Page 12 of The Bone Code
“Who the flipping flamingo knows?”
For years, Anne was married to an attorney named Tom Turnip. Decades back, when Tom was a second-year associate, a senior partner at his firm addressed him as Ted for an entire month. We’d called him Tom-Ted ever since. TT.
The marriage eventually ended. Long, unoriginal story. Anne walked away with a handsome settlement, including property at the Isle of Palms, South Carolina, known as IOP. Despite the financial spanking, she and TT remain friends. With benefits. Apparently, post-storm restoration was not among them.
“Anne, I can’t—”
“They’ve reversed the eastbound lanes on I-26 back to normal. You won’t have any problem getting here.”
“It’s not that.”
“Did you have much damage at your place?”
“No. But—”
“Are you working on anyhumongouscases?”
“No. But—”
“If your boss needs you, Charlotte is just three hours away.”
She had me there. And were the situation reversed, I knew Anne would drop everything to rush to my aid. She had in the past. More than once.
I looked at the clock.
“Fine.” Unnecessarily dramatic sigh. “It’ll take me at least an hour to secure the annex and pack a few things.”
“Hallelujah, Harry! The kitchen’s intact so I’ll mix us a whole passel of drinks with those little paper umbrellas in ’em. Virgin for you, of course. Thank God, I’ve got Fritos in the pantry.”
I promised an infusion of provisions and disconnected.
Turning, I saw Birdie watching me intently.
“Ready for a road trip?”
Totally noncommittal stare.
A quick call to Nguyen, minimal packing, a go at the tree limb jamming the back door, then we were off.
Driving across town was an experience I don’t wish to repeat. Broken branches and downed trees littered the streets, requiring U-turns and rerouting at several points. Traffic lights were malfunctioning at many intersections, forcing drivers to figure things out for themselves. Some were better at that than others.
Normally, it’s twenty minutes from the annex to I-77. That morning, it took sixty. With Birdie yowling the whole way.
Three hours after leaving Charlotte, I’d exited I-26 and gone several miles along I-526 when my phone rang for the third time that day.
Area code 843.
The call that would send my life off-kilter for weeks and alter my worldview forever.
“Temperance Brennan.” I answered, using speakerphone.
“Dr. Brennan. My name is Ebony Herrin.” The voice wasgravelly, neither high nor low. Based on pitch and cadence, I thought the caller might be black and male. Wasn’t sure on either. “I’m the newly elected Charleston County coroner.”
“How can I help you, Dr. Herrin?”
“No need for titles. I’m an RN.”
“How can I be of help?” Sir? Madam?
