Bone Music (Burning Girl #1)(106)

But it’s what’s not there . . .

Luke types, What would that (not) be?

No porn.

“Well, that’s suspicious,” Luke says.

“Seriously?”

“A man with no porn on his computer? That’s full-on weird.”

“Uh-huh. Maybe you have a porn problem and you’re projecting?”

“Single man, living on his own. I’m just speaking truths; that’s all. The only men who don’t have some form of porn on their computers are superreligious or they share a computer with their wives.”

“So wives can’t have porn? Wait. Does Tumblr count as porn?”

“If you have to ask . . . Wait a second, though.”

Did you check his web history? Luke types.

Do you think I started doing this yesterday? I’m wanted by the FBI, genius.

“I guess that’s a yes,” Charlotte says. “So why are we talking about Pemberton and porn?”

Luke points to the phone to indicate he wasn’t the one who raised the issue. Good point. She asks Bailey the same question.

Makes me want into that country house more, but there’s no way in . . . yet.

What about his office? Charley types.

Harder. More secure. Probably because of patient info. Not impossible, but harder.

“So he’s not volunteering to hack his office,” Luke says.

“I’m still not sure on the etiquette here. Should I ask him? Offer to send him a fruit basket?”

“He hacks satellites, but suddenly a doctor’s office is hard.”

“Maybe he’s getting tired. And cranky.”

“Tell him what a good little hacker he is and how he’s changed your opinion of hackers forever and ever and you promise to be less hackerphobic in the future.”

Charlotte laughs.

There’s a ping from one of the tablets.

“Doc’s on the move,” Luke says.

She studies the map.

“He’s not headed home.”

“Maybe the gym?” he asks.

Bailey had sent the name and address of the doc’s favorite fitness club before they left Altamira. They’d cruised past the place that morning after it became clear Pemberton was going to be in surgery for a while. It’s one of many businesses inside an upscale corner mini-mall with big walls of glass and escalators traveling all four floors.

“Looks like it,” Luke said.

“Let’s go.”



A few minutes later, the tracker shows Pemberton’s motorcycle has stopped in what appears to be the dead center of Barry Fitness, probably because it’s in the parking lot below. As he closes in on the place, Luke eases his foot off the gas and gives her a long glance that tells her he’s awaiting instructions. It’s almost dusk, and she’s got a baseball cap tucked low over her head. Together with a black hoodie Luke brought, it’s a passable disguise.

“I’m gonna hop out. Circle until I text.”

“Charley.” He brakes, grips her elbow gently. “If you’re gonna use yourself as bait, he can’t see you until it’s time. It’s not time, is it?”

“No. I need a good look at him.”

Luke wants to ask more questions; she can tell. But he restrains himself. Maybe something about her tone conveyed a meaning she wasn’t aware of even as she spoke. Early that morning, they’d reached Pemberton’s high-rise just in time to see him roar out of the parking lot on his bike. But he was helmeted. Faceless. And she’d found herself disappointed that she didn’t get a chance to look into his eyes, to see if she could glimpse something that reminded her of the Bannings. Something predatory, feral.

Luke’s right. Looking into his eyes now is too much of a risk. But she needs to watch him, if only for a few minutes. Needs to observe him when he doesn’t know he’s being observed.

“Be careful,” he says.

She nods and jumps from the Jeep.

Barry Fitness is on the mall’s second floor, with giant walls of glass overlooking the street and the escalator atrium. It’s a small gym, but the equipment inside looks pricey and new. A row of flat-screen televisions hangs from the ceiling, angled down slightly so they can easily be watched from all three rows of cardio equipment.

First she tries the floor above the gym to see if that’ll give her a good vantage point through the escalator well. All she can see is the registration desk, the bored-looking attendant on her smartphone, some weight machines behind a glass partition.

The same spot one floor down gives her a better vantage point, with a greater risk of being seen. From here the gym looks like a glass bubble attached to the mall’s facade. No doubt the design of the place is intended to tap into the exhibitionist tendencies of its clientele, of which there aren’t very many at present. A few women of varying ages and sizes work themselves tirelessly on the treadmills and striders. Even fewer people are on the weight floor, which extends from the first row of cardio machines all the way to the glass wall overlooking the street.

She’s about to scan the surrounding businesses. Maybe Pemberton came here for something besides a workout.

Just then one of the men inside the gym stands up from the shoulder-press machine and rises to an impressive height of over six feet. Bike shorts hug his armor-plated thighs, leaving his carved, veiny calves exposed. A black spandex shirt accentuates his V-shaped torso, particularly the muscular swell of his upper back. Unlike some of the other men pumping iron around him, his body doesn’t have the bulbous curves of the chemically enhanced. Rather, it looks naturally sculpted by hours of grueling work.