  Panic threatened to overwhelm me. I’d left my mobile in the car. Who expected this?

  I steeled myself not to bolt. Not to wrench open the cages and let the dogs run free.

  If they could run. I suspected many could not.

  Slidell is coming, I told myself. He’ll get your message. He’ll follow the trail. But when?

  I inched toward the closest row of cages, murmuring soft, comforting sounds in my throat. Maybe words. Maybe not.

  The dogs watched my every move, flies buzzing their ears and crawling through their matted fur. Wary. As I drew close they shrank back as far as their cramped quarters would allow.

  The cages held no food or water. Feces smeared every surface and lay mounded where the walls met the floor.

  Fury exploded white-hot in my brain.

  Breathing through my mouth, I picked my way across excrement-coated concrete. Eyes followed me, sad, frightened, hopeful, lost.

  The odor was so strong it burned my eyes and the lining of my nose. As I crept deeper into the hellish gloom, another scent joined that of shit and pee and filthy fur. A scent I knew well.

  At the end of the first row of cages, a mound of dead puppies lay tossed on the ground. Sensing threat, a zillion flies lifted from the grisly heap in a buzzing black cloud.

  Appalled and dismayed, I took a step sideways. And nearly tripped.

  I looked down. A large, hairy arm obstructed my path. Connected to it was a large, hairy man. Below his head was an ominous dark pool.

  Herman Blount’s eyes were closed and his mouth was open. Blood ran from a gash in his forehead, across his temple, and into his hairline.

  I crouched and pressed two fingers to his throat. Felt a pulse, faint but steady.

  Had Blount made the same grisly discovery I had? Or was he involved, the animal-lover persona a ruse?

  Above the baying, I heard a muffled scrape. Dog? Something else?

  My eyes darted wildly. Took in a wheelbarrow, a shovel, a shelf filled with clippers, metal bowls, a tranquilizer gun, a box of orange darts.

  Beside the shelf, a pair of wall pegs held leashes. A slash of color peeked from the middle of the tangle.

  More stealthy scraping. A footstep?

  I held my breath. Thirty seconds. An eon.

  The barking had grown more furious, obliterating any possibility of separating sounds.

  I scooted closer to the pegs. Saw a bright red leash hanging among the others.

  Synapses fired.

  Doris Kramer ran a puppy mill. Edith Blankenship wandered the woods around it. Doris stood no more than five foot two.

  I had to reach Slidell. But how? Bolt and leave Blount?

  The canine frenzy was compromising my ability to think.

  Blount was bleeding. How bad was the wound? How long would he last?

  Drag two hundred pounds of Herman to my car? Definitely not a goer.

  In the corner of one eye I registered movement. A sudden shift of shadow and dimness.

  My head whipped around. I caught a glimpse of ratty cardigan. Something snakelike winging past my eyes.

  My hands flew to my neck. The snake settled over them.

  Cells in my brainstem fired orders to shield my windpipe. Neurons in my cortex overrode them. My hands slid sideways to protect my carotids.

  I heard raspy panting close at my ear. Smelled a mix of salty sweat and drugstore cologne.

  A stocky torso slammed against my spine, tensed. The deadly cord cut deeper into the backs of my hands. Dug viciously into the flesh of my throat.

  Black spots began to gather and cloud my vision. My lungs heaved, desperate for oxygen.

  The neurons shouted another demand.

  Do the unexpected!

  Moving like lightning, I dropped to a squat. The sudden change of angle threw my attacker off balance. As she pitched forward, I expanded the lasso outward, rolled to my back, and kicked out with both legs.
One boot connected with bone.

  A feral cry.

  Doris hit the concrete.

  The dogs went wild.

  I scrambled to my feet and clawed the leash from my shoulders. Tossed it sideways.

  Outrage and loathing overruled any instinct to flee. I wanted payback for the helpless creatures watching with terrified eyes.

  I swallowed to calm my heartbeat. To quell the fire in my throat.

  “Just toss them out like last week’s trash?” Gulping air. “How many puppies have you killed, you freak show?”

  “You hurt my leg.” Rubbing a shin.

  “The cops are on the way.” Please. “You’re going down for a very long time.”

  She snorted.

  “You’re a cold-blooded killer.”

  “A couple of dead dogs? You know the penalties in this state for animal cruelty? A slap on the wrist and a warning.”

  Balancing with both palms on the concrete, Doris slowly rose to her feet.

  I stood my ground, fingers gripping my sides to stop the shaking in my hands. She was right. Lax laws made North Carolina puppy mill central.

  “How about murder?” Rage hardened my voice. “You know the penalties for that?”

  “What are you talking about?” A little less confident.

  “Edith Blankenship.” Over the clamor, my voice was eerily calm.

  With amazing speed, Doris pivoted and snatched up the tranq gun. I saw a flash of orange. Knew the weapon was loaded.

  “That’s a discussion you can have with Edith,” Doris snarled.

  I backpedaled as fast as I could. My shoulders slammed a cage. The occupants went wild.

  I threw up my hands, images skittering in my brain. The ballistic syringe piercing my flesh. The immobilizing drug coursing through my veins. Doris approaching my unconscious body with the deadly leash.

  As I stared down the gun barrel, a denser denseness formed up in the gloom behind my assailant. My face must have changed.

  Doris turned. Gasped.

  Blount arced the shovel in a roundhouse swing at her head. The blade connected with a sickening crack. Doris flew back and lay still.

  Blount straightened. I caught a flash of blue stare below the mutilated brow.

  Our eyes locked.

  Blood pounded in my ears. Dogs bellowed around me. Would I now suffer the same fate?

  “Let’s find someone to care for these animals.”

  I needed no second invitation.

  Slidell visited me a few days later. I was at home, forced leave, Larabee’s order.

  “Nice scarf.”

  Doris’s leash had turned my neck into a Monet landscape of purple and yellow. I was covering the bruises with a bandanna featuring test tubes and beakers, a giveaway from some forensics outfit looking for business. Geek chic.

  “Souvenir?” Skinny gestured at the Rottweiler asleep on the floor.

  “Temporary boarder.” Hoarse.

  After we’d fled the horror show and called the cops, Blount had activated an animal rescue network. A swarm of volunteers moved in as soon as CSS released the scene. Dogs were taken to veterinarians, shelters, and homes. Most would make it. A few would not.

  In the chaos, the Rottweiler and I had bonded. She was with me until a permanent home could be found. Kind of a foster arrangement. I was calling her Edie, in honor of Edith. My cat, Birdie, was calling her devil incarnate, refusing to come out from under my bed.

  “Got a present waiting in your cooler.”

  I raised my brows in question.

  “Turns out Gaston Skip isn’t a complete waste of oxygen. Two days ago he busted a biker trail-riding through Kahn’s art-fart estate. Kid’s shitting his shorts, gives it up without a fight. Claims he wanted a peek at the legendary Hells Angels well of lost souls.”

  Again the brows. Saved wear and tear on my throat.

  “Seems there’s an abandoned well on Kahn’s property. Rumor has it the thing enjoyed regular intake in the eighties.”

  “Bodies?”

  “No. Tricycles. Of course I’m talking bodies.”

  I curled my fingers in a give-me-more gesture.

  “After Skip learns the kid’s story, he goes shaft-diving, does some digging and rock-lifting, finds a bunch of bones.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. I’m guessing it’s the rest of your John Doe. Skip figures recent flooding washed out the four he found on the beach.”

  “Edith Blankenship?”

  “Your gal Doris is looking at murder one.”

  “She’s OK?”

  “She ain’t dancing no jigs, but she’ll pull through.”

  “Motive?”

  “Like I told you, door A or door B. Love or money.”

  Amazing what you can ask without using words. Now I relied on upturned palms.

  “Both. The old broad was totally mental for anything with feathers. Her financials showed she was donating to a boatload of birdie outfits, including the raptor center. The puppies gave her extra liquidity to take the load off birds. Blankenship intended to shut her down.”

  We sat in silence a moment, thinking about that.

  “We found Edith’s phone wedged between two beams in the back of the shed. Smashed to shit. But the tech boys were able to recover some pics from the memory. Dogs, kennels, a pile of rotting puppies. The kid probably stumbled across the place, wanted evidence to blow a big friggin’ whistle. Doris caught her and took her out.”

  “The leash?”

  “Lab guys lifted a couple hairs, some blood. They’re testing for DNA. They’re also running comparisons on the red fiber you pulled from the vic’s neck bone. It’ll come back to Blankenship.”

  “Doris dumped the body?” Four words. It hurt.

  “She’s tough, but for that she needed help. She has a son, retarded or slow or whatever. Works part-time as a forklift driver at some warehouse. She muscled Blankenship into the bag, then called sonny. Told him to take his rowboat way out onto the lake and toss it. Said there were dead dogs inside. Made him swear not to open the zipper.”

  Sweet Jesus.

  “Blount?”

  “That ass-hat’s gonna live, too. Turns out our little chit-chat set the guy off. Blount liked Blankenship. Was pissed the kid got whacked. So, caped crusader that he is, he goes snooping, stumbles across Doris’s shit show. Poetic, ain’t it? The old lady belts him with a shovel, he uses the same shovel to belt her back.”

  “The Olsens?”

  “I’m guessing Casanova’s investing in flowers.”

  “His wife found out?”

  Slidell shrugged. “Not from me.”

  Way to go, Skinny.

  “Emmett Kahn?”

  “Investing in fencing. Oh, and you’re gonna love this. He’s commissioned one of his bohemian buddies to make a giant owl sculpture. Plans to call it Essence of Edith.”

  With that, he took his leave.

  So my John Doe might be a fallen Hells Angel. Made sense. Arthritic lower back from years of bouncing on a Harley. Burned ankle from contact with a hot exhaust pipe.

  I pictured Edith roaming the woods, eyes moving from the trees to the ground at her feet. Finding a pellet and slipping it into her pocket.

  Not knowing she had but a pocketful of hours to live.

  But I didn’t want to think about death today. Finally take that jog around the Booty Loop? Go for a drive? Bad idea in a scarf. Ask Isadora Duncan.

  Edie padded over and placed her chin in my lap. I rubbed her ears. She rolled big caramel eyes up to mine. Rotated the eyebrow whiskers above them.

  I thought about the horror she’d survived. Feared the memories would stay with her always. As they would with me.

  Still, she found love in her heart for humans. I hoped I’d always be like Edie. Given my line of work, I am sometimes pessimistic about my species. But I do understand. The good in humanity outweighs the bad.

  Suddenly, I knew what to do with my day. I grabbed my phone and dia
led a friend at The Charlotte Observer.

  “Is there still time to get an op-ed into this Sunday’s paper?” I asked.

  “What topic?” she asked.

  I told her.

  “Deliver by five today, I’ll see what I can do.”

  With Edie on my heels, I hurried to my desk, booted my laptop, and typed a headline:

  OPT TO ADOPT—STOP THE HORROR OF PUPPY MILLS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  As a forensic anthropologist, I see the malice humans cause one another. As the owner of five rescue animals, I’m distressed by cruelty to all species. Occasionally, these paths intersect.

  Early in my career, on a warm Monday in May, a heartbreaking case arrived at my lab in Montreal. Police recovered a burlap bag on the shore of a small lake in southern Quebec. It contained bones and a pair of bricks. My job was to determine if the remains were human.

  They weren’t. These were the skeletons of four puppies. The helpless creatures had been bagged, weighted down, and drowned.

  Thoughts of those puppies stayed with me for a very long time. I imagined their terror as the water closed around them. Their desperate attempts to escape. To breathe.

  I am a tolerant person, but animal abuse is a sin I cannot forgive. And nothing is more abusive than a puppy mill.

  A puppy mill is a “factory farm” for dogs. Some are legal, some not. Government regulation is lax, if it exists at all. The “crops” are raised in cages. Females are bred as frequently as possible, and discarded when no longer fertile. It’s a life with no joy, no love, no hope. The dogs are sick, starved, and sad. They have never played on the grass or run through a field.

  Thousands of people buy dogs from puppy mills annually, most believing they are getting their pets from a responsible source. Inhumane breeders seduce buyers into “puppy love,” either in pet stores or through online photos. The Humane Society estimates there are ten thousand puppy mills across the country. Collectively, they sell two million to four million puppies each year. My home state of North Carolina is one of the worst offenders, requiring no inspections and having no laws governing breeders’ sales.

  You can help prevent animal abuse. Here are eight things you can do to stop the horror of puppy mills: