Page 49 of Fire and Bones

Cellophane crinkled, then a pop-top whushed. I feared I was about to learn far more than I needed. I was right.

“NYP has been a wholesaler of burlap products since 1936. Nursery and horticulture needs. Agricultural and industrial packaging. We do it all.”

“I read that on your website.”

Colt made a throaty noise meant to convey contempt, I think.

“Upholstery supplies, emergency sandbags, landscaping materials, ground covers, bales and rolls—”

“I’m wondering if someone could provide details about one particular sack. I’m especially interested in pinpointing the period during which it was produced.” I left out that the sack in question had held a corpse.

“And you would be?”

“Dr. Temperance Brennan.”

“Are you a collector?”

“Mm.”

“Can you describe y’all’s sack?”

“It’s big and has the words Swifty Spud written above a cartoonlike potato, the word Potatoes written below.”

“Are the lettering and the picture in color?”

“Both are red and green.”

“What’s the potato doing?”

“Running.” Weird question.

Colt gave a noncommittal grunt. Then,

“Where was the sack found?”

“In a basement in Washington, DC. The image is faded but readable. I—”

“Shush. I’m thinking.”

I waited.

“What’s the bag’s capacity?”

“It measures approximately forty-eight by seventy-two inches.” Big enough to hold a body.

Colt tsked, displeased with or skeptical of my answer.

“Can you text me a photo?” he asked.

“Of course. To this number?”

“To my personal cell.” Colt slowly and carefully dictated the digits for his mobile.

“I’ll do it right now, sir.”

Seconds later I heard the text land with a soft bong on his end.

A beat, then a sharp intake of breath.