Bones of the Lost

the donuts. I shook my head. He placed one on his plate, collected both mugs, and disappeared into the kitchen.
    On the sideboard, Gran’s clock tapped out its quiet metronome. Curled on his chair, Birdie snored softly. Out the window, a mockingbird trilled a Saturday-morning air.
    Pete returned and set coffee before me. Took his chair. Waited.
    At length, he asked, “Finished thinking?”
    “No.” I was.
    “You’ll go, right?”
    “When?”
    He pulled an envelope from the back pocket of his jeans, removed two papers, and laid them on the table.
    I glanced at each.
    Invitational travel orders.
    An e-ticket on Turkish Airlines. Charlotte-Douglas to Dulles International. Dulles to Istanbul.
    Leaving the next day.

THE REST OF that day was a nightmare of errands, packing, and last-minute arrangements. Ditto Sunday morning.
    Larabee had to be notified. Slidell. Dew. LaManche in Montreal. Katy.
    I tried Ryan, got voicemail. Big surprise there. Message: Gone to Afghanistan. Let him think about that.
    Not wanting an inquisition, I sent Harry an e-mail. An extremely vague one.
    I asked a neighbor to bring in the mail and papers. Dropped Birdie with Pete. Filled a prescription. Bought socks.
    You get the picture.
    Packing was a challenge. The Weather Channel said it might be hot, might be cold. Terrific. Figuring I could peel down, I erred in the direction of the latter.
    In addition to jeans, tees, and sweaters, I tossed in my usual crime-scene duds: khaki BDUs, khaki cap, desert boots, gloves. Saucy. I figured my hosts could supply any specialty gear needed.
    Sunday morning I also loaded files onto my MacBook Air. A template for an evidence transfer form. A template for a forensic anthropology case form. The latest version of Fordisc 3.0, a program for the metric analysis of unknown remains. A number of online osteology manuals. All probably unneeded, but I wanted to be fully armed.
    Last, I copied an article I was preparing for the
Journal of Forensic Sciences
. Unlikely I’d do any writing on this trip, but what the hell.
    The taxi rolled up at four. I was at Charlotte-Douglas in thirty minutes, through security in thirty more.
    Aviation miracle, the flight was on time. Three hours after leaving the annex, I was walking up a Jetway at Dulles.
    After locating the Turkish Airlines gate, I found the Virgin Atlantic lounge and burrowed in for my three-hour wait.
    Again, the gods were smiling. At 10:20 a voice announced my flight was boarding for an on-time departure.
    Thinking international travel wasn’t so bad, I queued up with my fellow business-class passengers, found my seat, stowed my belongings, and buckled my belt.
    I do not sleep well in flight.
    For the next ten hours I read, ate a reasonably good meal, tried a movie or two. Donned earplugs and eyeshades, reclined my seat, and tucked under the blanket. Sought positions in which all of my limbs enjoyed blood flow. Reoriented again and again. Raised the seat and turned on the light to read. Lowered the seat. Dialed up white noise on my phone. Tried another movie.
    Again and again I thought about Jane Doe. Assured myself I hadn’t abandoned her.
    Deplaning in Istanbul, I felt like I’d rowed the entire fifty-five hundred miles.
    The Turkish Airlines lounge was all gold and white, with circular arches separating bars, seating clusters, and food stations. The chairs and sofas would have looked stylish in any posh L.A. hotel. Wi-Fi. A pianist. Even a masseur. I could’ve lived in the place.
    I snagged a few hors d’oeuvres, then checked my e-mail.
    Katy and Ryan remained incommunicado.
    Not so Harry. Now panicked.
    Twenty-four hours had passed since my departure from Charlotte, almost none of that time spent sleeping. No way I was up to dealing with baby sister. I sent a follow-up message as vague as my first. Traveling. Catch up soon.
    My next flight was aboard a 737 whose interior had never experienced a facelift. I got the bulkhead row, which meant a wall in my face in exchange for an extra inch of legroom.
    The ride was bumpy. The coffee was Turkish and tasted like tar.
    Five hours after taking off, the pilot put down at Manas International Airport in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, the transit center for U.S. and coalition forces moving to and from Afghanistan.
    As we taxied through blackness, I attempted some math. My watch said it was 9 P.M. EST. Monday. I estimated it was Tuesday morning in Kyrgyzstan. That’s all the precision my sleep-deprived neurons could