Bones of the Lost (40 page)

“Yes. Pruet had made approximately the same sending them to France.”

“Sweet Jesus. How could someone sell his own flesh and blood?”

“In Ara’s case, it was ‘her.’ ”

“Sorry?” I didn’t get Dew’s meaning.

“Ara’s mother turned her over to Hayel.”

“She sold her own daughter?”

The snowy cotton stretched, eased as Dew inhaled then exhaled slowly.

“Ara’s mother is a woman named Gulpari. At age seven Gulpari saw her mother raped by Taliban fighters. When Gulpari’s father tried to intervene, the men shot him.

“Following the rape, the dishonored widow was shunned. With no prospects for remarriage, she kept her daughters, Gulpari and Noushin, clothed and fed by begging and performing menial tasks.

“At fourteen, Noushin was sent to marry a man in a neighboring village. The man’s family worked the girl sixteen hours per day and forced her to sleep in their unheated barn. When Noushin was caught trying to escape, her husband and father-in-law held her down and doused her with acid. Two days later, Noushin managed to return to her mother’s house. She died of infection resulting from her burns. Gulpari was twelve.”

Dew stared at his hands as he continued.

“Gulpari was raped by the Taliban at age fifteen. Like her mother, she was spurned by the village and treated with scorn. Ara was born on Gulpari’s sixteenth birthday.”

“Gulpari wanted a better life for Ara.” Barely trusting my voice.

Dew nodded, still looking down. “When Hayel talked of jobs in America, Gulpari believed him. He was her brother. Why would he lie?”

“Hayel sold Ara to Gross.”

“For two hundred dollars.”

I got up to stir the embers. Pointless, but I needed to move. To divert the anger and grief threatening to overwhelm me.

“After John-Henry died, did Archer continue with business as usual?” When I’d returned to my chair.

Dew cleared his throat. Twice. Met my eyes.

“Of the sixteen girls currently in ICE custody, two were brought into the country after Archer assumed management of the various Story enterprises, including SayDo.”

“How does he explain that?”

“Mr. Story claims to know nothing of his employees’ histories. And he vehemently denies any knowledge of prostitution at his establishments, forced or otherwise.”

“You buy that?”

The pink-lemonade face darkened. “I believe the government’s star witness is being less than forthcoming. But, thanks to you, our investigation has shifted focus. We
will
learn more. Much more.”

“What about Dominick Rockett?”

Dew was quiet a moment, probably deciding what best to say.

“The mummified dogs will be returned to Peru. Mr. Rockett’s files have been confiscated to check for information on other illegally trafficked antiquities.”

“Dom Rockett never smuggled human beings.” I’d given that question a whole lot of thought.

“It seems not.”

“Rockett met John-Henry Story through his nephew?”

“Mr. Rockett and Lieutenant Gross served together in Desert Storm. Perhaps out of pity, perhaps at his nephew’s urging, John-Henry hired the disfigured vet. Rockett was compensated in part with shares in the company. At least that’s the version Archer Story gives.”

“What did Rockett do for S&S?”

“Whatever needed doing. Driving. Security. Hiring contractors and workers for maintenance and repair. Rockett also sold articles at S&S flea markets, items legally imported from South America.”

“Rockett had no involvement with SayDo?”

“It looks that way.”

“But CC Creach saw him at the Passion Fruit.”

Dew raised both palms, dropped them back to his knees. “Due to his condition, Mr. Rockett enjoyed limited access to women.”

Delicately put.

“Why did Rockett make the trips to Texas?” I asked.

“He was assisting Story in the closing of his car dealerships. John-Henry was selling off inventory, and, occasionally, delivery was required. Rockett would fly to Texas and drive cars wherever they needed to go.”

“What was Rockett doing at the warehouse last Thursday?”

“According to Mrs. Tarzec, he showed up at the Passion Fruit that evening very agitated and wanting to look around. She told him no one was there. He demanded the truth about the girls, said he knew they were trafficked because the cops had told him. Then he asked where they’d been taken. When threatened at gunpoint, Mrs.
Tarzec revealed the location. After Rockett stormed off, she phoned Majerick.”

“Rockett went looking for Gross. Or maybe he just planned to free the girls. Either way, he’d had enough. He died trying to undo at least some of the evil.”

“I believe you are correct.”

“What will happen to the girls now?”

“That must be worked out. If they are deported back to Afghanistan, there is an NGO-run shelter in Kabul for victims of trafficking.”

“Will Ara’s body be returned to Sheyn Bagh for burial?”

“If funds allow.”

“I’m happy to help if money is an issue.”

A sad promise kept.

“Your offer is very generous, Dr. Brennan. I’ll do all in my power to assure that is not necessary.”

Dew smiled sadly.

“We accomplish what we can. But, worldwide, human trafficking generates billions of dollars annually. Think of this. A gram of cocaine or heroin can be sold only once. A human being can generate income for years. Did you know that North Carolina is the eighth most likely state in the U.S. for trafficking to take place?”

“At least the problem is gaining attention.”

“Yes. It is. But the picture is still bleak. In December of 2012, the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime published a global report on trafficking in persons. Almost one third of all trafficking victims are children. Two thirds are girls.”

Dew rose to his feet with Baryshnikov grace.

“On a more positive note, one hundred and fifty-four governments have now ratified the UNDOC Trafficking in Persons Protocol, and eighty-three percent of countries now have a law that criminalizes trafficking in persons that is in accordance with the protocol.”

Dew really did speak as though reading aloud.

“Including the U.S.,” I said.

“Yes. United States Code Title 18, Section 1591 stipulates severe penalties for anyone involved in human trafficking, and, as you no doubt know, North Carolina also has very strong laws. The difficulty
comes in catching the traffickers because victims are so powerless and afraid.”

“It’s a start,” I said.

“It’s a start,” Dew agreed.

Wishing me a speedy recovery, Dew departed.

That evening it was Pete. His ninety-pound fruit basket had arrived on Saturday, so he came bearing Chinese takeout and at least one of everything sold at Dean and DeLuca.

As I watched him stock my pantry and fridge, I wondered why Summer was elsewhere. Didn’t ask.

While Pete opened little white cartons, I set two places at the table. Then we helped ourselves to brown rice, seafood lo mein, cashew chicken, and eggplant in garlic sauce.

Way to go, Pete. My Baoding favorites.

Over dinner, we discussed Katy, Majerick, Rockett, the Story brothers, D’Ostillo, Ara, and her mother. And of course John-Henry Gross.

“I’m sorry I dragged you into the whole mess, sugarbritches.”

“Don’t be.”

“It seems impossible that Hunter has a nephew capable of such cruelty. He’s such an ethical person.”

“John’s behavior is no reflection on Hunter.”

A few beats passed. When Pete spoke his voice was taut.

“John Gross dishonored his oath. And shamed the Corps.”

“Gross was an aberration. He shamed himself, not the Corps. When Eggers made accusations, the Corps played it by the book, did Gross no favors. The command investigated and prosecuted in an honest and forthright manner.”

Pete’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t disagree.

“I mean it. The Marine Corps dealt with Gross’s actions in Sheyn Bagh in a straightforward way. As did I in looking at the bones of his victims. Eventually Gross’s involvement in trafficking would have come to light. And the same impartial process would have kicked into gear.”

“Hopefully with better results.”

“Ironic, isn’t it?”

Pete tipped his head.

“Rockett and Gross. The man who seemed a monster was the one with a conscience. The man who seemed a patriot warrior had venom in his veins.”

We talked about Katy. About the fact that the military had reversed its traditional stance and was now opening frontline combat positions to women.

Seeing I found the subject less than calming, Pete changed tack.

“So this troll Blanton was actually harmless?”

“Just one weird dude.”

“What was Blanton’s beef with Welsted?”

“Just didn’t like each other.”

“What’s with the cockatiel?”

“He’s visiting.”

“Where’s the birdcat?”

“Holler ‘lo mein.’ He’ll be here in the flick of a whisker.”

Thursday night, I’d closed Birdie in the closet when digging out the erasable board. Consumed by the firestorm swirling in my brain, I’d mistaken his scratching for sounds outside the annex. By the time I got home, the cat had been captive for hours. Since that distressing misadventure, he’d ventured downstairs only to eat.

Or maybe it was Charlie. The two had never really bonded.

Pete shouted. In seconds Birdie padded through the door.

Pete placed noodles and shrimp on a saucer, smiled as he watched the feline scarf it up. Then the smile faded. When Pete spoke again, his voice carried a tone I hadn’t heard before.

“That night.” Pete stopped to regroup. “I came here Thursday night. You were outside on the walk.”

Ryan. The embrace. Headlights sweeping the drive, continuing past.

“That was you?”

Pete nodded.

“Why didn’t you stop?”

“You were with someone.”

I said nothing.

Pete studied his napkin as though he’d never seen one before. Then his eyes rolled up to mine.

“I’ve called off the wedding.”

I chuckled. “As I predicted. Wait a few—”

“I’ve broken our engagement.”

“What?” I hadn’t expected that.

“The marriage wouldn’t have worked. I’ve known that for a while. When I saw you with—” Pete raised a hand. “It wouldn’t have worked.”

“Where’s Summer?”

“Gone back to her place.”

“How is she?”

“Not happy.”

“Oh, Pete. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s better this way.”

Pete dropped the upraised hand onto my good one. Our eyes locked. His thumb began stroking my skin.

The moment became embarrassingly long.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Slipping free of Pete’s grasp.

“You already have.”

Pete left me sitting in my chair, staring at half-empty cartons of my Chinese favorites.

As I got up to clear the table, a sudden thought struck me. Had Pete filed the divorce papers? Was he at long last officially my ex?

When finished with the dishes, I went up to my room. Lying in bed with Birdie, I thought about loss.

Aqsaee and Rasekh.

Ara and Rosalie.

Lily.

ICE agents would care for Gross’s victims. Find out who they are, where they came from, what happened to them. They would return the girls to their homes. Or set them on the road to better lives.

La Police Nationale would track Jean Pruet and the girls he had trafficked into France.

Canadian authorities would probe Lily’s death. They would shut down the shooting gallery where she died. Arrest the dealers who led her to that time and place.

All three investigations would involve grim, gut-wrenching tasks.

Cuddling with my cat, I resolved one thing.

The world is rife with evil and misfortune, but it is also full of good people determined to right wrongs. I would not sink into sadness. I would celebrate those who refuse to give up. Those who battle to make things better.

But who, I wondered, would battle for Ryan in his agony?

Ryan.

Pete.

I needed to be alone.

Needed time to consider and digest all that had happened.

O
F
B
ONES
, B
ODIES
, B
ULLETS
, B
LACK
H
AWKS, AND
B
ONDAGE

Spoiler alert! If you haven’t yet finished
Bones of the Lost
,
you might want to read this later.

As with each Temperance Brennan novel, the ideas for
Bones of the Lost
came from both the professional and personal parts of my life.

My professional background offers no shortage of inspiring material. Most everyone knows what forensic anthropologists do. In the opening chapter Tempe explains the job while being questioned for jury duty. Forensic anthropology is all about bones and compromised bodies.

Here’s a surprise: Now and then my colleagues and I examine fleshed individuals, sometimes even living, breathing people.

Occasionally the subject is an adolescent whose exact age is unclear. Should he or she be tried as an adult? Granted asylum? Allowed to make his or her own medical decisions? In such cases anthropological analysis focuses on whether the individual is above or below an age significant for legal reasons.

Occasionally the subject has died recently but remains unidentified, and age or ethnicity is uncertain. Or the fracture patterning due to trauma is complicated. In such cases, skeletal analysis can add valuable information to the soft-tissue autopsy.

A real-life situation inspired Tempe’s involvement with the hit-and-run Jane Doe. A driver was found dead on the floor of a large
truck depot. One story had him accidentally struck by a vehicle while standing upright. Another had him intentionally run over while lying facedown, following a fistfight.

The pathologist wanted to know if analysis of the cranial trauma could resolve the question. It did. A skull subjected to enormous weight loading while compressed against concrete fractures differently from one striking concrete as a result of a fall.