Page 71 of Evil Bones
“Initials?” I tossed out.
“Hot damn. Chalk up the solve,” Slidell said sarcastically.
“Physical education? Petroleum engineer? Pulmonary embolism?” Piqued by Slidell’s sarcasm, I began voicing whatever popped to mind.
“Are you trying to piss me off?” Slidell sounded as irked as I felt.
“I don’t hearyoumaking any brilliant guesses,” I said, wrist-wiping sweat from my face.
“This scumbag thinks he can screw with animals ’cause they don’t count for nothing.” Slidell was again thinking out loud. “Maybe rob a grave or two. Either play buys a slap on the wrist.”
“He’s not wrong on that.”
“Yeah? He’s wrong on one thing.” Skinny’s face had deepened to thecolor of a pickled beet. “No one messes with people’s pets on my turf. No how. No way.”
Ryan had commented on Skinny’s protective attitude toward animals. A character trait my years of interaction with him had not revealed.
Slidell jabbed a thumb at the inverted man on the tree. “This vic look human to you?”
“Obviously.”
“The body’s still fresh?”
“The flies think it’s fresh enough.”
“That’s it.” Breathing hard, Skinny yanked his mobile from his belt. “This asshole’s gone beyond sick pranks. Now he’s looking at a murder-one charge.”
Slidell was punching buttons when we heard the gate creak.
Startled, we both turned.
CHAPTER 16
The nun looked like an extra from a movie set in wartime Poland. Even before arthritis crooked her spine, she couldn’t have claimed more than five feet in height. All other personal details—weight, figure, hair color—were hidden by the old-style black-and-white bandeau squaring off across her forehead and the veil and habit draping her body.
Trailing the ancient nun was a younger woman with mousy brown hair cut in no discernible style. Her face, though pallid and creased, was devoid of makeup. Her outfit of white blouse, gray skirt, ankle socks, and flats was as bland as attire can be and still qualify as clothing.
My spine suddenly straightened. Muscle memory resulting from years of admonishment concerning my posture. Noting a squaring of Slidell’s shoulders, I wondered if he’d also been the victim of parochial schooling.
“It’s the devil’s work.” The croaky proclamation was accompanied by the raising of one knobby, blue-veined hand.
Taken aback, I said nothing. Ditto Slidell.
The nun worked the familiar pattern on her forehead, sternum, and shoulders. Then she crossed her arms and shot her hands up under her sleeves.
Nun pose. The phrase floated back, forgotten for years.
As a kid I’d often pondered the secrets of those billowy recesses. I knew the sleeves served as temporary repositories for tissues, used and unused. But what else? An extra missal? A spare battery? A loaded Glock 19?
“I apologize,” the younger woman said, proffering a hand. “I’m Sister Mona Bierhals.”
“Temperance Brennan.”
We shook. The woman’s grip made me think of tapioca.
“Sister Adelbert has been quite unnerved since spotting that abomination in the tree.”
“I understand,” I said, before Skinny could open his mouth. “I’m sure the experience is upsetting for her.”
