The Bones Will Speak Read online

  PRAISE FOR A CRY FROM THE DUST

  “Parks, in her debut novel, has clearly done her research and never disappoints when it comes to crisp dialogue, characterization, or surprising twists and turns.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “Besides having a resourceful and likable heroine, the book also features that rarest of characters: a villain you don’t see coming, but whom you hate with relish . . . A Cry from the Dust will keep you hoping, praying and guessing till the end.”

  —BOOKPAGE

  “Renowned forensic and fine artist Parks’s action-packed and compelling tale of suspense is haunting in its intensity. Well researched and written in an almost journalistic style, this emotionally charged story is recommended for fans of Ted Dekker, Mary Higgins Clark, and historical suspense.”

  —LIBRARY JOURNAL

  “Parks’s fast-paced and suspenseful debut novel is an entertaining addition to the inspirational genre. Her writing is polished, and the research behind the novel brings credibility to the story . . . an excellent book that is sure to put Carrie Stuart Parks on readers’ radars.”

  —RT BOOK REVIEWS, 4 STARS

  “A unique novel of forensics and fanaticism. A good story on timely subjects well told. For me, these are the ingredients of a successful novel today and Carrie Stuart Parks has done just that.”

  —CARTER CORNICK, FBI COUNTERTERRORISM AND FORENSIC SCIENCE RESEARCH (RET.)

  “Parks’s real-life career as a forensic artist lends remarkable authenticity to her enthralling novel, A Cry from the Dust. Her work is a fresh new voice in suspense, and I became an instant fan. Highly recommended!”

  —COLLEEN COBLE, USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE HOPE BEACH SERIES AND THE INN AT OCEAN’S EDGE

  “In A Cry from the Dust, the novel’s courageous protagonist—a forensic artist recovering from cancer—finds herself facing ‘blood atonement’ when she investigates the death of a young woman. This superbly researched mystery, based on actual events, shows what can happen when lack of education is combined with religious fanaticism.”

  —BETTY WEBB, AUTHOR OF DESERT WIVES AND DESERT WIND

  “Things I loved about A Cry from the Dust: the fascinating and pains-takingly researched historical tapestry into which the story is woven, the frantic but intensely believable arc of events that makes you hold on extra tight, the compelling and flawed heroine who has absolutely no idea she’s the heroine. Part CSI, part Lie to Me, and all relentlessly original, A Cry from the Dust blends rich characters, little-known history, and a dose of conspiracy into a very modern storytelling style. Can’t wait to tear into Gwen Marcey’s next adventure.”

  —ZACHARY BARTELS, AUTHOR OF PLAYING SAINT AND 42 MONTHS DRY

  “With a strong heroine and suspense that keeps the pages flipping, A Cry from the Dust is full of twists from the past, secret societies, and a sinister race against the clock. Highly recommend!”

  —ROBIN CAROLL, AUTHOR OF THE JUSTICE SEEKERS SERIES

  OTHER BOOKS BY

  CARRIE STUART PARKS

  A Cry from the Dust

  Copyright © 2015 by Carrie Stuart Parks

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Scripture quotations are from the following: the New King James Version®. © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved. The Holy Bible, New Living Translation. © 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved. The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™ The ESV® Bible (The Holy Bible, English Standard Version®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-4016-9046-5 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Parks, Carrie Stuart.

  The bones will speak : a Gwen Marcey novel / Carrie Stuart Parks.

  pages ; cm

  ISBN 978-1-4016-9045-8 (softcover)

  I. Title.

  PS3616.A75535B66 2015

  813'.6--dc23

  2015007861

  15 16 17 18 19 20 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Frank,

  For holding on to the handlebars

  —grasshopper

  CONTENTS

  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

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  AUTHOR NOTE

  READING GROUP GUIDE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  “THE BOMB KILLED FOUR PEOPLE.” MIKE HIGGINS, rookie cop from Kellogg, Idaho, snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”

  Margie Sheehan, his ride-along that day, looked around the quiet street. “Oh.”

  “Yep, they had to scrape—”

  Margie’s face grew pale.

  “Don’t worry.” He nodded toward the neat, mint-green bungalow they’d parked in front of. “Mrs. Jackson, the lady that called in the report, is a 10–96.”

  “What’s a 10–96?”

  “A mental. A nutcake. Cats. I don’t just mean five or six. The woman collects them like baseball cards. She must have fi
fty at least.”

  “I like cats.” Margie smiled slightly, revealing perfect teeth.

  Mike tried to keep from staring at his attractive passenger. “Right. Um. So . . . she also calls dispatch at least once a week to report something. Last week she said space aliens snatched one of her cats and turned it into a sack of baby diapers. Dirty diapers.” His nose wrinkled at the memory. “This week she claims the two men wanted in Spokane for the Planned Parenthood bombings are living nearby. Said the composite sketches are like portraits of them.”

  “But what if she’s right this time? I mean, Kellogg is only about an hour from Spokane.” Her cheeks flushed.

  Mike’s stomach gave a slight lurch. Should I call for backup? He could just hear his sergeant’s voice on that request. “So, Higgins, you needed backup for the cat lady? What’s the problem? One of her space aliens pulled a ray gun?”

  He sat up straighter in his seat. “You’ll need to stay here, just in case.” He stepped from the patrol car, straightened his vest, and strolled toward Mrs. Jackson’s front porch. Modest, blue-collar homes stretched on either side of the street in the small mining town, and newly budded maple trees shaded the trim lawns from the spring sunshine.

  The front steps groaned under his weight, and a radio somewhere inside the house played a twangy country-and-western song from the local KWAL station. The covered porch stretched the width of the house, with wide, square columns at equal intervals. A black-and-white cat eyed him suspiciously from under a shrub.

  The screen door let out a screech as Mike opened it. He knocked, then peeked back at his car. Margie had rolled down the window and was staring at him.

  The music stopped, and Mrs. Jackson opened the front door. The odor of unattended cat-litter trays made him blink rapidly. A ginger-striped cat draped across the older woman’s arm. “There you are. I called the police two days ago. I could be dead now. They’re killers, you know.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She turned, dropped the cat, and picked up a folded newspaper on a nearby table. “See? It’s like a portrait.” The front page featured two composite drawings, with the headlines blaring, “Terrorism Strikes Again!” She’d taken Wite-Out and painted part of the hair and beard on one of the drawings and inked a mustache on the other. “They’re those priests. Those whatcha-call-it priests.”

  “Phineas Priesthood.”

  “That’s it. Though why men of God would set bombs and kill people is beyond me.” She pursed her lips as if sucking on a lemon.

  He shifted his weight and glanced back at Margie. “Yes, ma’am. They’re not really priests. Their religion is more like the Aryan Nations. You said you saw the—”

  “They’re hiding right there.” She stepped onto the porch and pointed at a white house across the street.

  Higgins turned to see where she pointed. A flicker of movement to his left caught his attention, a flash of red plaid shirt disappearing behind a garage.

  “What—”

  The front door across the street flew open.

  Pop, pop!

  Mrs. Jackson’s window shattered.

  Adrenalin surged through Mike’s veins. He grabbed the startled woman and shoved her backward into the house. Spinning, he screamed at Margie, “Get down,” then dropped to the porch on his stomach, scrabbling for his shoulder mic.

  Pop, pop, pop! Bullets pounded into the wall above him.

  He couldn’t remember the 10-code. “Shots fired. They’re shooting at me.” He let go of the mic and fumbled for his pistol. From his prone position, he couldn’t see over his patrol car.

  Car doors slammed.

  Taking a deep breath, he rolled left behind the porch column.

  An engine revved.

  He stood.

  A faded-red Toyota pickup backed from the driveway and raced down the street.

  Higgins holstered his pistol and sprinted for his car, shouting into his shoulder mic, “They’re getting away . . . I mean, I’m in pursuit . . .” He slid into the seat, started the engine, and slammed the car into gear. Picking up the car radio, he continued, “A red Toyota pickup, two suspects . . .” He turned on his lights and siren. “Heading east on Mission . . . No, they’ve turned south on—”

  A hand grabbed his arm.

  Higgins dropped the mic. The car swerved.

  Margie unfolded from an impossibly tiny position on the floor and slid into the passenger seat. She pulled the seat belt tight across her body. Her face was ashen.

  Snatching up the radio, Higgins said, “They’ve just turned east onto I-90. I’m in pursuit. Request backup.” He twisted the wheel and skated to the on-ramp.

  The truck accelerated ahead.

  Higgins floored the patrol car.

  The pickup shot onto the highway, narrowly missed a van, and overcorrected. Dust and gravel spit from the spinning tires.

  Gripping the steering wheel with both white-knuckled hands, Higgins lifted his foot from the accelerator.

  The pickup spun, smashed into the guardrail, and twisted back into traffic.

  The eastbound, fully loaded logging truck tried to avoid the pickup, but was too close. It slammed into the pickup’s side. The smaller truck folded around it like an aluminum can.

  Higgins stopped.

  As if in slow motion, both vehicles left the highway and plunged into the shallow Coeur d’Alene River, running parallel to the highway.

  Margie gasped.

  Reaching for the radio, Higgins cleared his throat. “Dispatch, request an ambulance and tow truck . . . and I think you can tell Spokane PD they don’t need to worry about their Phineas Priesthood terrorist cell anymore.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  APRIL 15, FIVE YEARS LATER

  I CHARGED FROM THE HOUSE AND RACED across the lawn, frantically waving my arms. “Stop digging! Winston, no!”

  Winston, my Great Pyrenees, paused in his vigorous burial of some form of road kill and raised a muddy nose in my direction.

  “I mean it!” Why hadn’t I bought one of those nice, retriever-type dogs who mindlessly played fetch all day? Winston spent his time wading in the creek, digging pool-sized holes in the lawn, and—judging from the green stain—applying eau de cow pie around his ear. I crept toward him.

  He playfully raised his tail over his back and dodged left.

  “I’m warning you.” I pointed a finger at him. Phthalo-blue watercolor rimmed my nail, making my gesture less threatening and more like I was growing a rare fungus.

  Unfazed, he darted toward the line of flowering lilac bushes lining the driveway, temporarily passing from sight. How could a hundred-and-sixty-pound canine move so fast? I circled in the other direction, slipping closer, then carefully parted the branches. No dog.

  This was ridiculous. I could chase my dog until I retrieved the road kill from his mouth, or scrub it off the carpet for the next week. And it was getting dark, with Prussian-blue shadows stretching between Montana’s pine-covered Bitterroot Mountains.

  I glanced to my left. Winston crouched, wagging his tail. I moved toward him. He snatched his prize and shook it.

  Two black hollows appeared.

  I couldn’t move. The air rushed from my lungs and came out in a long hiss. I patted my leg, urging the dog closer.

  Winston lifted the object, exposing a hole with radiating cracks.

  Crouching, I extended my hand. “Come on, fellow. Good doggie, over here.”

  He placed his find on the ground. It came to rest on its even row of ivory teeth.

  I approached gingerly, knelt on the soggy ground, and inspected the sightless eye sockets. “Oh, dear Lord.”

  Winston nudged the skull forward.

  I yelped and sprawled on my rear. An overfed beetle plopped out of the nasal aperture and landed on my shoelace.

  Heart racing like a runaway horse, I violently kicked the offending bug, skidded backward, and stood. Fumbling my cell phone from my jeans pocket, I punched in Dave’s number. “Leave it to you, Winston, t
o find a skull full of bugs—”

  “Ravalli County Sheriff’s Department, Sheriff Dave Moore.”

  “She’s dead. You’ve got to come now, Dave!” Winston pawed at the skull like a volleyball.

  “Stop that, Winston. You’re just going to make more bugs fall out.” I bumped the dog away with my leg.

  “What is it now, Gwen? You’re calling me because Winston has bugs?”

  I rubbed my face. “Of course not. Don’t be silly. I already told you she’s dead—”

  “Question one: Are you okay?”

  “Yes! Well—”

  “Good, good. Now, question two: Where are you?”

  “I’m home. Near home. The edge of the woods—”

  “Choose one.”

  “Doggone it, Dave, don’t patronize me.” I wanted to sling the phone across the yard, then race over to the sheriff’s office and kick Dave in the shin. “Stop being irritating and get over here.”

  “Ah, yes. That brings me to question three. Who’s ‘she’?”

  “She’s a skull. Or technically a cranium. Didn’t I say that? She was murdered.”

  “Murdered? Are you sure she isn’t a lost hiker or hunter?”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Dave. She’s got a neat bullet hole in her forehead, and a not-so-neat exit wound shattering the back.” The dog reached a paw around my leg and attempted to snag his plaything. I tapped it out of reach with my shoe. I sincerely hoped no one was watching me play a macabre version of skull soccer with my dog. I already had a reputation for being eccentric.

  “Are you positive it’s female?”

  “Just look at it!” I realized I was holding the phone over the skull and quickly put the cell back to my ear. “I’m not a forensic anthropologist, but if I had to guess, I’d say female. There’s a lack of development in the supraorbital ridges, the zygomatic process is less pronounced, there’s an absence of the external occipital protuberance—”

  “Speak English.”

  “Don’t interrupt. She has signs of animal activity—chewing—and is missing the lower jaw. Hence she’s a cranium, not a skull, but her teeth are in good shape in the maxilla. That’s the upper jaw.”

  “I know what that is. You’re a forensic artist. Since when has a skull spooked you?”