Page 106 of The Bone Code
Who was she?
Who was the child with her?
Who killed them?
Who killed the girls in Charleston?
Were they all killed by the same person, though many years and many miles apart?
24
Friday, November 12
My eyes flew open.
Dim room. Rough sheets smelling of harsh detergent. Muted traffic sounds.
Insistent banging.
I looked around. A pale gray rectangle framed what had to be a window.
Then a barrage of synapses. Digger France. The box. Amity House. Gertrude Pickle. The Whopper. The neon notes.
The zillion questions.
More banging.
I leaped out of bed. Nearly tripped over the coverlet I’d jettisoned onto the floor.
Gingerly barefooting across a prickly shag carpet, I put my eye to the peephole. Vislosky was standing outside, balancing a cardboard tray in one hand while pounding with the other.
I cracked the door.
“You sleeping all day, princess?”
“What time is it?”
“Six twenty.”
“Give me ten.”
Vislosky wiggled free a Styrofoam cup. Thanking her, I took it and withdrew.
After donning clean undies and yesterday’s jeans and top, I threw back the drapes. And noticed there was nothing to notice about the beige-on-beige decor.
While performing a quick toilette, I thought about motel rooms. Wondered who mandated the universal lack of charm and originality.
When I got to the car, Vislosky was slamming the trunk.
“Did you go through the box Digger gave us?” As I tossed my overnighter into the back seat.
“I only pocketed the good stuff.”
“Hilarious.” Wondering what Vislosky would classify as good.
“Of course, I didn’t go through the box. Just kept it with me to maintain chain of possession.”
“Should we have a quick look?”
