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

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.”

To his credit, Slidell asked no questions.

I locked Birdie in the bedroom then returned to the kitchen. Slidell was at the door in less than twenty minutes. He looked anxious, concerned.

I let him in and showed him what I’d placed on the counter.

“It was on my doorstep this morning.” Sounding much calmer than I felt. “I may have caught a glimpse of an intruder around two thirty A.M.”

“Did you open it?”

I nodded. Raised my gloved hands.

“What is it?”

Without answering, I removed the lid and stepped aside.

Slidell bellied up to the counter and peered into the box.

“What the fuck?”

Slidell looked away, then quickly back. After a few seconds his brows drew together. “That what I think it is?”

“A tongue.”

“Human?” His tone told me he knew the answer.

“Yes. Note the papillae.”

“The little bumps that look like nipples.”

“Yes.”

Slidell ran a hand over his jaw. “Cut looks pretty clean.”

“Yes. Though there are abrasions and lacerations probably caused by scraping against the dentition.”

“Marks tell you anything?”

“I see curvature. Multiple arcs, so multiple attempts to cut through the flesh. I’m guessing small handheld pruning sheers with curved blades.”

Slidell straightened and took a deep breath.

“Vic alive when this happened?”

“Staining on the box suggests significant hemorrhage.”

Slidell raised both brows.

“Once the heart stops pumping blood to the vessels, bleeding stops.” Greatly oversimplified, but sufficient for Slidell.

“You piss anyone off lately? I mean, more than usual.” Slidell was coming back into character.

I shrugged. Who knows? “Do you think it’s a threat? A warning?”

Slidell pulled out his mobile and punched some keys.

“Get CSS over here.” He provided my address, then frowned at the information he was given. “As quick as you can, then.”

Jamming the phone on his belt, he looked at me glumly. “What makes you think this is a threat and not just a windup?”

“Come into the study.”

He did, head swiveling left and right.

I booted my laptop and opened the e-mail from citizenjustice@hotmail.com.

“When did this land?”

“A few days ago.”

“And you didn’t mention it because . . . ?” There it was. That annoying paternalistic edge.

“I didn’t see it until yesterday.”

I told him what had happened in the wee hours of the morning. Maybe happened.

“It might have been nothing.”

“Or it might have been the asshole delivering your door prize. I’m putting eyes on this place.”

“Is surveillance really necessary?”

“Yeah,” Slidell snapped. “It’s really necessary. In the meantime, don’t touch the box. Or the door. Or the mat. Or the stoop.”

“I know how CSS works.” Snippy. But Slidell’s attitude was tripping that switch.

“Whoever did this was either angry or nuts. Which door you want, doc?”

“How about we go talk to Creach?”

Skinny gave me one of his Dirty Harry looks.

“Look, I have to submit a statement.” I gestured at the box. “I might as well do it at headquarters.”

Slidell pooched out his lips, then sighed.

“ I talk to Creach.” Jabbing at his phone. “You listen.”

WHEN I FIRST STARTED WORKING for the MCME, the Charlotte Police Department had not yet merged with its Mecklenburg County counterpart. CPD headquarters was an unremarkable beige building at the corner of Fourth and McDowell.

Today the CMPD is located in a four-story Dixie neoclassic at the intersection of East Trade and Davidson. Ten minutes after leaving my town house, Slidell and I were walking through the doors. After presenting ID, we rode an elevator to the second floor. He led me past a row of interrogation rooms to one marked A.