Bones of the Lost: A Temperance Brennan Novel

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.

I’d gone maybe thirty feet when an unmistakable sound touched my ears.

I froze.

The first footfall was followed by another.

From above? Behind? Outside? Echoes distorted the soft scraping, making it impossible to pinpoint the source.

Blood racing, I ducked into a recess and dropped to a squat, praying the shadows were thick enough to conceal me.

I strained for the faintest indication of a human presence. Heard nothing but intermittent cooing.

Time passed. How much? Enough for my pulse to slow somewhat.

I started to get to my feet. My knees buckled from lack of circulation. I pitched forward.

My hands impacted something firm yet yielding, molded hardness beneath.

Fingertip memories triggered an image.

I jumped back in horror.

The man sat propped against a wall, head angled toward but not touching his left shoulder. One shoe was off, and a tube sock winked white in the gloom.

Between the tuque on his head and the darkness in the alcove, I couldn’t make out the man’s features.

But I could make out that he was no threat.

Blood trickled from below the hat to pool in the recess of his right eye. As I stared, a drop broke free from the bridge of his nose.

Pulse galloping anew, I took a shaky step closer. A Beretta 9mm lay beside the man’s hip. Still, I couldn’t see his face clearly.

A few inches more and, with trembling fingers, I Braille-read the man’s features. Rutted oatmeal channels. Rubbery smooth bands. A bulging brow. A mangled nostril.

Cognitive liftoff.

My hand recoiled in shock.

Without thinking, I plucked the man’s cap from his head and shined my light on his face.

Dom Rockett’s good eye stared into a future he would never enjoy. Blood snaked from a hole above his right temple.

I felt, what? Pity? Anger? Yeah, anger. I’d wanted Rockett alive to face justice. Fear? Yeah, a boatload of fear.

Mostly, I felt confusion.

Before I could ponder the implications of Rockett’s death, another footstep snapped my head up. I killed the beam and dove deeper into the alcove.

Other footsteps followed. Grew louder.

Heart pounding, I crawled toward the brick angling down to form the edge of the recess. Craned out.

More footfalls. Then boots appeared at the top of the stairs, beside them a pair of small feet, one bare, the other in a platform pump.

The feet started to descend, the small ones wobbly, their owner somehow impaired. The lower legs angled oddly, suggesting the knees bore little weight.

Anger burned hot in my chest. The woman was drugged. The bastard was dragging her.

Four treads lower, the man and woman crossed an arrow of moonlight. Not a woman, a girl. Her hair was long, her arms and legs refugee thin. I could see a triangle of white tee below the man’s chin. A pistol grip jutting from his waistband.

The pair again passed into darkness. Their tightly pressed bodies formed a two-headed black silhouette.

Stepping from the bottom tread, the man started muscling the girl toward the loading-dock door, pushing her with a one-handed neck hold. She stumbled. He yanked her up. Her head flopped like a Bobblehead doll’s.

The girl took a few more staggering steps. Then her chin lifted and her body bucked. A cry broke the stillness.

The man’s free arm shot out. The silhouette recongealed. I heard a scream of pain, then the girl pitched forward onto the concrete.

The man dropped to one knee. His elbow pumped as he pummeled the inert little body.

“Fight me, you little bitch?”

The man punched and punched until his breath grew ragged.

Rage flamed white-hot in my brain, overriding any instinct for personal safety.

I scuttled over and grabbed the gun. Checked the safety, thankful for the practice I’d put in at the range.

Satisfied, I reached for my phone. It wasn’t with the flashlight.

I searched my other pocket. No phone.

Had I dropped it? In my frenzied dash, had I left it at home?

The panic was almost overwhelming. I was off the grid. What to do?

A tiny voice advised caution. Remain hidden. Wait. Slidell knows where you are.

“You are so dead.” The voice boomed, cruel and malicious.

I whipped around.

The man was wrenching the girl up by her hair.

Holding the Beretta two-handed in front of me, I darted from the alcove. The man froze at the sound of movement. I stopped five yards from him. Using a pillar for cover, I spread my feet and leveled the barrel.

“Let her go.” My shout reverberated off brick and concrete.

The man maintained his grasp on the girl’s hair. His back was to me.

“Hands up.”

The man let go and straightened. His palms rose to the level of his ears.

“Turn around.”

As the man rotated, another fragment of light caught him. For a second I saw his face with total clarity.

The face in the mug shot.

Ray Majerick.

On spotting his foe, Majerick’s hands dipped slightly. Sensing he could see me better than I could see him, I squeezed further behind the pillar.

“The fucking slut lives.”

You’ll die, too, fucking slut.

“Lose the gun.”

Majerick didn’t move.

“Now!” I racked back the slide on the Beretta.

Majerick pulled the gun from his waistband and tossed it. I heard it hit somewhere near the loading-dock door.

“Takes balls to send threats by e-mail.” My voice sounded much more confident than I felt. “To bully defenseless little girls.”

“Debt to pay? You know the rules.”

“Your debt-collecting days are over, you sick sonofabitch.”

“Says who?”

“Says a dozen cops racing here now.”

Majerick cupped an upraised hand to one ear. “I don’t hear no sirens.”

“Move away from the girl,” I ordered.

He took a token step.

“Move,” I snarled. Majerick’s fuck-you attitude was making me want to smash the Beretta across his skull.

“Or what? You’re gonna shoot me?”

“Yeah.” Cold steel. “I’m gonna shoot you.”

Would I? I’d never fired at a human being.

Where the hell was Slidell? I knew my bluff was being sustained by coffee and adrenaline. Knew both would eventually wear off.

The girl groaned.

In that split second I lost the advantage that might have allowed Majerick to live.

I looked down.

He lunged.

Fresh adrenaline blasted through me.

I raised the gun.

Majerick closed in.

I sited on the white triangle.

Fired.

The explosion echoed brutally loud. The concussion knocked my hands up, but I held position.

Majerick dropped.

In the dimness I saw the triangle go dark. Knew crimson was spreading across it. A perfect hit. The Triangle of Death.

Silence, but for my own rasping breath.

Then my higher centers caught up with my brain stem.

I’d killed a man.

My hands shook. Bile filled my throat.

I swallowed. Steadied the gun and stole forward.

The girl lay motionless. I squatted and placed trembling fingers on her throat. Felt a pulse, faint but steady.

I swiveled. Gazed at Majerick’s mute, malevolent eyes. Did nothing.

Suddenly I was exhausted. Revolted by what I’d just done.

I wondered. In my state, could I make good decisions? Carry through? My phone was back at the house.

I wanted to sit, hold my head in my hands, and let the tears flow.

Instead I drew a few steadying breaths, rose, and crossed what seemed a thousand miles of darkness. Climbed the stairs on rubbery legs.

A single passage cut right at the top. I followed it to the only closed door.

Gun tight in one clammy hand, I reached out and turned the knob with the other.

The door swung in.

I stared into pure horror.