The Bone Thief (Body Farm 5)

He nodded.

“And where does this take place?”

“In a ballroom at the Grove Park Inn.”

“The Grove Park?” It was the most elegant hotel in Asheville, a massive stone lodge built in the 1920s. Several U.S. presidents had stayed there, as had dozens of Hollywood stars. “The Grove Park lets us waltz in with a bunch of cadaver arms and carve them up?”

“Well, we don’t exactly pile them on a baggage cart at the front entrance,” he chuckled, “but basically yeah. I’ve done this at convention hotels plenty of times. We pack the material in leakproof shipping cases, on ice, and bring it up the service elevator. We don’t allow hotel staff into the room, so nobody but the docs sees anything. End of the day, we pack everything up, haul it down the freight elevator and out the service entrance and back to where it came from. Piece of cake.”

“And you’re envisioning that I’d bring the material over just for the day, then take it back to Knoxville?”

He shrugged. “Your choice,” he said. “You want to send it home with me, great — we’d be glad to be the ‘designee’ your donor consent form mentions.”

I sipped my watery Coke and frowned. “I’d need to take it back with me. It would look pretty strange if a dozen skeletons in the collection were missing their arms.” As I said it, I thought of Trey Willoughby’s limbless corpse.

“Then take ’em back at the end of the seminar. If we can borrow or rent them for a day, that’s great. So you’re saying this is possible?”

“Possible. Wouldn’t be easy. We’d have to stockpile the material in a freezer.” What else? I asked myself. What else do I need to do to reel him in? “And those arms aren’t going to amputate themselves.”

“It would be a lot of work,” he conceded, “but I think you’d find that the honorarium would make it worthwhile.”

I stalled, studying the last of my drink. “How worthwhile?” I took another small sip.

He didn’t hesitate. “A thousand an arm. Twenty arms, twenty grand.”

A stray droplet of Coke water went down my windpipe, and I found myself coughing convulsively. The coughing fit was so intense it brought tears to my eyes.

Once the coughing finally subsided into throat clearing, Sinclair added, “Does that mean you’d consider such an arrangement worthwhile?”

“That’s…quite worthwhile,” I managed to say.

He reached a hand across the corner of the end table. “Bill, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.” As we shook hands, he smiled a broad, slow smile, and it made my flesh crawl. He stood up suddenly. “This calls for a toast. Our lovely waitress seems to have forgotten us. Let me go get us a fresh round. You sit tight; I’ll be right back.” He stepped through the curtains and out the doorway before I could protest.

I slumped back in the sofa, spent from the coughing and dismayed by the deal I’d just made. It wasn’t that I disapproved of the surgical training — quite the contrary, in fact. It was myself I disapproved of: I had just agreed to exploit donated bodies for my own personal gain. I rested my head against the back of the sofa and closed my eyes.

“Jet-lagged?”

I jerked my head up and opened my eyes. It was the pretty waitress in the librarian outfit.

She set down a fresh Coke and another scotch on the end table. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“It’s okay. I’ve just had a long day.”

She smiled. “You do look like you could use something to perk you up.” She turned and took a few steps, then stopped at the wooden stand holding the massive dictionary. Reaching out a hand, she touched the back of the stand. The lights dimmed, and the room filled with the driving beat of dance music. The young woman was standing with her back to me, her feet slightly apart, the skirt stretched tight. One leg began to keep time to the music, and then — as the Pointer Sisters burst into the lyrics of “I’m So Excited”—she spun to face me. She widened her stance, and a slit in her skirt parted all the way up her left thigh. With one hand she removed her glasses and laid them on the dictionary; with the other she reached up and unpinned the bun, giving her head a toss that flipped her long hair into a high, sweeping arc. Then she began to move toward me, undulating and shimmying across the few feet of space that divided us.

“Wait,” I said.

She held one finger to her lips and pursed her mouth in an exaggerated “shush” expression. Then she yanked the white blouse open — I heard the sound of Velcro letting go — to reveal a sheer, low-cut black bra underneath.

“Wait, stop,” I said. “What are you doing?”

Instead of answering, she planted her right foot between my own feet, then wedged her left leg between my knees and levered them apart. Next she tugged at the top of the slit in her skirt, and the garment came off in her hand and fell to the floor. She was completely nude underneath. Dear God, I thought desperately and absurdly, what would Sir Galahad do?

“Stop,” I said. “Please stop now.”

She turned her back to me again, bent her knees, and arched her back, pushing her bare bottom toward me, swirling and swaying closer and closer in a sensual, primal rhythm.

“Stop!” I shouted. “Stop dancing and put on your clothes. Right now.”

She froze in mid-sway, inches away from me.

“I’m serious,” I added. “You’re a beautiful woman, but I didn’t ask for this, and I’m not comfortable with it.”

She stood up straight and spun to face me, looking skeptical and confused and maybe a little mad. “You’re saying you didn’t ask for a lap dance from me?”

“No,” I said, “I really don’t want a lap dance,” though that was no longer quite as true as it had been two minutes before. “Thank you, though.”

Suddenly she looked embarrassed. She took two steps backward. With one hand she pulled her blouse closed, then stooped to pick up the skirt with the other. She wrapped the fabric around her hips and fastened it, then smoothed the blouse’s Velcro fasteners into place

Just then the curtains in the doorway flew open. I was expecting — hoping — that Rankin and the rest of the FBI cavalry was riding to my rescue, but I was wrong, and disappointed, and very nervous: The burly man from the club’s entrance rushed toward me. Planting himself between the dancer and me, he held a meaty hand six inches from my face, opening and closing his fist like some beating heart of violence and menace. “What’s going on, Brenda? Is this guy giving you trouble? Did he paw you?”

“No, it’s okay, Vic,” she answered.

“I heard shouting,” he said. “What happened?”

“Really, it’s okay, Vic,” she said. “He…he was on the phone, talking loud over the music.”

Vic looked dubious. He lowered his hand, though it continued to clench and unclench.

“Really. He didn’t do a thing. He’s a good guy.” Her face filled with sadness suddenly — sadness about this misunderstanding? sadness about the things she had to do for money? — and in her sadness she seemed more exposed than ever. “He’s a good guy,” she repeated with a shake of her head, making for the doorway.

Just as she reached it, Sinclair walked in, carrying a drink in each hand. He stared at her as she brushed past, then stared at the bouncer, then at me. “What the fuck just happened?”

“Nothing,” I said, and when I said it, I realized that Sinclair must have arranged the whole thing. When he’d gone to get the drinks, he must have told the waitress I’d requested the dance. I had the distinct feeling that I was in over my head. “Nothing happened. I just got a little woozy, and I need to go. I’ve got to get up in six hours to catch my flight anyway.”

I sidestepped the bouncer and headed for the doorway. Sinclair made to follow me, but I waved him off.

“You stay and enjoy yourself. Don’t let me put a damper on your evening. Give Melissa my regards.” As I parted the curtains, I looked back over my shoulder. It took everything I had to add, “Call me when you have a final head count f

or the training.”

Would he call, or had I just lost the fish I’d been sent here to reel in? I didn’t know, and I didn’t much care.