Bones of the Lost(81)

PUNKED! PUNKED! PUNKED! PUNKED! PUNKED!

For once, my Luddite ex had been right. His computer had a virus.

I shut down, rebooted, and waited out the whole annoying Windows startup performance. The script was gone. The CD tray stayed put.

“You owe me, big guy,” I whispered under my breath.

I was crossing the dining room when movement again caught my attention. A subtle alteration in shadows mottling the carpet. Below the window, on the far side of the table.

I paused. Was the adrenaline rush playing tricks with my brain? The whacked-out computer?

No. Like the sound of the tray, the shadowy ripple was real.

Back to the wall, I slid to the drapes and peeked out.

The night was moonless, the grounds of Sharon Hall dark as a tomb.

But there, below the magnolia. A wink of paleness. A silhouette?

I crouched a full minute, watching. But that was it. I saw nothing more. If I’d seen anything at all.

Sudden thought.

Had I locked up properly? Engaged the alarm? I’d been surprised to see Birdie. Distracted and exhausted, had I forgotten? Wouldn’t be the first time. Though I’m conscientious when leaving, I’m often lax about security when at home.

My gaze fell on the files I’d dumped on the table. Creach and Majerick. Both burglars. One a violent offender.

I checked every door and window and set the alarm. As I grabbed a handset from the study, faint but distinct, I heard a car engine turn over.

A little uneasy, I returned to bed.





AGAIN MA BELL RANG ME awake. I think I was setting some sort of record.

“We bagged Cecil Creach.” Slidell sounded almost chirpy.

“Where?”

“Moosehead, over on Montford.”

I’d been to the pub, knew the owner had a zero-tolerance policy.

“Creach wasn’t dealing in that place,” I said.

“Dumbass was drinking and shooting the breeze. With himself. Freaked the other customers, so the bouncer tossed him. Creach sat in the parking lot wailing about the injustice of life. Bouncer called the cops. Creach had a bellyful of booze, but wasn’t holding.”

“When was this?”

I heard paper rustle.

“Booked in just past one A.M.”

If I’d had a nocturnal visitor, it hadn’t been Creach. I debated telling Slidell about the previous night’s incident. Tell him what? I’d been punked by a PC prankster?

“Did Creach resist?”

A snort from Slidell.

“What now?”

“I let him cook a while, then I sweat him.”

“I want to be there.”

“Show kicks off in an hour.”

“Don’t start without me.”

Slidell made a noise that might have been agreement.

I fed Birdie, showered, and dressed. One coffee and a dollop of cold lasagna, and I was good to go. Despite the interrupted sleep, I actually felt energized. We were making progress.

I jammed the untouched files into my laptop case, grabbed my purse and keys, and opened the kitchen door.

And stopped.

A box sat on the mat, the kind you use for gifting a sweater or shirt. The top had no label, no printed or written name or address.

There was nothing overtly threatening about the thing. No wires. No sounds from inside. Still, every instinct went on alert.

The shadow play in the night. The movement under the tree.

And something else.

A ruby-brown blossom spread from the box’s bottom up and across its left side.

I looked around.

My Mazda was sitting where I’d left it. No car idled curbside or looped the drive. The grounds were empty. Across the street, Myers Park Baptist Church was deserted. A few vehicles waited out the stoplight at Selwyn.

My eyes dropped back to the box. Inhaling deeply, I set down my laptop case and drew gloves from an outer pocket. After pulling them on, I crouched and carefully teased off the lid.

The box contained one single item. Gray-brown and shriveled, it looked like a hunk of mummified meat. The cardboard below it was dark and shiny.

At first I had no idea.

I turned the thing over with a fingertip. Took in detail.

Then comprehension.

Although the day was warm, I felt a chill run my spine.

“Jesus . . .”

I shot to my feet, stomach roiling. My hand flew to my mouth.

“Oh, Jesus . . .”

I swallowed. Swallowed again. Raised my chin and let the cool morning air play over my face. Willed myself calm.

One more check of my surroundings, then I replaced the cover, brought the box into the kitchen, and closed the door.

With a shaking hand, I pulled my iPhone from my purse and punched a speed-dial button.

Slidell picked up on the second ring.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Get over here. Now.”

Slidell read the urgency in my voice.

“You okay, doc?”

“Yes. No. Just, please come now. And you may want to notify CSS.”