Cover image for Dragonfly bones
Title:
Dragonfly bones
Author:
Cole, David, 1941-
Personal Author:
Publication Information:
New York : Avon Books, [2003]

©2003
Physical Description:
256 pages ; 18 cm
Language:
English
ISBN:
9780060511937
Format :
Book

Available:*

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Call Number
Material Type
Home Location
Status
Central Library X Adult Mass Market Paperback Central Closed Stacks
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Summary

Summary

Part-Hopi cyber-investigator Laura Winslow is reunited with her long-lost daughter, an angry young convict who has agreed to help uncover an identity theft ring in exchange for leniency, an agreement that leads to a secret burial ground and into the pathof a killer.


Excerpts

Excerpts

The landscapers arrived before sunrise. Jack Klossberg drove the rented crane flatbed, loaded with three fifteen-foot palo verde trees, their root balls secure in heavy burlapping tied with twine. Emilia Guzman and Jesus Totexto followed in a brand new red three-quarter ton Chevy pickup, trailer-towing the backhoe. Both vehicles had bright spoked wheels, all the paint and chrome carefully polished that morning, and the Landmasters LLC logo freshly painted on both door panels. Passing the access road to Casa Grande National Monument, Klossberg turned left onto State Route 287 and drove slowly, checking a hand drawn map as he turned right on Kenworthy Road. Reaching the end of the pavement, he stuck an arm out the window, motioning the Chevy to follow him up a rise onto a dirt access road into the staked area of a new housing development with three model homes. Two roofers sat on top of an unfinished fourth house, drinking coffee, while another man stacked half-moon shaped adobe roof tiles. "Who's gonna buy these here houses?" Guzman said as she unloaded the ice chest and the twenty-gallon water cooler. "People with money." Klossberg shrugged. "Except they don't have enough money to buy anything in Tucson." All three of them walked behind the model homes, looking over the ten-acre tract rising gently to the east. Roughly half had been pretty much clearcut, except for some huge mesquite trees. Red stakes marked off the corners of different-sized lots, yellow stakes on both sides of rough graded streets. A bulldozer sat beyond the stakes, exhaust stack rattling as the engine warmed, the operator consulting a map where he'd begin clearing clumps of warm-season bunchgrass. Klossberg liked upland bunchgrass, couldn't figure why the tract designer wanted to level all the mountain muhly, burrograss, sideoats and blue grama, and buffalo grass. Shaking his head, he crumpled dirt in his hand, feeling small lumps of decomposed granite and gritty limestone sand. "Helluva place to plow off and landscape with city plantings," he said, kicking at an area of hardpan caliche. "They oughta just leave it natural." "Then I'd earn no money for my kids," Guzman said. "Great view, anyway." "If I had my scoped .30-30," Totexto said, pretending he was aiming west, "I could prolly hit some long haul trucker on I-10." Klossberg shook his head. "Come on, kids. Thirty holes to dig today." They leaned against the flatbed, drinking some water, nobody talking anymore. Five in the morning, the July heat already near one hundred degrees. Birds calling their early warnings, a string of Gambel's quail chicks scurrying behind their indignant mother, red-tailed hawks already circling above the desert floor, and half a mile away he saw some mourning doves flying in and out of the tall, open shed that covered the Casa Grande ruins. Klossberg finished his cup of water, consulted his map, pointed. Totexto shrugged off his sleeveless tee shirt and lowered the trailer ramp. Guzman stripped to her yellow tanktop and climbed into the seat of the backhoe. Its engine fired immediately, coughed some, settled into a purr. Guzman carefully backed it down the ramp and headed toward the bright pink stakes Klossberg was hammering into the hardpan desert floor, whacking the tops of the stakes with the flat of a shovel blade. Half an hour later, Klossberg and Totexto had the first palo verde tree craned over the side of the flatbed, suspended above the first hole. Aplatinum-colored Ford Excursion came toward them, tinted windows closed and the aircon going. Accelerating toward the unfinished home, the Excursion just barely slowed as the driver slalomed left past the flatbed. Rooster tails of dust and small stones blew back, cracking hard against the flatbed's front windshield, clanking off the paint. " Whoa , dude!" Guzman shouted when a stone whacked her hardhat. "What's your hurry?" Five minutes later, the first palo verde stood upright in the hole. Klossberg and Guzman started slashing the burlaping off the root ball. Another car came up the road. A Chevy Tahoe, stopping next to them. Painted whiter than white, so white that the reflections of green creosote bush and red-tipped ocotillos paled against the Tahoe's doors, the white bleaching out color, absorbing all other colors, even the brilliant red of the hand-painted sign on the door. RAPTURE WARRIORS CAMP "Yo," the driver said through the open passenger side window. Klossberg nodded without speaking. Totexto stared at the beautiful black girl in the passenger seat. "Where they at?" the driver said. lossberg pointed to the model homes and turned to the root ball. But the Excursion was already driving back toward them, braking abruptly but expertly so the front bumper was just inches from the Tahoe. Two men got out. Suits, ties black Resistol hats, cowboy boots with roper heels, newly polished and shiny. One of the men came forward, already wiping road dust from his boots. A deputy sheriff came out of the Tahoe, a Winchester twelve-gauge pump shotgun held upright, the barrel against his right shoulder. "Howdy," he said. "Depitty Thumb. You them security people?" "Brittles," the lead man said. "And Pardee." Thumb extended a hand, but Brittles ignored it and quietly opened the Tahoe's passenger car. The girl came out, hesitantly, awkwardly. Anxious, eyes flicking from side to side, chewing gum hard. Leg chains, wrists cuffed with a two-foot chain. An orange jumpsuit, short sleeves. A teenager, barely sixteen, Brittles thought. Gorgeous face, model gorgeous, impossibly perfect and high cheekbones, skin completely unblemished. When she leaned forward to stretch some muscles, her jumpsuit gaped open at the top. Brittles saw her breasts and quickly cut his eyes away in the same moment he realized she'd leaned over on purpose ... (Continues...) Excerpted from Dragonfly Bones by David Cole Copyright © 2003 by David Cole Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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