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  Also by Sara E. Johnson

  The Alexa Glock Forensics Mysteries

  Molten Mud Murder

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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2020 by Sara E. Johnson

  Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by The BookDesigners

  Cover images © O.Bellini/Shutterstock, ESB Professional/Shutterstock, sugiartoss/Shutterstock

  Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  www.sourcebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Johnson, Sara E., author.

  Title: The bones remember : an Alexa Glock Forensics mystery / Sara E.

  Johnson.

  Description: Naperville, IL : Poisoned Pen Press, [2020] | Series: Alexa

  Glock Forensics mystery

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020004703 | (trade paperback)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3610.O37637 B66 2020 | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020004703

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from Molten Mud Murder

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To Forrest, with love

  Prologue

  Ocean Boy glided through the day in gradients of gray and green; occasional glittering light broke through the liquid world when his two-foot dorsal fin, notched and battle-scarred, cut the surface for a quarter hour, unaware he was a two-thousand-pound apex predator marvel. At gloaming, he rode the liquid slopes to deeper, deepest depths, specialized blood vessels keeping Ocean Boy’s body temperature higher than the cold water pressing his organs.

  The hunt was on. Night vision was activated. His black eyes rolled back to fibrous muscle as his jaws snapped the meaty squid, clamped rows of sharp teeth, his torpedo body impervious to struggling arms and suckers, to spilled ink blacking the already-black depths.

  Sated, he headed northwest. Forty-three miles a day he averaged, intent on a destination his brain had mapped at birth, a magnetic and magnificent tug toward innate hunger for fatty seal and sea lion, for adding weight, for adding years, for adding fear.

  At purple dawn, Ocean Boy’s dorsal fin broke the southern sea surface. The scent of blood increased his speed.

  Chapter One

  Safe from the tempest, Alexa Glock dripped across the cement floor to the ticket counter. She scanned the price board: round trip Bluff to Stewart Island—$85.

  “Stroppy, eh?” the agent said.

  Alexa nodded, looking through the window at the pelting rain, slapping waves, and gusts that shook the building. The passenger ferry, tethered to the dock, challenged its restraints with each assault. It was dwarfed by a long, lean oil tanker one pier over. Alexa imagined the tanker breaking loose, crushing the ferry.

  Mary, the one friend Alexa had made in her eight months in New Zealand, had called the whipping winds of Foveaux Strait hau-mate, Māori for “death wind.”

  Got that right.

  “I need a one-way ticket.” She hiked the crime kit strap securely up onto her shoulder and released the handle of her sodden suitcase, flexing her cramped fingers.

  “Ferry is delayed.” The agent, a wizened woman with sharp eyes, accepted Alexa’s credit card. “No return, eh?”

  The thought of no return induced a flicker of fear. “I don’t know how long I’ll be staying.” She took the ticket and scanned the lounge. Her fellow passengers—locals, tourists, hikers—stared glumly out the window or at their phones. Alexa settled on a bench near a Kiwi Experience flyer. Stewart Island was a hot spot for the iconic birds. Another flyer advertised shark cage diving: “See Great Whites Up Close!”

  Mary had planned to dive with sharks. “Come with me,” she had cajoled. “Mangōtaniwha. The great white shark. Our guardian.”

  Alexa had laughed. “Yeah, right.”

  But now Mary was dead. She had died in a car wreck two months ago. Alexa mourned her new friend. And simmered with anger, too. Someone else leaving her.

  A woman surrounded by a pile of shopping bags pushed herself up from the bench and came to where the flyers hung. She leaned in, frowning, and tore one down. “Rubbish,” she said, crumpling it.

  Kiwi Experience hung alone.

  A tall man in gum boots and thick fisherman’s sweater distracted Alexa. He shouted into his cell. “If they want it, they’ll have to come get it.” His halo of grizzled curls was a mini-storm, and he trailed the scent of salt and sea.

  Struggling out of her raincoat, Alexa canvassed for coffee. No go. A caffeine desert. She had arrived late last night at the Vista Hotel and left it—and the breakfast buffet she had paid for—at dawn to catch the ferry. It had been a wild ride since yesterday when her boss at the Forensic Service Center in Auckland had popped into her cubicle. “Get packing. You’ve got your first away case. Stewart Island.”

  She had flipped a folder closed. “That’s down south, right?” New Ze
aland was divided into two islands. Since moving here from North Carolina, she hadn’t left the more populous North Island. Dan, her boss, explained that there was a third island. “Thirty kilometers off the tip of the South Island. Fly into Invercargill, bus to Bluff, ferry across Foveaux.”

  Dan Goddard, chief forensic examiner, had hired Alexa as a roving forensic two weeks ago. The six-month odontology fellowship that had lured her to Auckland was over, and she wasn’t ready to leave the southern hemisphere. No one was waiting for her back home. She had completed a contract case in Rotorua—Detective Inspector Bruce Horne and his glacial eyes flashed in her mind—and then applied for a job at Forensic Service Center. Local police called FSC when they needed assistance, and she would travel to those places.

  “What’s the case?”

  “Hikers discovered a decomposed body.” Dan’s eyes behind bookish glasses sparked with energy.

  “Any idea who it is?”

  “Ten months ago, Robert King, forty-four, from Christchurch, disappeared deer hunting. Never returned to the hut.” Dan handed her a picture.

  A fit-looking man held a dead deer by the antlers. His proud eyes stared directly at the camera. His hair—what little remained—formed a dark brown crown.

  “That’s King. The three blokes he was with looked for hours, then called it in. Massive searches, even recently with live tracking equipment. No sign. No body. Until now.”

  “Has the family been notified?”

  “We need positive ID first. Get there ASAP. And…”

  She waited, studying her boss, who wore red tennis shoes and untucked polos.

  “…he has a bullet hole through the right zygomatic. The local ranger doesn’t think it’s self-inflicted.”

  Alexa fingered her cheekbone in the chilly waiting room. Out the window, the storm continued its vise grip on the harbor. Early December was the beginning of summer in the southern hemisphere, crazy as that was to an American, but the weather hadn’t gotten the memo. She checked the time: almost nine. Sergeant Kipper Wallace of the Stewart Island Police Department was expecting her. First case of her new job, and she’d be late.

  Dentals would be the quickest way to identify the remains. She remembered what Professor McBride at the dental school had said. “Forensic odontology has the potential to bring the forlorn to justice.”

  Robert King awaited justice.

  She texted Sergeant Wallace, but the message bounced back undelivered.

  Wind slammed the entrance door against the wall, making her drop the phone. A man and woman in matching high-vis rain gear, pulling suitcases, blew in as she retrieved it from under the bench. Damn. The screen had cracked. She wiped the phone on her jeans and watched the couple at the counter. The man asked if the ferry was delayed. Americans, Alexa could hear.

  “For now. Not to worry.”

  “We have a meeting at noon,” the woman said, shaking her hood off to reveal blond tresses.

  “Aye,” the ticket agent said. “Might be a tad late. Round trip?”

  The couple pouted like preschoolers. Alexa watched with mild interest as they arranged themselves and their belongings on the remaining empty bench and then sat back to back, huffed and sighed, and pulled out their phones.

  To pass time in a more constructive way than judging the Americans, Alexa considered the missing hunter. She retrieved his dental records from her suitcase and studied his X-rays. The top film, a periapical, showed upper teeth from crown to roots snaking below the gum line. A chill danced up Alexa’s spine. If King had not shot himself, who was the root of such evil?

  Chapter Two

  Alexa stood for the entire hour’s crossing, holding on to the interior rail of the ferry and staring at the heaving horizon while the captain calmly picked his way through swells, some exploding over the bow. Her queasiness was barely abated by the ginger tablets she’d bought from the ticket lady. She vowed to fly back, instead of taking the ferry, even if it meant chipping in some of her own money.

  Now on terra firma, passengers dispersed like sea spray in the wind. Alexa, jerking her roller suitcase through puddles, caught up with the man in the fisherman’s sweater. “Excuse me. Is there island Uber?”

  “Uber?” His nickel-colored eyes focused on her wet Keds.

  “Or Lyft?” A raindrop hit her squarely in the right eye, blurring the world. She shifted the crime kit more securely on her shoulder and rubbed her vision back to normal.

  “There’s the one taxi.” He pointed up the road at vanishing taillights. “Best way to get around is to ten-toe it.”

  She needed to dump her stuff at the hotel and get to the police station, pronto. “How far to the Island Inn?” She had reserved a room ahead of time, conscious of her per diem, and wasn’t expecting a Ritz-Carlton.

  “Five-minute walk.” He pointed a long finger to a building perched above Halfmoon Bay. The rain distorted the inn into a cream-with-red-trim watercolor. “Heading that way. I’ll drop you.” Without waiting for an answer, the lean man strode toward a hulking black pickup truck in the parking lot.

  What the hell.

  Mr. Fisherman threw her suitcase in the bed of the truck, next to netting and rope.

  The truck purred to life as Alexa arranged herself on the cold leather seat. She buckled up as the driver accelerated onto Elgin Terrace. Horsepower and rain drowned any chance of introductions. She glanced at the man’s profile. Early forties, angular and weathered. In three minutes they arrived at the small two-storied inn.

  “Thank you for the lift.”

  Mr. Fisherman nodded.

  A group of people holding signs watched her from the patio area as she hauled her case out of the truck bed. It looked to be a mini-protest. Their screams of “Ban the cage, BAN THE CAGE” got louder as Alexa approached—as if she were going shark cage diving. Not. Happening. She squinted through the rain at the signs: Paua Divers Aren’t Bait, CHILDREN SWIM HERE. Mr. Fisherman honked as Alexa scurried past and through the door.

  An old-timey wooden reception counter stood at the far end of the lobby. The Americans from the ferry were already checking in. “I don’t appreciate the greeting committee,” the man said to the receptionist.

  “Sorry about that,” she replied, removing her glasses. “Caging is a bit of a stink on the island.”

  “The money we pay to dive with the sharks goes toward ocean conservation,” the woman chimed in.

  “Some of it,” said the receptionist.

  The high-vis couple snagged my taxi, Alexa concluded, unzipping her raincoat. Off to the right, a waiter carried a tray of fried fish and chips in the busy restaurant. Her stomach growled in protest. To the left an arrow pointed to Full Moon Lounge.

  The Americans nodded at Alexa as they hurried off.

  “Kia ora. I’m Constance Saddler, proprietor. Are you a shack diver too?”

  “Shack diver?” It took her a second to decipher. “No. I’m not here to dive with sharks. I have a reservation. Alexa Glock.” She fished her phone out to check messages. No bars. “Is there cell reception on the island?”

  “Not to worry. On fine days.” Constance looked a few years older than Alexa, early forties. Her blond hair, dark at the roots, needed a trim. “What brings you here?”

  “Business. Can you give me directions to the police station?”

  Constance’s eyes widened. “It’s number two View Street. A short hop.” She took a map from a stack on the counter and circled a dot. “It’s about the hunter, yeah?”

  News had leaked. “I can’t say.”

  “Right then.” Constance checked the computer screen. “You’ve booked a studio. I’ll take you there.”

  They exited out a side door, where a one-story wing had been added. “These are our private entrance suites.” Constance unlocked Number Three with a key. “You have an en suite double, tellie, and wee kitchen.
” Constance cracked the window and approved when the curtain billowed. “Would you like standard or trim?”

  Alexa was caught off guard again.

  “Milk for your mini-fridge. Standard or trim?”

  “Standard, thank you.”

  “I’ll be back later with your milk.” Constance paused. “It wasn’t a local, you know.”

  Alexa watched through the window as Constance hurried away. She supposed on an island with fewer than four hundred residents that everyone would know everyone and there would be no secrets. She pulled hiking pants and socks from her suitcase and set her white Keds by the window—which she closed—to dry. She changed, combed her thick dark tangles into a ponytail, laced her boots, and grabbed a mini-package of biscuits next to the electric kettle. She would dine on her way.

  The sea-green cottage at 2 View Street belonged in a children’s picture book. Alexa checked the sign. Yep. Police Station. She climbed three steps to the front porch and turned toward the harbor. Through tapering rain, she could see the ferry leaving, causing her a flutter of panic. Stranded on a remote island. And Then There Were None, and all that. She swatted away such irrational thoughts of remote locales and killers among us and entered. Sergeant Kipper Wallace had expected her two hours ago. A uniformed woman in a cubicle turned. “Hello. How can I help?” Her name tag said Constable Elyse Kopae.

  Alexa had learned Kiwis used the term “constable” instead of “officer.” Same difference. “I’m looking for Sergeant Wallace.”

  “Are you from Auckland forensics?” The constable was young, maybe Māori, with dark, direct eyes. Her black hair was chin-length. She did not have a lip and chin tattoo like some Māori women. Neither had Mary.

  “Yes.”

  “The senior is at the fire department. Waiting for the all-clear so he can take off.”

  “Senior” was another oddity. Instead of saying “sir” or “boss,” police officers called their superiors Senior. Alexa couldn’t bring herself to use it. “Take off?”

  “To the location.”

  Constable Kopae pointed out the room’s single window to another sea-green building. One side was an open garage housing an inflatable raft. Alexa’s stomach flip-flopped.