Page 8 of The Bone Hacker

“Eventually, I see that the thing inside is slimy and white. And it’s reeking like a son of a bitch. I know what a rotting carcass looks like, so I reckon it’s a dead animal or fish. I’m trying to flip it, when what do I see but a freaking foot!”

“Which you believed to be human.”

“Tabarnak! Les orteilswas pointing right at me!” Perhaps visualizing the moment the toes appeared, perhaps seeking divineprotection, Legalt crossed himself quickly, ciggie still cupped in his hand.

“What did you do next?”

“What you think? I got off the goddam boat.”

“That’s when you called the SPVM?”

Legalt nodded, cheeks pinched as he drew another blast of carcinogen into his lungs.

“Did you touch or manipulate the remains in any way?”

“Êtes-vous fou?”

I took his “are you crazy?” as a firm “no.”

“Can you show me what you found?”

Legalt looked as though I’d suggested he inject himself with polonium-210.

“May I have permission to board?” I asked.

“Knock yourself out.”

Plante must have been listening. When I turned, he was already in motion.

“Monsieur Legalt prefers to remain ashore,” I said.

“Reste ici!” Plante ordered Legalt, not at all gently. Stay here!

Positioning himself beside theGrésillent’s bow, Plante extended an arm. The swells were modest but with aspirations, the boat rocking some, so I took his hand. The last thing I wanted was to stumble in front of these two.

Straddling the gap maintained by a pair of rubber fenders, I swung my legs over the gunwale and hopped onto the deck. Rail grasped in one hand, I indicated my case with the other. After Plante handed it to me, I made my way aft, bracing against the cabin wall for balance.

The long-handled hook lay where it had rolled when Legalt bolted, a jumble of flora still caught on the working end. Flies had gathered above the jumble, darting and whining, sun iridescent on their blue-green bodies.

Though faint, the odor coming from the object of their interestwas unmistakable. Mixing with the briny mélange of saltwater and decaying vegetation was the sweet, fetid scent of decomposing flesh.

I was flipping the clasps on my case when Plante joined me. He watched as I shot pics. Gloved. Masked.

When I squatted, the flies rose in a whining cloud of protest. Ignoring them, and the water bugs, snails, and occasional crab clinging to or scuttling from the knotted mess, I observed closely. And understood the source of the smell.

Caught in the slimy strands of kelp and seaweed were soggy chunks of varying shapes and sizes. Pale and bloated, they stood out in sharp contrast to the sea-darkened vegetation. I recognized them as scraps of rotting flesh.

Stomach knotted, I rose.

“Might there be a net on board?” I asked while shooting more photos.

“Un instant.”

Plante descended into the cabin. I heard rattling, a thunk, then he returned with a tool that appeared far too short for the job I envisioned. I eyed it skeptically but said nothing.

After freeing the boat hook of any remaining vegetation, I grasped the handle two-handed and moved farther aft. Plante followed. Together we peered down over the stern.

Legalt’s description had been dead-on. A “mother lode of crap” jammed the space between the outboards, rising and falling with the movement of the water.

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