Bones of the Lost

alert to the slightest movement. Saw nothing but shadows. Heard only stillness.
    The bedside clock read 2:38.
    Sheee-chunk!
    My pulse jackhammered harder.
    The noise was coming from downstairs, a sound like a typewriter carriage slamming home.
    I reached for the phone. Damn! I’d left the portable in the study, my iPhone in my purse.
    I eased from bed and crept to the door, careful to avoid boards I knew would creak.
    Breath suspended, I listened.
    No stealthy footsteps. No whisper of fabric brushing a wall. No movement at all.
    Something feathery touched my bare calf. I flinched and inhaled sharply. Looked down.
    Two round eyes gleamed in the darkness.
    I gestured at the cat with a downturned palm. Stay. He slipped through the door as the sound fired again.
    Sheee-chunk!
    A phrase flashed in my mind. Printed words.
    You’ll die, too, fucking slut.
    Adrenaline shot through my body.
    I glanced over my shoulder, searching the room for something to use as a weapon.
    The troll from Norway? The LSJML mug? The MacKenzie-Childs vase?
    I settled on the bronze of two monkeys holding hands. Heavy. Sharp.
    Sculpture clutched in one hand, I inched into the hall. In the dimness, the wall mirror provided a ghostly view of the stairs.
    No figure crouched below, knife or gun at the ready.
    Birdie was poised on the first riser. Hearing me approach, he rose and started gliding down.
    Sheee-chunk!
    The cat froze. His tail flicked. Then he shot back up and disappeared into the bathroom.
    Barely breathing, I took the treads one by one. My ankle floated little warning twinges.
    At the bottom, I stopped to listen again.
    Sheee-chunk!
    Louder.
    Jesus. What the hell was it?
    I squinted into the parlor, the dining room beyond.
    Seeing nothing alarming, I moved toward the study. The sound seemed to come from that direction.
    I pushed open the door.
    SHEEE-CHUNK!
    My eyes darted, searching for a phone. One handset lay on the sofa. The other stood upright on the desk. The charger’s tiny red light cast a patch of radiance across the blotter.
    Something flicked in the glow. Flicked again.
    My eyes flew to Pete’s laptop.
    As I watched, the CD tray spit forward, then quickly withdrew.
    SHEEE-CHUNK!
    What the hell?
    I lowered the bronze primate, crossed to the desk, and lifted the top of the Dell to its full open position. On-screen, bright yellow script scrolled across a deep purple background.
    PUNKED! PUNKED! PUNKED! PUNKED! PUNKED!
    For once, my Luddite ex had been right. His computer had a virus.
    I shut down, rebooted, and waited out the whole annoying Windows startup performance. The script was gone. The CD tray stayed put.
    “You owe me, big guy,” I whispered under my breath.
    I was crossing the dining room when movement again caught my attention. A subtle alteration in shadows mottling the carpet. Below the window, on the far side of the table.
    I paused. Was the adrenaline rush playing tricks with my brain? The whacked-out computer?
    No. Like the sound of the tray, the shadowy ripple was real.
    Back to the wall, I slid to the drapes and peeked out.
    The night was moonless, the grounds of Sharon Hall dark as a tomb.
    But there, below the magnolia. A wink of paleness. A silhouette?
    I crouched a full minute, watching. But that was it. I saw nothing more. If I’d seen anything at all.
    Sudden thought.
    Had I locked up properly? Engaged the alarm? I’d been surprised to see Birdie. Distracted and exhausted, had I forgotten? Wouldn’t be the first time. Though I’m conscientious when leaving, I’m often lax about security when at home.
    My gaze fell on the files I’d dumped on the table. Creach and Majerick. Both burglars. One a violent offender.
    I checked every door and window and set the alarm. As I grabbed a handset from the study, faint but distinct, I heard a car engine turn over.
    A little uneasy, I returned to bed.

AGAIN MA BELL rang me awake. I think I was setting some sort of record.
    “We bagged Cecil Creach.” Slidell sounded almost chirpy.
    “Where?”
    “Moosehead, over on Montford.”
    I’d been to the pub, knew the owner had a zero-tolerance policy.
    “Creach wasn’t dealing in that place,” I said.
    “Dumbass was drinking and shooting the breeze. With himself. Freaked the other customers, so the bouncer tossed him. Creach sat in the parking lot wailing about the injustice of life. Bouncer called the cops. Creach had a bellyful of booze, but wasn’t holding.”
    “When was this?”
    I heard paper