Cover image for 206 bones
Title:
206 bones
Author:
Reichs, Kathy.
Personal Author:
Edition:
[Large print edition].
Publication Information:
Detroit : Wheeler Pub., [2009]

©2009
Physical Description:
515 pages (large print) ; 23 cm
Language:
English
ISBN:
9781410418920
Format :
Book

Available:*

Library
Call Number
Material Type
Home Location
Status
Item Holds
Searching...
LARGE PRINT FICTION Adult Large Print Large Print
Searching...
Searching...
LARGE PRINT FICTION Adult Large Print Large Print
Searching...
Searching...
LARGE PRINT FICTION Adult Large Print - Floating collection Floating Collection - Large Print
Searching...
Searching...
LARGE PRINT FICTION Adult Large Print Large Print
Searching...
Searching...
LARGE PRINT FICTION Adult Large Print Large Print
Searching...
Searching...
LARGE PRINT FICTION Adult Large Print Large Print
Searching...
Searching...
LARGE PRINT FICTION Adult Large Print Large Print
Searching...
Searching...
LARGE PRINT FICTION Adult Large Print Large Print
Searching...
Searching...
LARGE PRINT FICTION Adult Large Print Large Print
Searching...
Searching...
LARGE PRINT FICTION Adult Large Print Large Print
Searching...

On Order

Summary

Author Notes

Kathy Reichs was born in Chicago, Illinois on July 7, 1948. She received a BA in anthropology from American University in 1971, a MA in physical anthropology from Northwestern University in 1972, and a Ph.D. in physical anthropology from Northwestern University in 1975.

She works as a forensic anthropologist for the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, State of North Carolina and for the Laboratoire des Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale in Quebec. She has taught at Northern Illinois University, University of Pittsburgh, Concordia University, McGill University, and the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. Her work as a forensic anthropologist is internationally recognized; she has traveled to Rwanda to testify at the UN Tribunal on Genocide, helped in an exhumation in the area of the highlands of southwest Guatemala, and done forensic work at Ground Zero in New York.

In addition to her published academic papers and books, Reichs has written numerous works of crime fiction including Temperance Brennan series. Déjà Dead won the 1997 Arthur Ellis Award for Best First Novel. She is a producer on the Fox television series Bones, which is loosely based on her own forensic career and writing. In 2015, she won the Silver Bullet Literary Award.

(Bowker Author Biography)


Reviews 2

Publisher's Weekly Review

As the 12th novel starring Dr. Temperance Brennan opens, the forensic anthropologist awakens to find herself entombed and tied up. While struggling to free herself, she recalls her most recent case, concerning a potential serial killer of elderly women, and her gradual awareness that an unknown enemy is trying to undermine her professionally and personally. Linda Emond ably embodies the brilliant but socially awkward Temperance. She makes a subtle but effective effort to indicate other voices and produces a convincing French accent when necessary (much of the action takes place in Montreal). Emond also ensures that the pace doesn't flag when Reichs takes quick timeouts from the narrative for a human anatomy lesson. A Scribner hardcover (Reviews, June 15). (Aug.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved


Library Journal Review

Awaking bound in an underground tunnel, forensic anthropologist Temperance "Tempe" Brennan struggles to put together the events leading up to her abduction. She remembers accompanying her ex-husband, Montreal detective Andrew Ryan, to Chicago to check out a cold case-where she learned that someone has accused her of bungling her initial postmortem. Professional feathers ruffled, Tempe returns to Quebec to clear her name. Her fellow examiners are also on edge as a new pathologist displays an unerring ability to find errors in their work. Verdict This 12th forensic thriller in the series (after Devil Bones) will delight fans of medical mysteries by Patricia Cornwell and Tess Gerritsen. Reichs is a forensic anthropologist, and she's a heck of a lot of fun to read. Highly recommended. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 4/1/09.]-Karen Kleckner, Deerfield P.L., IL (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.


Excerpts

Excerpts

206 Bones 1 COLD. Numb. Confused. I opened my eyes. To dark. Black as arctic winter. Am I dead? Obeying some limbic command, I inhaled deeply. Smells registered in my brain. Mold. Musty earth. Something organic, hinting at the passage of time. Was this hell? A tomb? I listened. Silence. Impenetrable. But no. There were sounds. Air moving through my nostrils. Blood pounding in my ears. Corpses don't breathe. Dead hearts don't beat. Other sensations intruded. Hardness below me. Burning on the right side of my face. I raised my head. Bitter bile flooded my mouth. I shifted my hips to relieve pressure on my twisted neck. Pain exploded up my left leg. A groan shattered the stillness. Instinctively, my body went fetal. The pounding gained volume. I lay curled, listening to the rhythm of my fear. Then, recognition. The sound had come from my own throat. I feel pain. I react. I am alive. But where? Spitting bile, I tried reaching out. Felt resistance. Realized my wrists were bound. I flexed a knee toward my chest, testing. My feet rose as one. My wrists dropped. I tried a second time, harder. Neurons again fired up my leg. Stifling another cry, I struggled to force order onto my addled thinking. I'd been bound, hands to feet, and abandoned. Where? When? By whom? Why? A memory search for recent events came up empty. No. The void in recollection was longer than that. I remembered picnicking with my daughter, Katy. But that was summer. The frigid temperature now suggested that it must be winter. Sadness. A last farewell to Andrew Ryan. That was October. Had I seen him again? A bright red sweater at Christmas. This Christmas? I had no idea. Disoriented, I groped for any detail from the past few days. Nothing stayed in focus. Vague impressions lacking rational form or sequence appeared and faded. A figure emerging from shadow. Man or woman? Anger. Shouting. About what? At whom? Melting snow. Light winking off glass. The dark maw of a cracked door. Dilated vessels pounded inside my skull. Hard as I tried, I could not evoke recollection from my semiconscious mind. Had I been drugged? Suffered a blow to the head? How bad was my leg? If I managed to free myself, could I walk? Crawl? My hands were numb, my fingers useless. I tried tugging my wrists outward. Felt no give in my bindings. Tears of frustration burned the backs of my lids. No crying! Clamping my jaw, I rolled to my back, raised my feet, and jerked my ankles apart. Flames roared up my left lower limb. Then I knew nothing. I awoke. Moments later? Hours? No way to tell. My mouth felt drier, my lips more parched. The pain in my leg had receded to a dull ache. Though I gave my pupils time, they took in nothing. How could they adjust? The dense blackness offered not a sliver of light. The same questions flooded back. Where? Why? Who? Clearly, I'd been abducted. To be the victim in some sick game? To be removed as a threat? The thought triggered my first clear memory. An autopsy photo. A corpse, charred and twisted, jaws agape in a final agonal scream. Then a kaleidoscope sequence, image chasing image. Two morgues. Two autopsy rooms. Name plaques marking two labs. Temperance Brennan, Forensic Anthropologist. Temperance Brennan, Anthropologue Judiciaire. Was I in Charlotte? Montreal? Far too cold for North Carolina. Even in winter. Was it winter? Was I in Quebec? Had I been grabbed at home? On the street? In my car? Outside the Édifice Wilfrid-Derome? Inside the lab? Was my captor a random predator and I a random victim? Had I been targeted because of who I am? Revenge sought by a former accused? By a conspiracy-theorist next of kin? What case had I last been working? Dear God, could it really be so cold? So dark? So still? Why that smell, so disturbingly familiar? As before, I tried wriggling my hands. My feet. To no avail. I was hog-tied, unable even to sit. "Help! I'm here! Someone! Help me!" Over and over I called out until my throat grew raw. "Anyone! Please!" My pleas went unanswered. Panic threatened to overwhelm me. You will not die helpless! Trembling from cold and fear, and frantic to see, I shifted to my back and started bucking my hips, stretching my hands upward as far as possible, oblivious to the agony in my leg. One thrust. Two. Three. My fingertips scraped hardness little more than a foot above my face. I lunged again. Made contact. Sediment cascaded into my eyes and mouth. Spitting and blinking, I rolled onto my right side and shoved backward with one arm and both feet. The rough ground abraded the skin on my elbow and heels. One ankle screamed in protest. I didn't care. I had to move. Had to get out. I'd advanced a very short distance when I encountered a wall. Rectangular contours surrounded by mortar. Brick. Heart hammering, I rolled to my other side and inched in the opposite direction. Again, I soon hit a wall. Adrenaline flooded my body as terror piggybacked onto terror. My gut curdled. My lungs drew great heaving breaths. My prison was no more than thirty inches high and six feet wide! Its length didn't matter. Already I felt the walls pressing in. I lost control. Scooching forward, I began yelling and beating the brick with my fists. Tears streamed down my cheeks. Over and over I called out, hoping to attract the attention of a passerby. A worker. A dog. Anyone. When my knuckles grew raw I attacked with the heels of my hands. When I could no longer flail with my arms, I rolled and lashed out with my feet. Pain ripped from my ankle. Too much pain. My calls for help morphed into agonized moans. Defeated, I fell back, panting, sweat cooling on my icy flesh. A parade of faces marched through my mind. Katy. Ryan. My sister, Harry. My cat, Birdie. My ex-husband, Pete. Would I never see them again? Great heaving sobs racked my chest. Perhaps I lost consciousness. Perhaps not. My next awareness was of sound. A noise outside my body. Not of my making. I froze. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. A cerebral crack opened. Memory slipped through. Excerpted from 206 Bones by Kathy Reichs All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.