The Bone Man Read Online Free PDF

said.
    Mustache-man’s head swiveled, snakelike, and I bit my lip so I wouldn’t laugh.
    “The dead live here, mister,” I said. “Have some respect.”
    “Oy,” Gert hissed.
    A sandy-haired guy in a pressed denim shirt stepped forward. He could have been an outdoor model. Or maybe a news anchor. Or maybe Thor, what with those lightning bolts embroidered on the tips of his collar. “Ma’am.”
    Ick. I smelled bullshit ten feet away. “Yes?”
    “We have an appointment with Dr. Cravitz. Our time is valuable.” He hitched his thumbs over his belt. “We are, after all, with National Geographic.”
    I smiled my most obsequious smile. “And I, after all, am representing all the dead folks here. Got it?” I girded myself for a diatribe when Sergeant Rob Kranak stormed out of the CSS offices, his face a mask of fury.
    “One more word, motherfucker,” Kranak said, “and I haul your ass behind bars.”
    The string bean with the wild hair rolled his eyes. “Do you know who I am?”
    On that note, Kranak hollered for backup, whipped out his cuffs, slammed them on Mr. Mustache.
    All hell ensued, and by the time Dr. Addy Morgridge sorted it all out, the National Geographic people were grateful to postpone for a week their story on the finding of an ancient skull inside an Anasazi pot.

C HAPTER T HREE
    Hours later, I dropped my water bottle into the sink in my kitchen and splashed my face with tap water. I leaned on the edge of the sink, gasping. One glance at Penny, and I felt even worse. She wasn’t even breathing hard. I freshened her water dish, and she drank deeply.
    In the living room, I looked at my collection of Zuni fetishes. Most had been carved in the past ten years. I had wolves and mountain lions and bears and moles and eagles and badgers. A few of my carvings were old, from the sixties and seventies. I picked up the Edna Leki I loved. The coyote was a beautiful piece from the seventies that was more than three inches long and made of travertine marble, with an Edna face—rounded and distinctive—and a coyote’s jutting tail. Though simple in line, it was far more descriptive than the red rock I’d held that morning.
    Yet both made me shiver.
    Or maybe I was just chilled. I laughed, put the Edna back in its place, and plucked a towel from the rack. I pulled a Southwestern pottery book from my collection,grabbed the phone from its cradle, and walked out onto the deck. I sat on my tattered wing chair, slung the towel around my neck, crossed my ankles on the deck railing, and sighed.
    Our run had been good, but I was still out of shape. Penny appeared, and I scratched her behind her ears. My three-legged dog would always beat me on a run. She just humored me by keeping pace.
    “Good girl.” I opened the book, hoping to find examples of that afternoon’s pot markings in the catalog.
    And there they were. Huh. No word from Zoe. It was still afternoon in New Mexico, and if Delphine were on some buying excursion, she’d most likely still be out of range.
    Except I could only picture her as dead.
    Ridiculous. I understood the physical impossibility of a contemporary skull being found inside a thousand-year-old pot. But, cripes, I couldn’t get the image of a dead Delphine out of my head.
    I jumped three feet when the phone bleeped. I scooped it up from the deck floor and pressed it on.
    “Yes?”
    “You’re breathless tonight.”
    “Hank!” I said. “I, um, I was expecting an urgent call.” I shivered. Dusk had fallen, and my damp shirt gave me goose bumps. I walked inside and shut the French doors behind me while Hank filled me in on a case he’d been working in Winsworth.
    “So you see,” he said, “it was that damned Percy after all.”
    “I’m not surprised. He’s one sad case with real mother issues.”
    Hank snorted.
    I wanted to ask him about the job with Massachusetts State PD, but I hesitated. He should tell me. I shouldn’thave to ask. So I switched gears. “Something strange