Bones of the Lost

off brick and concrete.
    The man maintained his grasp on the girl’s hair. His back was to me.
    “Hands up.”
    He let go and straightened. His palms slowly 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.
    On spotting his foe, the man’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.
    “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.”
    The man 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. The guy’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 him to live.
    I looked down.
    He lunged.
    Fresh adrenaline blasted through me.
    I raised the gun.
    He closed in.
    I sighted on the white triangle.
    Fired.
    The explosion echoed brutally loud. The concussion knocked my hands up, but I held position.
    The man dropped.
    In the murky gloom 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 crouched and placed trembling fingers on her throat. Felt a pulse, faint but steady.
    I swiveled. Gazed at the man’s mute, malevolent eyes.
    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.

PART ONE

I’VE BEEN HELD prisoner before. In a basement, a morgue cooler, an underground crypt. It’s always frightening and intense. But this captivity exceeded all others for pure physical pain.
    The jurors’ lounge in the Mecklenburg County Courthouse is as good as such facilities get—Wi-Fi, work stations, pool tables, movies, popcorn. I could have applied for a waiver. Didn’t. The judicial system called, I came. Good citizen Brennan. Besides, given my line of work, I knew I’d be excused from actually serving. When I’d planned today’s schedule I’d slotted sixty, ninety minutes max, cooling my heels.
    Heels. Follow my leap here. In my business exciting footwear is Gore-Tex hikers that breathe, maybe wellies that don’t land you on your ass. Buying, much less wearing, murderous high heels is about as likely for me as finding Giganotosaurus remains behind Bad Daddy’s Burgers.
    My sister Harry had talked me into the three-inch Christian Louboutin pumps. Harry, from Texas, land of big hair and mile-high stilettos. You’ll look professional, she’d said. In charge. Plus they’re marked down 60 percent.
    I had to admit, the burnished leather and snazzy stitchwork did look great on my feet. Feel great? Not after three hours of waiting. When the bailiff finally called our group, I near-tottered into the courtroom, then into the jury box when my number was called.
    “Please state your full name.” Chelsea Jett, six minutes out of law school, four-hundred-dollar suit, pricey pearl choker, heels that left mine in the dust. A new prosecutor, Jett was cloaking a case of nerves with brusqueness.
    “Temperance Daessee Brennan.” Make it easy on both of us. Excuse me