Bone Music (Burning Girl #1)(99)

“He’s still reading?” she asks.

“Yep. Even came out and got his steak finally, then took it back in there so he could read some more.”

Well, that’s something. She’d figured he’d ask to take it home with him so he could only pretend to read the rest.

“Uh-oh,” Marty says.

He moves to the deck rail like a dog perking up at the approach of a stranger. A pair of high-riding headlights swing into the driveway. A sheriff’s cruiser, just like the one Luke drove her around in that day, only the deputy who steps from it is half Luke’s height and twice his age.

“Whatcha need, Henricks?” Marty calls to the man.

“Luke Prescott here?”

“He’s inside. Why?”

“His cell’s off. We tried calling him a bunch from the station. We’re getting calls from Dorothy Strickland, lives across the street from him. Says his alarm’s making all kinds of racket. But it’s weird. Sounds almost like music.”

“Bailey,” Charlotte whispers, getting to her feet.

“Go,” Marty says quietly. “Get Luke and go. I’ll stay here.”

She slips inside as Marty says, “We’ll take care of it. Thanks, Henricks.”





35

The alarm’s still singing when they get to Luke’s house, the same two-tone chime Bailey used to get their attention the first time. This time the sound fills Charlotte with excitement instead of dread.

“Stop!” Luke calls out. “We’re here.”

The music stops, but there’s some kind of flashing light in the living room. It strobes through the rest of the place like some effect in a cheap haunted house. It’s the monitor of Luke’s desktop, she realizes. It’s flashing the same words over and over again. TARGET ACQUIRED.

Luke hits some light switches, but it doesn’t make the words on-screen seem any less ominous. When he takes a seat at his desk, the words stop flashing. Further proof Bailey can see and hear them through the monitor’s built-in camera.

New words appear on-screen, white on black. Comically large, but devoid of any ironically cheerful graphics this time.

Check your e-mail, brother.

Luke taps a few keys. The monitor doesn’t respond. He throws up his hands.

Bailey does something that returns the computer to Luke’s control, and a few keystrokes later, Luke’s clicked through a link in a new message from the address [email protected]. They’re staring at the website for a plastic surgeon named Frederick Pemberton, based in Newport Beach. The man looks like the victim of his own profession, with a sculpted nose that doesn’t match his uneven features. On top of that, his headshot is so airbrushed he looks like a cartoon appearing though a cloud of fog.

Luke’s hands are on his lap, but a Word document suddenly opens on-screen, partially covering the web page. Text, typed by Bailey’s unseen hand, appears in the white space.

You’re welcome.

“Charley.” There’s hesitation in Luke’s voice—hesitation and warning—and it’s fighting with his resolve not to give her any more fiery lectures; she can tell.

“I know,” she says. “I know what you’re going to say and I agree. Bailey?”

Yes.

“I can’t go off just this. You need to tell me more.”

Trust me. It’s him.

“Bailey,” Luke says suddenly. “What was Mom’s nickname for the dog we had when you were in seventh grade?”

We didn’t have a dog when I was in seventh grade. We had fish, asshole.

“Probably should have done that sooner,” Luke mutters. “Sorry. As you were.”

And their names were Siegfried and Roy because you thought it was funny to name fish after tigers.

Charlotte clears her throat. “Bailey, I know you don’t discuss procedure, but I can’t just go off a name like this.”

It’s not funny, FYI. Naming fish after tigers. It doesn’t even make sense.

“It’s definitely him,” Luke says.

“It makes even less sense because those weren’t the names of the tigers,” she says. “Those were the trainers.”

Silence.

“Well, shit,” Luke finally whispers.

Any more talk, computer lab. New library. Same chat room.

“Why?” Charley asks. “What are you afraid of, the FBI?”

Screw the FBI.

“Yeah, that went great,” Luke says.

Relax, brother. They only had a subpoena to look at your phone records and e-mails from more than 180 days ago, and you bored them to death, so you’re fine. Not afraid of FBI.

“Bailey, who do you think is watching us?” she asks.

Maybe it’s whoever you’re afraid of. They seem worse than FBI. Otherwise you wouldn’t be dealing with me.

“All right,” she says. “Well, don’t be afraid of them.”

Startled, Luke looks up from his palms.

The lack of any new text suggests Bailey’s also surprised.

“What?” Charlotte says. “You think they’re going to try to stop us? We’re doing what they asked. We’re trying to find a bad man. They should be thrilled.”

“We’re doing what Dylan asked,” he says. “They might not be such a team, remember?” He looks instantly regretful. “Take the chair. Talk to him. I’ll get you something to drink.”