Death Du Jour

Autorentext
Kathy Reichs's first novel Déjà Dead, published in 1997, won the Ellis Award for Best First Novel and was an international bestseller. Evil Bones is Reichs's twenty-fourth novel featuring forensic anthropologist Temperance Brennan. Reichs was also a producer of Fox Television's longest running scripted drama, Bones, which was based on her work and her novels. One of very few forensic anthropologists certified by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology, Reichs divides her time between Charlotte, North Carolina, and Charleston, South Carolina. Visit her at KathyReichs.com or follow her on X @KathyReichs, Instagram @KathyReichs, or Facebook @KathyReichsBooks.

Klappentext

Forensic anthropologist Kathy Reichs exploded onto bestseller lists worldwide with her phenomenal debut novel Deja Dead -- and introduced "[a] brilliant heroine" (Glamour) in league with Patricia Cornwell's Kay Scarpetta. Dr. Temperance Brennan, Quebec's director of forensic anthropology, now returns in a thrilling new investigation into the secrets of the dead.In the bitter cold of a Montreal winter, Tempe Brennan is digging for a corpse buried more than a century ago. Although Tempe thrives on such enigmas from the past, it's a chain of contemporary deaths and disappearances that has seized her attention -- and she alone is ideally placed to make a chilling connection among the seemingly unrelated events. At the crime scene, at the morgue, and in the lab, Tempe probes a mystery that sweeps from a deadly Quebec fire to startling discoveries in the Carolinas, and culminates in Montreal with a terrifying showdown -- a nerve-shattering test of both her forensic expertise and her skills for survival.

Zusammenfassung
When a recent skeleton among ancient bones raises questions—and danger—forensic anthropologist Temperance Brennan is the only one who can solve the case in this “triumphant second appearance” (Publishers Weekly) from #1 New York Times bestselling author Kathy Reichs.

Tempe Brennan is stuck teaching an archaeology field school for students at UNCC in Charleston, South Carolina.

When she stumbles upon a recent skeleton among the ancient bones, she starts asking questions. She’s the expert they might have called in, but lucky for the police she’s already there. The skeleton leads her to a free street clinic where patients have begun to go missing, and some have wound up dead. What is going on and who is to blame? The charismatic televangelist who oversees the clinic? The shady doctor who practices there? Or is it the clinic staff?

Ryan is in Montreal, though he may come down for a visit. If he does, Tempe will have to juggle him and Detective Galiano, an old flame, who is in town investigating the disappearance of a wealthy young woman. This is a phenomenally high stakes business where one dead body can save a couple of lives, maybe more. Along with the corpses, Tempe investigates the sick moral logic of the mastermind behind the operation.

Kathy Reichs has returned Tempe to America and put her in the middle of a sinister trafficking ring that’s local and global. The suspense is intense, and the world is riveting. Kathy Reichs’s books are expert and smart with a taut energy, and this is her best plot and writing yet.

Leseprobe
Death Du Jour

IF THE BODIES WERE THERE, I COULDN’T FIND THEM.

Outside, the wind howled. Inside the old church, just the scrape of my trowel and the hum of a portable generator and heater echoed eerily in the huge space. High above, branches scratched against boarded windows, gnarled fingers on plywood blackboards.

The group stood behind me, huddled but not touching, fingers curled tightly in pockets. I could hear the shifting from side to side, the lifting of one foot, then the other. Boots made a crunching sound on the frozen ground. No one spoke. The cold had numbed us into silence.

I watched a cone of earth disappear through quarter-inch mesh as I spread it gently with my trowel. The granular subsoil had been a pleasant surprise. Given the surface, I had expected permafrost the entire depth of the excavation. The last two weeks had been unseasonably warm in Quebec, however, allowing snow to melt and ground to thaw. Typical Tempe luck. Though the tickle of spring had been blown away by another arctic blast, the mild spell had left the dirt soft and easy to dig. Good. Last night the temperature had dropped to seven degrees Fahrenheit. Not good. While the ground had not refrozen, the air was frigid. My fingers were so cold I could hardly bend them.

We were digging our second trench. Still nothing but pebbles and rock fragments in the screen. I didn’t anticipate much at this depth, but you could never tell. I’d yet to do an exhumation that had gone as planned.

I turned to a man in a black parka and a tuque on his head. He wore leather boots laced to the knee, two pairs of socks rolled over the tops. His face was the color of tomato soup.

“Just a few more inches.” I gave a palm-down gesture, like stroking a cat. Slowly. Go slowly.

The man nodded, then thrust his long-handled spade into the shallow trench, grunting like Monica Seles on a first serve.

“Par pouces!” I yelped, grabbing the shovel. By inches! I repeated the slicing motion I’d been showing him all morning. “We want to take it down in thin layers.” I said it again, in slow, careful French.

The man clearly did not share my sentiment. Maybe it was the tediousness of the task, maybe the thought of unearthing the dead. Tomato soup just wanted to be done and gone.

“Please, Guy, try again?” said a male voice behind me.

“Yes, Father.” Mumbled.

Guy resumed, shaking his head, but skimming the soil as I’d shown him, then tossing it into the screen. I shifted my gaze from the black dirt to the pit itself, watching for signs that we were nearing a burial.

We’d been at it for hours, and I could sense tension behind me. The nuns’ rocking had increased in tempo. I turned to give the group what I hoped was a reassuring look. My lips were so stiff it was hard to tell.

Six faces looked back at me, pinched from cold and anxiousness. A small cloud of vapor appeared and dissolved in front of each. Six smiles in my direction. I could sense a lot of praying going on.

Ninety minutes later we were five feet down. Like the first, this pit had produced only soil. I was certain I had frostbite in every toe, and Guy was ready to bring in a backhoe. Time to regroup.

“Father, I think we need to check the burial records again.”

He hesitated a moment. Then, “Yes. Of course. Of course. And we could all use coffee and a sandwich.”

The priest started toward a set of wooden doors at the far end of the abandoned church and the nuns followed, heads down, gingerly navigating the lumpy ground. Their white veils spread in identical arcs across the backs of their black wool coats. Penguins. Who’d said that? The Blues Brothers.

I turned off the mobile spotlights and fell in step, eyes to the ground, amazed at the fragments of bone embedded in the dirt floor. Great. We’d dug in the one spot in the entire church that didn’t contain burials.

Father Ménard pushed open one of the doors and, single file, we exited to daylight. Our eyes needed little adjustment. The sky was leaden and seemed to hug the spires and towers of all the buildings in the convent’s compound. A raw wind blew off the Laurentians, flapping collars and veils.

Our little group bent against the wind and crossed to an adjacent building, gray stone like the church, but smaller. We climbed steps to an ornately carved wooden…