"Reichs, Kathy - Temperance Brennan 01 - Deja Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reichs Kathy)

missing, and I could see no personal effects or objects close by. Except
one. The bones of the pelvis encircled a bathroom plunger, its long
wooden handle projecting upward like an inverted Popsicle stick, its red
rubber cup pressed hard against the pelvic outlet. Its position
suggested deliberate placement. Gruesome as the idea was, I didn't
believe the association was spurious.

I stood and looked around, my knees protesting the change to upright
posture. I knew from experience that scavenging animals can drag body
parts impressive distances. Dogs often hide them in areas of low brush,
and burrowing animals drag small bones and teeth into underground holes.
I brushed dirt from my hands and scanned the immediate vicinity, looking
for likely routes. Flies buzzed and a horn blared a million miles away
on Sherbrooke. Memories of other woods, other graves, other bones
skittered through my mind, like disconnected images from old movies. I
stood absolutely still, searching, wholly alert. Finally, I sensed, more
than saw, an irregularity in my surroundings. Like a sunbeam glinting
off a mirror, it was gone before my neurons could form an image. An
almost imperceptible flicker caused me to turn my head. Nothing. I held
myself rigid, unsure if I'd really seen anything. I brushed the insects
from my eyes and noticed that it was growing cooler. Shit. I continued
looking. A slight breeze lifted the damp curls around my face and
stirred the leaves. Then I sensed it again. A suggestion of sunlight
skipping off something. I took a few steps, unsure of the source, and
stopped, every cell of my being intent on sunlight and shadows. Nothing.
Of course not, stupid. There can't be anything over there. No flies.
Then I spotted it. The wind puffed gently, flicking over a shiny surface
and causing a momentary ripple in the afternoon light. Not much, but it
caught my eye. Hardly breathing, I went closer and looked down. I wasn't
surprised at what I saw. Here we go, I thought. Peeking from a hollow in
the roots of a yellow poplar was the corner of another plastic bag. A
spray of buttercups ringed both the poplar and the bag, tiptoeing off in
slender tendrils to disappear into the surrounding weeds. The bright
yellow flowers looked like escapees from a Beatrix Potter illustration,
the freshness of the blooms in stark contrast to what I knew lay hidden
in the bag.

I approached the tree, twigs and leaves snapping beneath my feet.
Bracing myself with one hand, I cleared enough plastic to get a grip,
took firm hold, and pulled gently. No give. Rewrapping the plastic
around my hand, I pulled harder, and felt the bag move. I could tell
that its contents had substance. Insects whined in my face. Sweat
trickled down my back. My heart drummed like the bass in a heavy metal
band. One more tug and the bag came free. I dragged it forward far
enough to allow a view inside. Or maybe I just wanted it away from Ms.
Potter's flowers. Whatever it held was heavy, and I had little doubt
what that would be. And I was right. As I disentangled the ends of the
plastic, the smell of putrefaction was overwhelming. I unwound the edges
and looked inside.