Bones of the Lost

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