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

An icy hand clutched my chest.

Had these bastards taken my cat?

I slammed inside. Paced the parlor, frantic what to do.

Breathe.

Breathe .

To keep from going crazy, I opened the bright yellow file lying on the desk in the study.

I began with the crime-scene shots. A lonely road. A vinyl boot. A pathetic little mound under a red wool blanket.

I moved to the autopsy photos. X-rays showing a fractured chin and crushed hand. White cotton panties with pale blue dots. A shoulder, bruised in a pattern of dashes.

The last half dozen photos were new to me. Larabee or Hawkins had taken the close-ups from different angles. They showed a skull peeled bare of its face and hair. A blood-coated object shaped like a long, slender triangle.

I stared at the sliver Larabee had removed from Candy’s scalp.

Ivory, not bone.

How had Candy ended up with ivory in her head?

I’d seen a carved tusk in Dominick Rockett’s home. Did ivory often pass through his hands?

I got my laptop and Googled the phrase “ivory uses.”

Statuary, carvings, decorative embellishments, billiard balls, bathroom handles, piano keys, signature seals, radar and airplane guidance components.

Useless.

I decided to try another tack.

Where had Candy been seen? The Taquería Mixcoatl. The Passion Fruit Club. The Yum-Tum convenience store. They all clustered in a fairly tight radius not far from the Rountree–Old Pineville intersection where her body had been found.

Were the missing girls being held in that area?

I clicked over to Google Maps and zoomed in on the Passion Fruit. Around it spread a warren of roofs and empty lots.

The roofs varied in size and shape but revealed nothing of what lay below them. Most properties were fenced. Some fences were topped with razor wire.

Pausing the cursor generated labels on a few of the buildings. A storage facility. A warehouse. The Bronco Club.

It was the kind of district that exists in most cities. A place where things are manufactured, stashed, or left to rust.

Had the girls been taken to a location somewhere in that maze?

Frustrated, I returned to the file.

Gran’s clock ticked softly as I worked through the pages.

Ten minutes later, I heard a soft noise, like scratching. Elated, I flew to the front door. No feline sat on the porch.

I tried the kitchen door. Empty stoop.

I was on the patio, calling Bird’s name, when headlights swept the drive. Seconds later, a cruiser passed. I waved. The cop waved. Dejected, and frightened for my cat, I went back inside.

The amber light on the landline was flashing.

Sonofabitch!

Slidell’s message was short. The massage parlor in NoDa was closed and padlocked. That was it. Nothing else.

I hit redial. Got his goddamn voicemail.

Dismayed and exhausted, I forced myself to read the last printout in the yellow file. An FBI report.

I was skimming through jargon about solvents and binders and pigments and additives when I remembered something Slidell had said.

Methyl this and hydrofluoro that.

Hydrofluorocarbons?

I took a closer look at the list of components found in the smear on Candy’s purse.

Difluoroethane.

The dispatcher in my subconscious sat up and took notice.

Sudden flash. Pete on the phone in his Beemer. Summer, fixing up antique bottles for the tables at her wedding.

Difluoroethane.

In vehicular paint?

I Googled the term. Pulled out the relevant and dismissed the background noise.

. . . propellant necessary . . . initially chlorofluorocarbons, banned in 1978 . . . propane and butane abandoned in the ’80s . . . since 2011, hydrofluorocarbons such as difluoroethane and tetrafluororethane . . .

My pulse kicked up a notch.

I closed my eyes. Saw a building. A NO TRESPASSING sign in the rain.

Facts toggled.

Images cascaded.

My lids flew open.

I shot to my feet. Raced for the phone.

Again, my call rolled to Slidell’s voicemail.

Mother of God!

“I know where the trafficked girls have been taken. I’m going there.” I left the address and disconnected.

Adrenaline pounding, I grabbed a jacket, shoved a flashlight into one pocket, snatched up keys, and bolted for my car.

I PEERED THROUGH RUSTY CHAIN linking. A fingernail moon crisscrossed by pewter tendrils revealed the scene beyond the fence in charcoal and black.

The warehouse loomed dark and menacing. Though shadowed, I recognized the loading dock and its motley collection of rusty kegs, rickety table, and defaced piano.

A truck was parked at the base of the dock.

At my back, across the street, the small bungalow brooded silent and empty.

Stepping gingerly, I worked my way around the perimeter of the property, searching for an opening in the fence. It didn’t take long. Opposite the building’s south side, the chain linking had been cut and bent inward.

Thanking the vagrants so disparaged by Slidell, I slipped through the breach. Six feet inside, a rusted sign kinked up from the ground on bent metal legs. Carefully shielding the bulb with my palm, I thumbed on my flashlight.

The sign announced the coming of thirty-six luxury lofts. I crouched behind it to listen.

The night was alive with sound. Leaves skittering across gravel-coated concrete. The muted whistle of a distant train. My own terrified breathing.

No one shouted at me to show myself or get lost.

I didn’t really have a plan. In a fever to rescue the girls, I’d simply raced here.

I stared at the building. It stared back, yielding none of its secrets.

My breath caught. Had a shadow crossed one of the upper-floor windows? I studied the broken, dirt-caked glass. Detected no movement.

Ten yards of concrete yawned between the fence and the building. Here and there a puddle gleamed darkly iridescent. Rocks and objects of indeterminate function dotted the expanse. Nothing big enough to provide cover.

I waited out a count of thirty, then fired forward.

Reaching the murky dimness below the dock, I pressed my back to the brick and listened again.

Dripping water. The cooing of startled pigeons.

I eyeballed the pickup, a Chevy with deeply tinted windows. Like the one I’d seen outside the Mixcoatl.

Citizenjustice? The man who’d left a severed tongue at my home? Was he here? Had he been at the taquería, watching? Already planning D’Ostillo’s murder?

I tiptoed up the rusty metal stairs. A door stood open at the far end of the dock. I crossed to it and slipped inside.

The smell hit me like a roundhouse punch. Stagnant water, urine, mold, pigeon droppings.

I desperately wanted to relight the flash. Decided it was too risky until I’d established who was present.

Heart yammering, I crept forward. Liquid sloshed beneath my sneakers. Between the pooled water, bird shit crunched.

Slowly, my pupils adjusted. I took in details made visible by patchy moonlight oozing through gaps in the windows high above.

The warehouse was cavernous. One brick wall was scorched with long black serpentine tongues. One was painted with graffiti. A bird, an Egyptian ankh, the words WORTH THE WAIT on a bright pink heart.

I looked up. Nests lined the rafters, some topped by billed silhouettes. I sensed a thousand avian eyes on my back.

Something rustled by my right foot. Claws skittered.

I fought the impulse to scream. Imagined more eyes, beady and red. Yellowed teeth and long naked tails.

Palms slick, I moved deeper into the gloom. Dust coated my tongue. Or atomized guano. I swallowed, immediately regretted it.