Bone Music (Burning Girl #1)(105)

It’s a sprawling, Spanish mission–style house sitting all by itself on the side of a scrubby, boulder-studded slope that used to be terraced with vineyard fields. “Kinda like a Del Taco someone squashed and then pulled out on either end” was Marty’s description of its architectural style. More important, it’s hemmed in by a tall cast-iron fence and patrolled by three giant Doberman pinschers Marty says look mean enough to make Godzilla take a step back.

Some guy, not Pemberton—too short, no trace of a nose job, a battered pickup that doesn’t seem like the doctor’s style—stopped by yesterday afternoon just before dusk. The dogs greeted him with furious hunger and not a trace of affection. The guy hurled several raw steaks through the fence, then raced back to his truck as if he thought they might be capable of jumping the enclosure.

A local caretaker—that was Marty’s guess. If he had access to the house, or even inside the fence, he had no interest in using it. Not with those hounds standing guard.

Luke agreed with Marty, and added that if you wanted people to steer clear of your place, hire a local to tell everyone how scary your dogs are.

Charley thinks there’s a chance the guy’s just a concerned neighbor who might be worried about the dogs. That said, why feed them steaks? Isn’t that supposed to make dogs more aggressive?

She can’t handle another unanswered question right now. Not for another ten minutes at least. She sucks in a deep breath, rolls over onto her back, and stares up at the motel room’s cottage-cheese ceiling. She tries to inhale a few deep, steadying breaths without distracting Luke from what he’s doing on the other side of the bed.

“Sleepy?” he asks.

“My brain feels like wet cement. Is that the same thing?”

“Not really. So how many?” Luke asks suddenly.

“How many what?” she asks, genuinely confused.

She doesn’t have the slightest clue what he’s asking about. How many dogs did Marty spot at Pemberton’s vineyard? How many times had he seen the visitor drop by to feed them? How many car mounts did they buy? She’s been so lost in thought she can’t remember which of the facts, assessments, and plans swirling through her head they’ve actually had a conversation about since returning to the motel.

He’s assembled both the mounts. He holds them up proudly with a boyish, endearing smile that makes something unnerving happen in her stomach. There’s a suction cup on each that will allow it to stick to the dash.

“The Xanax,” he asks. “How many did you take?”

“Oh, right. Ten.”

She already told him, but he’s probably forgotten. Lord knows they’ve got enough to think about.

“And they were two-milligram pills?” he asks, dumbfounded.

“Yep.”

“You took twenty milligrams of Xanax, and you didn’t even get drowsy?”

She nods. “Same deal as the wine and the vodka I drank the other night.”

“How’d you trigger?”

“If I never have to run across another highway again in my lifetime, it’ll be too soon.”

“Which highway? The 101? When did you guys do this?”

“Night before last. We told you we were getting ready. People honked but none of them even grazed me this time. Probably thought I was a ghost. But it was enough to trigger; that’s for sure.”

“I figured you were looking up directions and stuff.”

“Marty had a sponsee who went and helped a newcomer clean out his house of a bunch of prescriptions he didn’t exactly need.”

“Newcomer?”

“That’s what they call them in AA.”

“Gotcha. So Marty got his hands on a bunch of pills and thought, Hey. Let’s see if we can make Charley overdose while she’s on Zypraxon.”

“Not exactly that, no. If this guy’s a medical professional and he’s really pulling off these abductions in public, chances are ten to one he’s using some kind of tranquilizer or anesthetic. Something to subdue his victims long enough to get them into a vehicle.”

“What other pills did you try?” Luke asks.

“Well, he also had Percocet and OxyContin. Oh, and Ambien.”

“How many did you take of those?”

“Ten.”

“Each?”

She nods.

“And you didn’t feel a thing?”

“No. It’s like it just burns up in my system.”

“Jesus. Not to be too blunt, but I don’t understand how you can take this stuff without your heart exploding.”

“Neither can the people who made it, apparently.”

Luke fastens both tablets into the mounts to make sure they fit. When it’s clear they do, he pulls them out again, sets them aside, huffs out a deep breath, clearly in search of another place to focus his nervous energy.

Bad news.

The text appears on both their burner phones at the same time.

Charlotte types: ???

His computer bores me to tears.

“No pictures of murdered women on Pemberton’s computer, and my brother calls that bad news,” Luke says.

You finally got in? Charlotte types.

With help.

Luke makes a low sound in his throat; the same sound he’s started to make every time Bailey references the other hackers he may or may not be working with and they’ll never know because he doesn’t discuss procedure and they should stop asking already or they’ll risk sounding like tools of the establishment.