Read more
Informationen zum Autor Kathy Reichs Klappentext #1 New York Times bestselling author Kathy Reichs returns with her sixteenth riveting novel featuring forensic anthropologist Tempe Brennan, whose examination of a young girl killed in a hit and run in North Carolina triggers an investigation into international human trafficking. When Charlotte police discover the body of a teenage girl along a desolate stretch of two-lane highway, Temperance Brennan fears the worst. The girl’s body shows signs of foul play. Inside her purse police find the ID card of a prominent local businessman, John-Henry Story, who died in a horrific flea market fire months earlier. Was the girl an illegal immigrant turning tricks? Was she murdered? The medical examiner has also asked Tempe to examine a bundle of Peruvian dog mummies confiscated by U.S. Customs. A Desert Storm veteran named Dominick Rockett stands accused of smuggling the objects into the country. Could there be some connection between the trafficking of antiquitiesand the trafficking of humans? As the case deepens, Tempe must also grapple with personal turmoil. Her daughter Katy, grieving the death of her boyfriend in Afghanistan, impulsively enlists in the Army. As pressure mounts from all corners, Tempe soon finds herself at the center of a conspiracy that extends all the way from South America, to Afghanistan, and right to the center of Charlotte. “A genius at building suspense” (Daily News, New York), Kathy Reichs is at her brilliant best in this thrilling novel.Bones of the Lost PROLOGUE HEART POUNDING, I CRAWLED TOWARD the brick angling down to form the edge of the recess. Craned out. More footfalls. Then heavy boots appeared at the top of the stairs, beside them a pair of small feet, one bare, the other in a platform pump. The feet started to descend, the small ones wobbly, their owner somehow impaired. The lower legs angled oddly, suggesting the knees bore little weight. Anger burned hot in my chest. The woman was drugged. The bastard was dragging her. Four treads lower, the man and woman crossed an arrow of moonlight. Not a woman, a girl. Her hair was long, her arms and legs refugee thin. I could see a triangle of white tee below the man’s chin. A pistol grip jutting from his waistband. The pair again passed into darkness. Their tightly pressed bodies formed a two-headed black silhouette. Stepping from the bottom tread, the man started muscling the girl toward the loading-dock door, pushing her, a hand clamping her neck. She stumbled. He yanked her up. Her head flopped like a Bobblehead doll’s. The girl took a few more staggering steps. Then her chin lifted and her body bucked. A cry broke the stillness, animal shrill. The man’s free arm shot out. The silhouette recongealed. I heard a scream of pain, then the girl pitched forward onto the concrete. The man dropped to one knee. His elbow pumped as he pummeled the inert little body. “Fight me, you little bitch?” The man punched and punched until his breath grew ragged. Rage flamed white-hot in my brain, overriding any instinct for personal safety. I scuttled over and grabbed the Beretta. Checked the safety, thankful for the practice I’d put in at the range. Satisfied with the gun, I reached for my phone. It wasn’t with the flashlight. I searched my other pocket. No phone. Had I dropped it? In my frenzied dash, had I left it at home? The panic was almost overwhelming. I was off the grid. What to do? A tiny voice advised caution. Remain hidden. Wait. Slidell knows where you are. “You are so dead.” The voice boomed, cruel and malicious. I whipped around. The man was wrenching the girl up by ...
