Bones of the Lost

pussyfooting around with Rockett. That fuckwit’s coming back in.”
    Slidell threw the car into gear and gunned from the lot.
    I settled back, knowing my own castigation was far from over. But I understood. Slidell wasn’t just frustrated at being outsmarted. Behind the bluster, he was feeling the same guilt he’d warned me to shake. We’d questioned D’Ostillo, and now she was dead.
    And Slidell’s anger wasn’t all bad. An irate Skinny isn’t a man you want on your trail.

THE NEXT MORNING I slept later than on any day since my return. Nevertheless, I awoke anxious and restless.
    I had coffee and Raisin Bran, then washed my bowl and mug, feeling as though my skin wasn’t properly sized. The failure of the Passion Fruit raid. Concern for other girls who might suffer Candy’s fate. Frustration at still not knowing Candy’s identity. Anticipation of Slidell’s ongoing wrath. Guilt over D’Ostillo.
    Guilt over avoiding Larabee’s crapper skull.
    Apprehension because some nutcase put a tongue on my stoop.
    The ankle felt pretty good. I decided it was time to try it out.
    I phoned the main switchboard at the MCME. Mrs. Flowers answered. I told her I was going for a run and that I’d be in shortly. She asked if I planned to do the Booty Loop. Surprised that she knew of it, I said yes, though I hadn’t really decided on routing.
    I donned my Nikes and usual spicy jogging attire—bike shorts and an oversized tee. The morning was cool but sunny. In tribute to Mrs. Flowers, I set off for the Booty Loop, a five-mile stretch circling the Queens University campus. Named for, well, that needs no explanation.
    I hadn’t run in weeks and the first mile was a slog. But the ankle felt strong.
    By the second mile, lactic acid burned my leg muscles. I pumped on, determined to finish the circuit.
    Sweating and panting, I finally reached the Clock Tower. I was doubled over, breathing hard, when someone called my name.
    Straightening, I saw a man slide from a bench and walk toward me. He was tall and thin and wore a Tar Heels cap, jeans, and a black nylon jacket. A plastic bag dangled from one hand.
    What the hell?
    “I called your office. The woman who answered said I might find you here. She was very helpful with directions.” Scott Blanton smiled, revealing the errant incisors. “I hope this isn’t a bad time?”
    A bad time? I was perspiring, drained, and puzzled. I’d last seen the NCIS agent at Bagram. Why was he lying in wait on my jogging route?
    Blanton extended his free hand.
    I raised mine high and offered an apologetic grin. “Sweaty.”
    Blanton scanned me from head to toe. “But looking very fit.”
    “Thanks.” Suddenly conscious of the butt-molding spandex.
    “How’s the ankle sprain?”
    “Completely healed.”
    “After the exhumation, I got sick as a dog. Was quarantined for two days before they let me come home.”
    I remembered a detail from one of our DFAC conversations. Blanton was from Gastonia.
    “I’m sure your family is glad you’re back.” Lame. But I had no idea what the guy wanted.
    “And I’ll bet your cat was glad to see you.”
    The comment surprised me. Then I remembered that I’d also shared that in the DFAC.
    “Yes.” I brushed damp hair from my forehead.
    Blanton reached into the bag and withdrew a cardboard box. Flat and rectangular.
    Like the one that had held D’Ostillo’s tongue.
    Feeling slightly apprehensive, I checked my surroundings. Students crisscrossed the campus at our backs. Traffic passed on Rad-cliff, not a steady flow, but enough for comfort.
    “For you, doctor.” Blanton held out the box. “For being such a trouper.”
    “I was doing my job.”
    “Then consider it thanks for putting up with my obnoxious behavior.”
    I took the box and lifted the cover. Inside was a pashmina similar to those Katy and I had admired at the Bagram bazaar.
    Blanton had come to Charlotte and tracked me down to present a two-dollar scarf?
    “Your expression says stalker. Either that or you hate the color.”
    “It’s beautiful. Just unexpected.”
    “I was in the area, thought you might like a memento.”
    Gastonia was a good forty minutes away. With light traffic.
    “Look. I wasn’t at my best over there. I was tense. The bugs. Welsted drove me nuts.” Rascal smile. “Bygones?”
    “Bygones.”
    Now that I’d stopped running, the breeze felt cold on my damp skin and clothes. I started to shiver. Blanton seemed not to notice.
    “What we did was