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MONDAY MOURNING
by Kathy Reichs
Published by POCKET BOOKS
a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
ISBN: 0743453018 Copyright (c) 2004 by Temperance Brennan, LP
The secrets of the dead are in her hands.
The bones of three young women are unearthed in the
basement of a Montreal pizza parlor, and forensic
anthropologist Tempe Brennan has unsolved murder on her
mind as she examines the shallowly buried remains. Coming
up against a homicide cop who is convinced the dead have
been entombed on the site for centuries, Tempe perseveres,
even with her own relationship with Detective Andrew Ryan
at a delicate turning point. In the lab, the clean, well-
preserved bones offer few clues. But when Carbon 14
confirms her hunch that these were recent deaths despite
the antique buttons found near the bodies, Tempe's probing
must produce answers quickly to stop a killer whose grisly
handiwork has seen the light of day.
CHAPTER ONE
"Monday, Monday...
Can't trust that day..."
As the tune played inside my head, gunfire exploded in the cramped
underground space around me.
My eyes flew up as muscle, bone, and guts splattered against rock
just three feet from me.
The mangled body seemed glued for a moment, then slid downward,
leaving a smear of blood and hair.
I felt warm droplets on my cheek, backhanded them with a gloved
hand.
Still squatting, I swiveled.
"A ssez!" Enough!
Sergeant-detective Luc Claudel's brows plunged into a V. He lowered
but did not holster his nine-millimeter.
"Rats. They are the devil's spawn." Claudel's French was clipped and
nasal, reflecting his upriver roots.
"Throw rocks," I snapped.
"That b astard was big enough to throw them back."
Hours of squatting in the cold and damp on a December Monday in
Montreal had taken a toll. My knees protested as I rose to a
standing position.
"Where is Charbonneau?" I asked, rotating one booted foot, then the
other.
"Questioning the owner. I wish him luck. Moron has the IQ of pea
soup."
"The owner discovered this?" I flapped a hand at the ground behind
me.
"Non. Le plombier."
"What was a plumber doing in the cellar?"
"Genius spotted a trapdoor beside the commode, decided to do some
underground exploration to acquaint himself with the sewage pipes."
Remembering my own descent down the rickety staircase, I wondered
why anyone would take the risk.
"The bones were lying on the surface?"
"Says he tripped on something sticking out of the ground. There."
Claudel cocked his chin at a shallow pit where the south wall met
the dirt floor. "Pulled it loose. Showed the owner. Together they
checked out the local library's anatomy collection to see if the
bone was human. Picked a book with nice color pictures since they
probably can't read."
I was about to ask a follow-up question when something clicked
above us. Claudel and I looked up, expecting his partner.
Instead of Charbonneau, we saw a scarecrow man in a knee-length
sweater, baggy jeans, and dirty blue Nikes. Pigtails wormed from the
lower edge of a red bandanna wrapped his head.
The man was crouched in the doorway, pointing a throwaway Kodak in
my direction.
Claudel's V narrowed and his parrot nose went a deeper red.
"Tabarnac!"
Two more clicks, then bandanna man scrabbled sideways.
Holstering his weapon, Claudel grabbed the wooden railing. "Until
SIJ returns, throw rocks."
SIJ--Section d'Identite Judiciaire. The Quebec equivalent of Crime
Scene Recovery.
I watched Claudel's perfectly fitted buttocks disappear through the
small rectangular opening. Though tempted, I pegged not a single
rock.
Upstairs, muted voices, the clump of boots. Downstairs, just the
hum of the generator for the portable lights.
Breath suspended, I listened to the shadows around me.
No squeaking. No scratching. No scurrying feet.
Quick scan.
No beady eyes. No naked, scaly tails.
The little buggers were probably regrouping for another offensive.
Though I disagreed with Claudel's approach to the problem, I was
with him on one thing: I could do without the rodents.
Satisfied that I was alone for the moment, I refocused on the moldy
crate at my feet. "Dr. Energy's Power Tonic. Dead tired? Dr.
Energy's makes your bones want to get up and dance."
Not these bones, Doc.
I gazed at the crate's grisly contents.
Though most of the skeleton remained caked, dirt had been brushed
from some bones. Their outer surfaces looked chestnut under the
harsh illumination of the portable lights. A clavicle. Ribs. A
pelvis.
A human skull.
D amn.
Though I'd said it a half dozen times, reiteration couldn't hurt.
I'd come from Charlotte to Montreal a day early to prepare for court
on Tuesday. A man had been accused of killing and dismembering his
wife. I'd be testifying on the saw mark analysis I'd done on her
skeleton. It was complicated material and I'd wanted to review my
case file. Instead, I was freezing my a ss digging up the basement
of a pizza parlor.
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