Page 104 of Cold, Cold Bones
“Missing? Or gone off for a while?”
“I haven’t heard from her since Tuesday. In the past, that would be out of character for her. But she’s not been herself lately. One minute she’s all buddy-buddy, the next she seems to want distance between us. I suspect she may be suffering from PTSD. Still, should I file an MP report?”
“She’ll go apeshit if she’s chosen to bug out for some head clearing. I’d give it one more day.” Seeing my expression, he added, “But I’ll ask around, keep my ear to the ground.”
I walked Slidell to the door because it seemed the polite thing to do. And I was already feeling guilty.
After downing two Advil, I went back to bed.
I awoke at eleven, head still throbbing so hard I was sure Metallica was practicing in my cranium.
Of course, I reached for my mobile. Of course, I didn’t have it.
I lay for a while, poking at my incipient theory. If the awful notion had legs, where were the id guys?
Hunkered down to avoid the hurt blitzing their world.
In the light of day, my nocturnal memories seemed like a dreamlike montage in a Hitchcockian film noir. The inky black. The icy veil. The gauzy figure running for its life. What had Iactuallywitnessed? Visibility was beyond lousy. What parts of my recollection were real?
Something or someone was run over. Twice.
I got up, showered, dressed, and went downstairs.
Using the landline, I called the garage. Got Carlos. Carlos went to check my car. Returned a month later to say no mobile was in it.
Crap.
I ate a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. Drank coffee. Took two more Advil.
Gradually, the pain in my head dropped from an eight to a six. But a generalized sadness filled the vacated space. A depression I didn’t understand.
Feeling down and useless—the latter a state I was experiencing all too frequently lately—I booted my computer. And noted the date.
My baby brother succumbed to leukemia when he was three and I was eight. Following Kevin’s death, my father, unable to cope with his grief, developed an unhealthy relationship with Jameson whiskey. Daddy was killed later that same year in what I now know would be called a single vehicle crash with ejection. His blood alcohol concentration registered a whopping 0.29.
My father’s passing when I was so young profoundly changed my view of the world. The crash occurred on February 13. On each anniversary, a shapeless melancholy permeates my soul.
Fine. Sadness explained. Time to tackle uselessness.
Using the landline, I dialed the violent crimes unit. Gave my name, asked for Detective Henry.
“Dr. Brennan. How’s it hanging?”
“Good,” I said, not bothering to hide my irritation. The constant SoCal jargon was grating, and that expression was one I particularly disliked.
“Have you been in contact with Detective Slidell?” I asked.
“Not recently. No prog to report. What’s up?”
I described the incident at SWI.
“Holy shit balls. Are you all right?”
“Dandy. We need to go out there.”
“You said the team found zilch.”
“It was dark. And raining. I want to run dogs over the lot. Can you get two for this afternoon, one cadaver and one tracker?”
