Kathy Reichs - Bones of the Lost - A Temperance Brennan Novel

FORENSIC EXPERT TESTIFIES ON BEHALF OF ACCUSED MARINE

The whole story was there. My name, as promised.

Dr. Temperance Brennan, working with NCIS, traveled to Afghanistan and performed dual exhumations and provided key testimony at the Article 32 hearing at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina . . .

I read no further. Two press mentions in a week. So much for keeping a low profile.

I snapped the computer shut.

“Hello-o.”

I snatched up the phone. “Is Gross’s attorney responsible for this?”

“Weren’t journalists present at the hearing?”

“Could have been. There were a couple of spectators.” Petulant.

“Come on. You saved the guy’s ass. Enjoy the glory.”

I rolled my eyes. Wasted, since Pete couldn’t see me.

A few beats, then, “Did you leave a PC on my desk?”

“I did. It’s acting sluggish, so I’m running a virus check.”

“Have you considered the fact that the thing’s an antique?”

“I only use it for personal e-mail. All my files are on the firm’s system.”

“Go crazy, Pete. Buy a new one.”

“Maybe.”

“Why here? Why can’t you run your virus check at home?”

“Summer has every outlet tied up.”

“What? She cooking meth?” That image brought a smile to my lips.

“She’s charging some kind of weird little lights for the wedding reception. Must be a billion.”

“Did you hang out at my place while I was gone?”

“I may have watched a little football.”

“Thanks for the provisions.”

“My pleasure, buttercup.”

“How old is the lasagna?”

“Purchased yesterday. Get some shut-eye. You sound like you need it.”

When we disconnected, I checked my e-mail. Nothing from Katy. Nothing from Ryan.

“Of course not.” Louder than I’d intended.

Bird raised his head from his paws but said nothing.

The icon on my junk-mail folder showed seventy-four items. I deleted them one by one, expelling pent-up frustration with each irritated jab.

Until a subject line stopped my finger in midair.

You’ll die, too, fucking slut.

What caused me to pause? Not the expletives. I’d just deleted several at least as obscene. Die? Die, too?

Ignoring the warning voice in my head, I opened the thing.

Blank.

I checked the delivery date. Yesterday. The Stars and Stripes piece had also been posted yesterday.

The e-mail’s sender was citizenjustice@hotmail.com.

A political group? A crackpot? A kid with too much Web access and too little parental supervision?

Or was it personal? A threat specifically meant for me?

I had messages from several accounts routed into one central mail program. The e-mail had come through the ME system, not through my personal Gmail account. The address was easily obtainable. It was on my business cards. Hell, I’d posted it on flyers up and down Old Pineville Road and South Boulevard.

Was citizenjustice a disgruntled ex-con? Someone who’d served time because of my testimony? The reverse? A friend or family member unhappy that my findings had contributed to an acquittal? To loss of monetary recovery in a civil suit?

I racked my brain for other possibilities.

A student unhappy with a grade? A neighbor who doesn’t like my cat? A psycho stranger I’d passed on the street?

I stared at the crude message. Tell Slidell? Screw it. I didn’t need his skepticism. Or, worse, his paternalistic hovering.

It was probably nothing.

I closed the computer, ate the lasagna, took an aspirin for my ankle, and crawled into bed.

Sleep dropped like a curtain at the end of a play.

• • •

Sheee-chunk!

My lids flew up.

I listened, unsure if I’d dreamed or actually heard the sound.

Sheee-chunk!

The noise was definitely real. And inside the house.

My pulse kicked into high.

I blinked, urging my eyes to adjust. Held my breath.

I searched the room, alert to the slightest movement. Saw nothing but shadows. Heard only stillness.

The bedside clock read 2:38.

Sheee-chunk!

My pulse jackhammered harder.

The noise was coming from downstairs, a sound like a typewriter carriage slamming home.

I reached for the phone. Damn! I’d left the portable in the study, my iPhone in my purse.

I eased from bed and crept to the door, careful to avoid boards I knew would creak.

Breath suspended, I listened.

No stealthy footsteps. No whisper of fabric brushing a wall. No movement at all.

Something feathery touched my bare calf. I flinched and inhaled sharply. Looked down.

Two round eyes gleamed in the darkness.

I gestured at the cat with a downturned palm. Stay. He slipped through the door as the sound fired again.

Sheee-chunk!

A phrase flashed in my mind. Printed words.

You’ll die, too, fucking slut.

Adrenaline shot through my body.

I glanced over my shoulder, searching the room for something to use as a weapon.

The troll from Norway? The LSJML mug? The MacKenzie-Childs vase?

I settled on the bronze of two monkeys holding hands. Heavy. Sharp.

Sculpture clutched in one hand, I inched into the hall. In the dimness, the wall mirror provided a ghostly view of the stairs.

No figure crouched below, knife or gun at the ready.

Birdie was poised on the first riser. Hearing me approach, he rose and started gliding down.

Sheee-chunk!

The cat froze. His tail flicked. Then he shot back up and disappeared into the bathroom.

Barely breathing, I took the treads one by one. My ankle floated little warning twinges.

At the bottom, I stopped to listen again.

Sheee-chunk!

Louder.

Jesus. What the hell was it?

I squinted into the parlor, the dining room beyond.

Seeing nothing alarming, I moved toward the study. The sound seemed to come from that direction.

I pushed open the door.

SHEEE-CHUNK!

My eyes darted, searching for a phone. One handset lay on the sofa. The other stood upright on the desk. The charger’s tiny red light cast a patch of radiance across the blotter.

Something flicked in the glow. Flicked again.

My eyes flew to Pete’s laptop.

As I watched, the CD tray spit forward, then quickly withdrew.

SHEEE-CHUNK!

What the hell?

I lowered the bronze primate, crossed to the desk, and lifted the top of the Dell to its full open position. On-screen, bright yellow script scrolled across a deep purple background.

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.