Another crack. A muffled thud.
Feet pumping, I chose speed over furtiveness. Far from quiet, I stumbled through the dark, snapping twigs, splashing mud, panting for air.
Spotting a stand of live oaks, I aimed for the largest and flattened my back against its trunk. Pain knifed both my sides. My lungs screamed for air. Sweat stung my eyes.
I struggled to slow my breathing and the thumping of my heart, all the while straining to listen for signs of pursuit.
Every sound seemed menacing. Was that wind or a snake slithering through leaves? A croaking frog or a gator testing its voice? A marsh bird or a clip snapping into a Glock?
I closed my eyes and tried to visualize the route I’d driven to the Cypress brothers’ shack. Failed. Decided to continue in the direction I was headed, hoping to reach a canal or road. Placing each foot carefully, I set off again. Stealth my priority now.
Suddenly, the trees thinned and the ground dropped off abruptly. Realizing too late, I lost my balance and, arms pinwheeling, careened downward into knee-deep mud and brackish water.
End of the hammock. For the first time all night, I was grateful there was no moon. Feeling exposed, I slip-slid back up the bank and, making myself as small as possible, crouched to regroup.
“What the buzzard!” For the second time, a disembodied voice caused me to flinch.
A new round of adrenaline firebombed through me. I slid back into the muck, but the marsh grass provided little cover. Swim? The shore of the hammock curved sharply to my left. A short underwater trip and I could be out of sight.
“Don’t move,” the voice ordered.
Not Pierce, but who?
Trying not to show movement, I ran my fingers through the slime at my feet, groping for a rock, a stick, anything to serve as weapon.
“You might as well holler ‘Here, gator gator.’ ” The voice was male. Familiar.
“Jordan?” I hissed. Friend or foe? Why was he here?
“Who’s askin’?”
“Tempe.”
No response.
“The bone doc.”
“What the hell are you doing in the swamp at night?”
Water rippled to my left. Close. I turned only my head, slowly. Saw nothing.
I was about to reply to Jordan, when something smooth and solid brushed my arm underwater. Something thick and long. Very long.
My heart leapt into my throat.
“Dammit,” Jordan boomed. “You just cost me a sixteen-footer.”
A tall shadow shaped up on the hammock and splashed toward me. A strong hand wrapped my upper arm and yank-lifted me up the bank.
“One more second and she’da gone for that crane.” His words didn’t penetrate. “I’da had her.”
“Shut up!” I was desperate to quiet him.
“What kind of stunt are you tryin’ to pull?”
“Listen to me right now.” I thrust my face close to his and put all the force I could into a loud whisper. My intensity got his attention. “Scott Pierce killed Kiley James. Buck Cypress. Maybe all three brothers. Now he’s trying to kill me.”
“The NPS cop?” Dubious, but at a more subdued volume.
“Pierce is armed and crazy. Believe me or don’t, but we need to move fast. Where’s your boat?”
Jordan jerked a thumb over one shoulder.
“Let’s go. Now.”
Nothing gave Pierce away until the bullet hit Jordan. The big man spun, face contorted, then flopped into the water at my feet. I dropped, too, and huddled behind his bulk.
Pierce charged from the hammock, Glock leveled in two outstretched hands. I was preparing to dive when Jordan fountained up from the water, arm rising in one smooth move, a handgun aimed at Pierce.
Jordan squeezed the trigger. Crack! Pierce stumbled backward, a dark circle blossoming on his chest. Jordan held position, feet spread, gun steady, as the ranger cop staggered and fell into the marsh.
Serpentine ripples glided toward Pierce. Something dark and slender flicked below the surface and was gone.
Pierce flexed to lift his gun.
The gator struck.
Pierce struggled, but the animal lunged from the shallows and clamped its powerful jaws on the ranger’s upper arm. The scream was high and piercing. And brief.
Pierce twisted and flailed as the gator dragged him deeper. Then the rolling began. I couldn’t watch. I couldn’t look away.
Desperate thrashing as the gator revolved a helpless Pierce over and over. Seconds. Minutes. An aeon. Then the marsh was quiet. The water dark and opaque, enveloping its terrible secret.
My eyes flew to Jordan. The wrangler stood frozen. I felt sick.
“Should we …?” I let my question dangle.
“Out. Get out of the water.” Jordan put a surprisingly gentle hand on my back and guided me up onto shore. His other arm was crooked inward at an odd angle. A river of black stained his khaki shirt, its origin in the region of the collarbone.
Jordan saw my pale face. My expression of horror.
“What could you have done?” he said quietly.
I had no answer.
“Enough for one night,” Jordan said. “Let’s hit that boat.”
Chapter Eleven
“How was your day?” I called from the hammock when the patio door slid open.
Lisa dropped into a chair and kicked off her shoes. “In addition to python guts, I got a mallard that dive-bombed into a ranger’s Ford pickup.”
“Grilled duck for dinner?”
She laughed. “Let’s stick with tacos.” Her face grew serious. “How are you doing?”
Lisa had been fluttering over me ever since the Great Glades Gunfest.
“I’m peachy.” I really was. I’d spent three days sleeping late, snorkeling, sunning on the beach, and lazing in the hammock, book spread open on my chest as I napped. Reading by osmosis. I’d even gone back to the national park to hike. Turns out an Everglades vacation isn’t so bad.
“Want to talk?” she asked way too casually.
“Lisa, my only problem is a paper cut from a postcard for Katy.” I held up a finger. “What do you want to know?” She’d waited three days to ask for specifics, giving me space.
“Everything. What happened? Why’d he do it?”
“Scott Pierce was poaching big time. Mega-irony. Kiley learned of it via the Eugene fashion sisters. The dolts put her in a pair of albino-snakeskin pants for a shoot. The skin had an unusual marking pattern. Kiley knew it came from a microchipped python that had been released in the national park.”
“Wait. I thought the park service was trying to kill the snakes?” Lisa was confused.
“They chip-and-release some males during the breeding season, hoping the transmitter will lead them to mating aggregations where they can catch more snakes, especially reproductive females.”
“Kiley actually recognized an individual python?”
“It was an albino with distinctive markings.” I bet the Eugene sisters went batshit over the white-on-white hide. “Since pythons like to stay within fairly limited home ranges, Kiley knew the snake had to have come from the national park. Pythons can find their way home even when relocated twenty miles away.” I was becoming quite the herpetologist. “The notes I found in Kiley’s locker were a listing of the albino python’s last transmitter coordinates.”
“And harvesting from the park is illegal.”
“Felony. Kiley was waging war against poachers. The main reason she took the modeling gig was to fund her crusade.”
“How’d she finger Pierce?”
“Actually, the one she nailed was Buck Cypress. Using the albino’s transmitter coordinates, she set up surveillance. Caught Buck on tape pulling a female.”
“Buck worked for Pierce.”
“Yes.”
“Rangers are supposed to protect wildlife.” Lisa’s tone was a mix of repugnance and outrage. “Why’d he do it?”
“Same reason most people kill. Money. Pierce works a python beat, knows
that illegally traded skins are a billion-dollar annual industry.”
“Seriously?”
“European fashion designers are rabid for snakeskin. In Indonesia, Malaysia, Cambodia, and Vietnam wild pythons are quickly becoming endangered.”
“Which drives prices up. Which creates a black market.”
“Bingo. The Eugenes bought local on the cheap. Not just pythons, either. Alligators, too.”
The Miami Herald had run a front-page story covering the raid on the Eugene production factory. I’d particularly liked the above-the-fold shot of the four ladies shielding their faces as they hurried from a downtown cop shop. The caption read: “Snake harmers.” One photo op the sisters would rather have skipped.
“Aren’t there plenty of legal skins? From the extensive python hunting?”
“Not enough to make serious coin, legal or otherwise. Especially since hunters can’t harvest in the national park.”
“But Pierce was. Hunting in the park.”
“More than that. He was capturing wild females and breeding them.”
“Grow your own. Also illegal.”
“Very. Breeding is prohibited by federal law. Violation carries up to five years of jail time.”
“All these new laws to address the python problem.” Lisa sighed. “It’s a bit of closing the stable door after the horse has bolted.”
“True. And the regulations create a perfect climate for illicit trade. Current breeders are grandfathered, but they can’t transport or sell snakes across state lines. In Florida, ownership of a python requires a hundred-dollar annual permit. If the snake has a diameter greater than two inches, a tracking microchip must be implanted. Owners also have to prove their handling skills. The U.S. snake-loving community is huge, and the reptile industry trade association is up in arms, suing to overturn what they view as overly restrictive laws.”
“Lots of incentive to go rogue.”
“That and the moolah,” I said.
“Pierce was in it for the cash. How did the Cypress brothers fit in?”
“They ran the day-to-day operations. Cops found cages full of breeding females and hatchlings on their property. The brothers fed, killed, and skinned the snakes. Had a setup for tanning—that’s how they remove and treat the skins. Made the deliveries.”
“Why’d Pierce kill Buck?”
“With Kiley, Buck, and Pierce all dead, it’s hard to know for certain. Our best guess is that Kiley went to confront Buck. Pierce showed up, and she put two and two together. Pierce shot her, then did Buck to cover his tracks. Yellen’s deputies found a chain saw in a shed on Pierce’s property, blood and tissue in the blade. Guy’s a sociopath.”
“The good lookers often are.” Lisa rose. “I’d better clean up. We’ve got to go soon.”
I gave a thumbs-up. “Ready when you are.”
Through the screen I heard a double chime.
“I’ll get it. You go get ready.” I rolled from the hammock and headed through the house to the front door.
There on the porch was Sheriff T. Yellen. “Howdy,” he said.
I gave him a “Come in” gesture. Yellen followed me to the kitchen and perched unsteadily on a stool.
“Big week for you,” I said. “Nabbed an arsonist and a murderer, shut down a meth lab, and busted an illegal snakeskin op.”
Yellen flapped a dismissive hand. “It’s Florida. You headin’ home soon?”
“Tomorrow,” I said. I thought about the call I’d gotten from the ME in Charlotte. About the calls I hadn’t gotten from Andrew Ryan. Wondered where he was. What we’d say to each other if ever he phoned.
Nope. Not tonight.
“They find Pierce?” I asked.
Yellen shook his head. “Not likely to. Gators drown their prey real solid. After the death roll, the ole boy probably jammed Pierce under a submerged log for marinating. He’ll dine at his leisure.”
All righty then.
“And the Cypress brothers?” I asked.
“Swamp rats are either too stubborn or too stupid to die. They lost a lot of blood, but they’ll both make it.”
Me too, I thought. I estimated I was a quart down due to mosquito consumption.
Yellen went on. “Ernie’ll get a pass, ’cause of his limited thinkin’ ability. He probably knew nothing about the murders, and wouldn’t have understood the snake operation. Kid’s got no criminal record. But Deuce’ll serve time enough for the both of ’em.”
“For murder?”
“Poaching and breeding. The killing’s all on Pierce. I’ll be thanking the next gator I see for saving the state the cost of a trial.”
We were quiet another moment.
“Nice shirt.” The pink and blue Hawaiian print stretched across Yellen’s paunch like a tablecloth at a luau.
“Nice whirly-do you got going with your hair,” Yellen snarked back.
“Gotta look good for my first rodeo.” I grinned.
Yellen grinned back. Then held up four tickets stamped HOMESTEAD CHAMPIONSHIP RODEO. “Southernmost ropin’ in the continental US of A. Consider it your paycheck from the great state of Florida.”
“Will Jordan meet us there?” I picked up my purse.
“Yep. Got his heart set on riding a bull. Give new meaning to the name Dusty.”
“Ready!” Lisa joined us, now in denim, a tee, and a cowboy hat. “Let’s go watch us some wrangling!”
We trooped out into the soft Florida evening.
Not such a bad vacation after all.
Acknowledgments
As usual, I owe a debt of gratitude to others for their help on Swamp Bones: For her intriguing data about forensic ornithology, the aptly named Dr. Carla Dove, head of the Feather Identification Lab at the Smithsonian Institution. For his knowledge of pythons and all things Everglades, Dr. Skip Snow, retired Everglades National Park wildlife biologist. For his helpful information about National Park Service operations, National Park ranger extraordinaire Pete Lundberg. And I want to thank my daughter, author Kerry Reichs (The Best Day of Someone Else’s Life, Leaving Unknown, What You Wish For), for bringing the story of pythons in the Everglades to my attention, and for her unparalleled research skills. Any mistakes or inaccuracies are, of course, mine.
BY KATHY REICHS
Bones Never Lie
Bones of the Lost
Bones Are Forever
Flash and Bones
Spider Bones
206 Bones
Devil Bones
Bones to Ashes
Break No Bones
Cross Bones
Monday Mourning
Bare Bones
Grave Secrets
Fatal Voyage
Deadly Décisions
Death du Jour
Déjà Dead
Bones in Her Pocket (short story)
YOUNG ADULT FICTION (WITH BRENDAN REICHS)
Exposure
Code
Seizure
Virals
Swipe (novella)
Shift (novella)
KATHY REICHS is the author of sixteen New York Times bestselling novels featuring forensic anthropologist Temperance Brennan. Like her protagonist, Reichs is a forensic anthropologist—one of fewer than one hundred ever certified by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology. A professor in the department of anthropology at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, she is the former vice president of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences and serves on the National Police Services Advisory Council in Canada. Reichs’s own life, as much as her novels, is the basis for the TV show Bones, one of the longest-running series in the history of the Fox network.
kathyreichs.com
Facebook.com/KathyReichsBooks
@KathyReichs
Kathy Reich’s bestselling novels have captured the attention of millions of readers and serve as the basis for Bones, the longest-running drama on the Fox television network.
Read on for an excerpt from Dr. Temperance Brennan’s next th
rilling case,
Bones Never Lie
Chapter 1
I received the message first thing Monday morning. Honor Barrow needed me at an unscheduled meeting.
Not what I wanted, with cold germs rolling up their sleeves in my head.
Nevertheless, coming off a weekend of Sudafed, Afrin, and lemon-honey tea, instead of finishing a report on a putrefied biker, I joined a billion others slogging uptown in rush-hour traffic.
By seven forty-five, I was parked at the back of the Law Enforcement Center. The air was cool and smelled of sun-dried leaves—I assumed. My nose was so clogged, I couldn’t sniff out the difference between a tulip and a trash can.
The Democrats had held their quadrennial soirée in Charlotte in 2012. Tens of thousands came to praise or protest and to nominate a candidate. The city had spent $50 million on security, and as a result, the ground floor of the Law Enforcement Center, once an open lobby, now looked like the bridge of the starship Enterprise. Circular wooden barrier. Bulletproof glass. Monitors displaying the building’s every scar and pimple, inside and out.
After signing the register, I swiped my security card and rode to the second floor.
Barrow was passing as the elevator hummed to a stop and opened. Beyond him, through the door he was entering, arrows on a green background directed Crimes Against Property to the left, Crimes Against Persons to the right. Above the arrows, the hornet’s-nest symbol of the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department.
“Thanks for coming in.” Barrow barely broke stride.
“No problem.” Except for the kettledrums in my head and the fire in my throat.
I followed Barrow through the door, and we both turned right.
Detectives crowded the corridor in both directions, most in shirtsleeves and ties, one in khaki pants and a navy golf shirt featuring the intrepid wasp logo. Each carried coffee and a whole lot of firepower.
Barrow disappeared into a room on the left marked by a second green sign: 2220: Violent Crimes Division. Homicide and assault with a deadly.
I continued straight, past a trio of interview rooms. From the nearest, a baritone bellowed indignation in strikingly inharmonious terms.