"Bird likes him," Ryan said.

"I can't commute by air with a cat and a bird."

"I have a plan."

I looked at Ryan.

"Live with me."

"What?"

"Move in with me."

I was in shock. The idea of cohabitation had never crossed my mind.

Did I want to live with Ryan?

Yes. No. I had no idea.

I tried to think of a suitable reply. "Maybe" lacked a certain style, while "No" seemed rather final.

Ryan didn't push.

"Plan B. Joint custody. When you're down South, Charlie bunks with me."

I looked at the c.o.c.katiel.

He really was beautiful.

And Bird liked him.

I stuck out a hand. "Agreed."

Ryan and I shook.

"In the meantime, plan A remains on the table."

Live with Ryan?

Maybe, I thought.

Just maybe.

That afternoon I decided to visit my office. I'd been there about an hour when my phone rang.

"Dr. Brennan?"

"Yes."

"This is Pamela Lindahl. I'm the social services psychiatrist a.s.signed to a.s.sure that Tawny McGee receives appropriate a.s.sessment and care. Will you be in your office another forty-five minutes?"

"Yes."

"I'd like to come by for a brief visit. Would you ask security to pa.s.s me through?"

"Certainly."

As soon as the call concluded I wished I hadn't agreed. Though I recognized the importance of supplying all available information to the caregivers, I didn't feel up to recalling or recounting the depravity, the evil of what I had seen. I thought about phoning Dr. Lindahl back and telling her not to come, then gave in to a sense of duty, contacted security, and began a mental checklist of what I could tell the doctor.

Forty minutes later there was a knock on my door.

"Entrez."

A small, dark-haired girl wearing a trench coat and a brown beret stepped into the room, followed by an older, hatless woman in wool. A moment of confusion, then recognition.

"h.e.l.lo, Tawny," I said to the girl, coming around my desk and extending both hands.

Tawny shrank back slightly and did not raise her arms.

I clasped my hands in front of me and said, "I'm very glad to see you. I wanted to thank you for saving my life."

At first, no response, then, "You saved my life." More hesitation. Then, speaking slowly, "I asked for this visit because I wanted you to see me. I wanted you to see that I am a person, not a creature in a cage."

This time when I stepped toward her Tawny held her ground. I enveloped her in a hug and pressed the side of my head to hers. Feelings for Tawny and Katy and young women everywhere, adored or abused, overwhelmed me and I began to weep. Tawny did not cry, but she did not pull away.

I released her and stepped back, taking hold of her hands.

"I never thought of you as other than a person, Tawny, and neither do the people who are helping you now. And I'm sure your family is very anxious to have you back with them."

She looked at me, dropped her hands to her sides, and stepped back.

"Good-bye, Dr. Brennan." Her face was without expression, but there was a depth to her eyes that differed from the blank stare of earlier days.

"Good-bye, Tawny. I am so very happy you came."

Dr. Lindahl smiled in my direction, and the two women exited.

I fell back into my chair, exhausted but uplifted.

40.

THE HOLIDAYS CAME AND WENT. THE SUN ROSE AND SET ON A winter of Mondays. winter of Mondays.

In one of the dozens of boxes taken from the de Sebastopol bas.e.m.e.nt, investigators found a journal. The journal contained names. Angela Robinson, Kimberly Hamilton, Anique Pomerleau, Marie-Joelle Bastien, Manon Violette, Tawny McGee.

LSJML-38427 was identified as Marie-Joelle Bastien, a sixteen-year-old Acadian from Bouctouche, New Brunswick, who'd gone missing in the spring of 1994. Over the years her file had been misplaced, her name deleted from the MP lists. My age and height estimates suggested Marie-Joelle died soon after her capture.

Dr. Energy's girl was identified as Manon Violette, a fifteen-year-old Montrealer who'd disappeared in the fall of 1994, six months after Marie-Joelle Bastien. Manon's skeletal age and height suggested she'd survived in captivity for several years.

By March, the bones of Angie Robinson, Marie-Joelle Bastien, and Manon Violette were returned to their families. Each was laid to rest in a quiet ceremony.

Kimberly Hamilton was never located.

Anne and Tom-Ted plunged full-tilt boogie into counseling. She took golf lessons. He bought gardening books. Together they planted a G.o.dzillion azaleas.

I had no further contact with Tawny McGee. She spent weeks in intensive in-patient therapy, eventually moved home to Maniwaki. It would be a long road back, but doctors were optimistic.

Anique Pomerleau's photo went out across the continent. Dozens of tips were received by the c.u.m and SQ. Pomerleau was sighted in Sherbrooke. Albany. Tampa. Thunder Bay.

The hunt continues.

For Anique Pomerleau.

For Kimberly Hamilton.

For all the lost girls.

From the Forensic Files of Dr. Kathy Reichs For legal and ethical reasons I cannot discuss any of the real-life cases that may have inspired Monday Mourning, Monday Mourning, but I can share with you some experiences that contributed to the plot. but I can share with you some experiences that contributed to the plot.

The weather was sunny and shirt-sleeve mild that week in September in Montreal. An Indian summer hiccup before the nine-month freeze.

Friday, September 14, was created for hiking the mountain, playing tennis, or biking the path along the Lachine Ca.n.a.l. Instead, I got a call to report to the lab.

The case was waiting when I arrived, Demande d'Expertise en Anthropologie on my desk, bones on the counter. I went straight to the form and scanned the information.

LSJML number. Morgue number. Police incident number. Investigating officer. Coroner. Pathologist. Description of specimens: fragmentary skeletal remains. Expertise requested: biological profile, manner of death, postmortem interval.

I looked at the three brown paper bags sealed with red evidence tape.

Right.

According to the summary of known facts, the episode began with a backed-up toilet in a pizza-by-the-slice joint. Plunger failing, the frustrated proprietor called in help. While banging pipes, the plumber spotted a trapdoor behind the commode.

Curious, the plucky plombier plombier pried, then peered, then plunged underground. When his flashlight beamed up a half-buried long bone, the man surfaced, notified the owner, and the two set off for the local stacks. A copy of pried, then peered, then plunged underground. When his flashlight beamed up a half-buried long bone, the man surfaced, notified the owner, and the two set off for the local stacks. A copy of L'Anatomie pour les Artistes L'Anatomie pour les Artistes confirmed that the booty in their sack was a human femur. confirmed that the booty in their sack was a human femur.

The pair called the police. The police processed the bas.e.m.e.nt, recovered a bottle, a coin, and two dozen additional bones, and sent the remains to the morgue. The coroner notified the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciairies et de Medecine Legale. The pathologist took one look and torpedoed my day in the sun.

Sorting and a.n.a.lysis occupied me for several hours. In the end, three individuals lay on my table: a young adult aged eighteen to twenty-four, a middle-aged adult, and an older adult with advanced arthritis. The youngest of the three had sharp instrument trauma on the head, jaw, sacrum, femur, and tibia.

I called the detectives. They informed me that the bottle was new but the coin was old, dating to the late nineteenth century. They could not confirm the coin's a.s.sociation with the skeleton. I told them to return to the bas.e.m.e.nt. I needed more bones.

A week pa.s.sed.

Bad news. The detectives reported that no cemetery had ever occupied land under or in the vicinity of the pizza parlor building. Worse news. The detectives reported possible mob links for an occupant of the property some forty years earlier.

Again, I repeated my request for reprocessing, and offered to accompany a team back into the bas.e.m.e.nt. Again, a week pa.s.sed. Two.

Why the reluctance to return to that cellar?

When confronted, the boys had a one-word reply.

Rats!

Compromise. Establish that the deaths had taken place within the last half century, and we'd dig the whole cellar, rodents be d.a.m.ned.

My a.n.a.lysis now focused on the question of time since death. Every bone and bone fragment was dry and devoid of odor or flesh. Only one technique held promise.

After I explained the use of artificial or "bomb" Carbon 14 in determining postmortem interval with modern organic materials, the Bureau du Coroner authorized payment for testing. I cut and sent samples from two individuals to Beta a.n.a.lytic Inc., a radiocarbon dating lab in Miami, Florida. A week later we had our answer.

Though the results were complicated, one thing was clear. The pizza parlor victims had died prior to 1955.

No curtain call with Rattus rattus. Rattus rattus. Cue the archaeologists. Cue the archaeologists.

Though the dossier is closed, I still ponder those bones. I am touched by the thought of the dead lying in anonymous cellar graves while the living transact business one floor up.

Pepsi, please, and a pepperoni and cheese to go.

What would they think?

About the Author.

Kathy Reichs is forensic anthropologist for the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, State of North Carolina, and for the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Medecine Legale for the province of Quebec. She is one of only sixty forensic anthropologists certified by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology and has served on the Executive Committee of the Board of Directors of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences. A professor of anthropology at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, Dr. Reichs is a native of Chicago, where she received her PhD at Northwestern. She now divides her time between Charlotte and Montreal and is a frequent expert witness at criminal trials. Her first novel, Deja Dead, Deja Dead, brought Dr. Reichs fame when it became a brought Dr. Reichs fame when it became a New York Times New York Times bestseller and won the 1997 Ellis Award for Best First Novel. bestseller and won the 1997 Ellis Award for Best First Novel. Death du Jour, Deadly Decisions, Fatal Voyage, Grave Secrets, Death du Jour, Deadly Decisions, Fatal Voyage, Grave Secrets, and and Bare Bones Bare Bones also became international and also became international and New York Times New York Times bestsellers. bestsellers. Monday Mourning Monday Mourning is her seventh novel featuring Temperance Brennan. is her seventh novel featuring Temperance Brennan.

Also by Kathy Reichs

BARE BONES.