Bones of the Lost

one squared-away guy,” I said.
    “Imagine the stress he was feeling.”
    Pete was right. On two levels. Yes, I wasn’t exactly over the moon. Somehow Gross had rubbed me wrong. Too cocky. Too tightly wound. And, yes, the pressure must have been dreadful. Especially for someone with his psychological makeup.
    “Glad I could do my part,” I said.
    “You know you’re famous.”
    “What?” That got me upright. To Birdie’s annoyance.
    “Google your name and
Stars and Stripes
.”
    “The military newspaper?”
    “No. Old Glory.”
    I put Pete on speaker and set the handset on the cushion. Then I dug out and booted my laptop, followed his suggestion, and clicked on the link that came up.

    FORENSIC EXPERT TESTIFIES ON BEHALF OF ACCUSED MARINE

    The whole story was there. My name, as promised.

Dr. Temperance Brennan, working with NCIS, traveled to Afghanistan and performed dual exhumations, and provided key testimony at the Article 32 hearing at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina …

    I read no further. Two press mentions in a week. So much for keeping a low profile.
    I snapped the computer shut.
    “Hello-o.”
    I snatched up the phone. “Is Gross’s attorney responsible for this?”
    “Weren’t journalists present at the hearing?”
    “Could have been. There were a couple of spectators.” Petulant.
    “Come on. You saved the guy’s ass. Enjoy the glory.”
    I rolled my eyes. Wasted, since Pete couldn’t see me.
    A few beats, then, “Did you leave a PC on my desk?”
    “I did. It’s acting sluggish, so I’m running a virus check.”
    “Have you considered the fact that the thing’s an antique?”
    “I only use it for personal e-mail. All my files are on the firm’s system.”
    “Go crazy, Pete. Buy a new one.”
    “Maybe.”
    “Why here? Why can’t you run your virus check at home?”
    “Summer has every outlet tied up.”
    “What? She cooking meth?” That image brought a smile to my lips.
    “She’s charging some kind of weird little lights for the wedding reception. Must be a billion.”
    “Did you hang out at my place while I was gone?”
    “I may have watched a little football.”
    “Thanks for the provisions.”
    “My pleasure, buttercup.”
    “How old is the lasagna?”
    “Purchased yesterday. Get some shut-eye. You sound like you need it.”
    When we disconnected, I checked my e-mail. Nothing from Katy. Nothing from Ryan.
    “Of course not.” Louder than I’d intended.
    Bird raised his head from his paws but said nothing.
    The icon on my junk-mail folder showed seventy-four items. I deleted them one by one, expelling pent-up frustration with each irritated jab.
    Until a subject line stopped my finger in midair.
    You’ll die, too, fucking slut.
    What caused me to pause? Not the expletives. I’d just deleted several at least as obscene. Die? Die, too?
    Ignoring the warning voice in my head, I opened the thing.
    Blank.
    I checked the delivery date. Yesterday. The
Stars and Stripes
piece had also been posted yesterday.
    The e-mail’s sender was [email protected].
    A political group? A crackpot? A kid with too much Web access and too little parental supervision?
    Or was it personal? A threat specifically meant for me?
    I had messages from several accounts routed into one central mail program. The e-mail had come through the ME system, not through my personal Gmail account. The address was easily obtainable. It was on my business cards. Hell, I’d posted it on flyers up and down Old Pineville Road and South Boulevard.
    Was citizenjustice a disgruntled ex-con? Someone who’d served time because of my testimony? The reverse? A friend or family member unhappy that my findings had contributed to an acquittal? To loss of monetary recovery in a civil suit?
    I racked my brain for other possibilities.
    A student unhappy with a grade? A neighbor who doesn’t like my cat? A psycho stranger I’d passed on the street?
    I stared at the crude message. Tell Slidell? Screw it. I didn’t need his skepticism. Or, worse, his paternalistic hovering.
    It was probably nothing.
    I closed the computer, ate the lasagna, took an aspirin for my ankle, and crawled into bed.
    Sleep dropped like a curtain at the end of a play.

    Sheee-chunk!
    My lids flew up.
    I listened, unsure if I’d dreamed or actually heard the sound.
    Sheee-chunk!
    The noise was definitely real. And inside the house.
    My pulse kicked into high.
    I blinked, urging my eyes to adjust. Held my breath.
    I searched the room,