Bones of the Lost

object to the report and had no questions for me. Keever advised that he would submit his conclusions and recommendations within a week, then adjourned the hearing.
    Even while the flow of testimony was running decidedly in his favor, Gross never relaxed or smiled. He’d remained taut and erect throughout, battling his twitch.
    As I passed the defense table, he disengaged from Hawthorn and strode toward me. His face revealed nothing, but his step and carriage radiated confidence.
    “Thank you, ma’am.”
    Gross’s hand shot out. Without thinking I responded.
    Gross’s cuff hiked up as we shook, revealing the lower part of a tattoo. I saw the bottom of the Marine Corps globe and anchor, the letters RIP circling below.
    I’d heard that this version was favored by the most “gung ho mofo” types. Mess with the Corps and you’ll rest in peace.
    Noticing my glance at the tattoo, Gross came to attention, saluted, and said, “Semper fi, ma’am.”
    With that he stepped back, pivoted, and walked away.

PART THREE

TUESDAY MORNING, I woke before the alarm bells bonged. Early dawn was seeping through the window, turning my room into a study in shades of gray. Outside, the first few mockingbirds were sending out tentative trills.
    I ran sleepy eyes over the chair, the dresser, the antique wooden shelf with its collection of memorabilia. A conch shell from Maui. A silver Latvian bride’s headband. Framed photos whose images I couldn’t see. Didn’t matter. I knew each like I knew my own features. Katy at her college graduation. Ryan and me in Guatemala City. Pete and Boyd on the beach at Isle of Palms. Birdie stretched full-length in the sun.
    God, it was good to be home.
    I rolled over.
    The digits on the clock read 6:12.
    I tried to fall back to sleep. Impossible. Would have helped to have Birdie there, snuggling and purring.
    At 6:45, I gave up. A long hot shower and shampoo scrubbed away the last piggybacking grime from Bagram. Though still tender, my ankle was on the mend. The swelling was down and the bruising looked less flamboyant.
    Down in the kitchen, I made coffee and popped bread into the toaster. Oddly, there was milk in the refrigerator. And cottage cheese, OJ, a plastic container of lasagna from Pasta and Provisions, freshproduce, lunch meat and cheese, and a number of other items I hadn’t purchased. Including a Heineken.
    More than a dozen
Observer
s had been dutifully brought inside during my absence. Making a mental note to thank my neighbor, I glanced through a few in a fast-forward manner, working from the oldest to the most recent. I got a general sense of what had happened in my absence. Which was the usual.
    A student shot up a school in Montana, claiming he’d been bullied. Four dead. A couple was found with an arsenal of guns and explosives in their Trenton, New Jersey, apartment. Both were under arrest. The NRA was defending the right of every American to pack a semiautomatic and load it with a thirty-round clip. The video-game industry was claiming innocence in the fostering of a culture of violence.
    On the local scene, a Gastonia plant closing was about to put hundreds out of work. Guns were found at two middle schools. Fraud was being alleged at a college. A kid reported missing from Mount Holly in 2004 was found living with his grandparents in northern Michigan. He was now fourteen.
    I was on my sixth paper when a small headline caught my eye. Local section. Three column inches. I checked the date. The story had appeared the previous Saturday.

    SEARCH FOR SUSPECT IN FATAL HIT AND RUN

    The article started out by asking for the public’s help in identifying a teenage hit-and-run victim. It provided a brief description of the girl and the date, approximate time, and Rountree–Old Pineville Road location of the accident. It stated that authorities were looking for witnesses or persons with information. My name was mentioned, as was Slidell’s. Anyone with knowledge of the girl or the incident was urged to contact the CMPD.
    My morgue-cooler face shot accompanied the text. So did a number for the homicide division at police headquarters.
    The byline was Allison Stallings.
    Second mental note. Another thank-you due. Though I could have done without personal mention. Seeing my name in the paper never thrills me. Unless I’ve finished the Charlotte 10K in under an hour.
    The previous Sunday’s edition had a follow-up piece on the MP case Slidell was working when I left for