Bones of the Lost

ankle. I regretted the words as soon as they were out.
    Katy’s jaw set.
    “Sorry,” I said. “I’ve had a long day.”
    “I’m doing my job, Mom, same as you do yours. You came here. I came here. We both knew we weren’t heading to Club Med.”
    “You’re right. Crazoid. I’m sorry.”
    Katy’s expression softened.
    “Don’t be sorry. I’d be crushed if you didn’t worry. Who else will do it for me?”
    We ordered snacks and coffee strong enough to give a pachyderm the shakes. Ongoing conversation was confined to safe subjects. Happenings back in Charlotte. Pete’s upcoming wedding to Summer.
    Before long Katy put her hand on mine.
    “Early day tomorrow. And you look like you’re flying on fumes.”
    “I am. And I also have to be up at dawn.”
    I paid the bill. We rose. Katy turned to go. Turned back, mischief in her eyes.
    “And thanks.”
    “For what?” I had no idea.
    “For not dissing my hair.”
    When Katy left, a good chunk of my heart went with her. But I would see her again soon.
    Walking through the dark, I debated. Shower? Hit the DFAC for more food and ice to pack my ankle?
    Screw it.
    Back at the B-hut, I set my iPhone alarm, removed my jeans, and slipped into bed.
    I drifted off to the sound of engines screaming overhead.

I AWOKE TO the sound of engines screaming overhead.
    My ankle was better but my head throbbed, a combination of jet lag, lack of proper dinner, and thin desert air.
    I dressed hurriedly and checked e-mail. Nothing from Larabee. Eight days since the girl had been found. I feared my hit-and-run case was rapidly cooling.
    At the DFAC, I scored eggs and hash browns, poured coffee, and found an empty table. I’d barely started eating when Blanton slumped into the chair opposite, a dark crescent under each of his eyes.
    “Another day in paradise.”
    Bits of bacon clung to the stubble above Blanton’s lip. I considered telling him. Didn’t.
    “Sleep well?”
    Blanton pulled down a lower lid to expose the bloodshot sclera. “Like a baby.”
    “That going to be a problem, Mr. Blanton? Lots of detail work today.”
    “By you, not me.”
    “I’ll need everything documented.”
    “This ain’t my first rodeo, my dear.” Blanton smiled, saluted, and headed off.
    As I finished my coffee, I considered. Did this jerk actually make Slidell look good? My mug hit the tray. No. But the gap was closing.
    Welsted and the village delegates were already at the hospital when I arrived.
    “The remains have been X-rayed.” Welsted filled me in as we walked to the room we’d been assigned. “Shall I have them brought here?”
    “Please. Where are the films?”
    “On one of the gurneys.”
    When she’d gone I looked around.
    White tiles, two spare gurneys, a floor-stand surgical light, portable illuminator boxes, two deep-basin steel sinks with counter, a small collection of cutting tools, calipers, and a magnifying lens. Not what I had in Charlotte or Montreal, but it would do.
    Blanton joined us as an orderly wheeled the remains through the door and, without comment, began setting up his camera equipment. The two villagers observed, bodies tense, eyes never resting. Each looked jumpy enough to need pharmaceuticals.
    I crossed to Welsted and spoke in a whisper. “It might be better if they watched from next door.” I tipped my head toward an observation window in the wall above the sinks.
    “I’ll go with them,” Welsted offered.
    Moments later a light went on and the three appeared on the far side of the glass.
    Nodding encouragement to them, I slipped Rasekh’s X-rays from their envelope and popped them onto light boxes.
    As I moved from plate to plate, flicking switches, my heart sank.
    Rasekh had been aboveground when the mortar hit. We’d spent close to an hour re-excavating the body bag from under fallen soil and rock. All night I’d worried that the avalanche had damaged the bones.
    I studied the remains glowing white inside the shroud. The long bones looked reasonably intact, but the torso was a jumble and the skull was crushed. Nothing was articulated. Rasekh was in much worse shape than I’d feared.
    I sent a confident smile toward the faces in the window. Confidence I didn’t feel.
    “You ready?” To Blanton, as I blew into a latex glove.
    “All systems go.”
    Blanton started the camcorder. I pulled out my iPhone and dictated the time, date, place, and names of those present. Then I masked.
    As I unzipped Rasekh’s bag, a musty, earthy smell