Page 86 of Evil Bones
You’re becoming that snoop that everyone hates.
The doomsayer neurons had no comeback to that.
Back in bed, I cleared my mind and gave free rein to my thoughts. Like a Sidewinder missile, they arrowed straight to Bear and the other animal displays.
Despite learning almost zilch at the NCTA conference, Slidell remained convinced that our doer was a psycho taxidermist. Maybe Hugh Norwitz. Maybe Ozzie Key.
I wasn’t feeling it.
But whatwasI feeling? My subconscious kept teasing my higher centers, hinting at some tidbit just out of reach.
What tidbit? A piece I was failing to recognize? A pattern I was missing? What kind of pattern? A pattern suggestive of what?
Frustrated, I forced my attention to Ryan’s upcoming visit and began a mental list of possible outings. The Whitewater Center. The NASCAR Hall of Fame. The Mint Museum.
Somewhere along the way I finally drifted off.
Ryan was hating the smell of sweaty bodies assaulting his nose. The taste of exhaust coating his tongue. The sun’s heat scorching his shoulders and scalp.
Above all, he was hating the roar of the powerful V8 engines blasting his ears.
Bottom line. Ryan was loathing NASCAR.
Again, he complained about having to be at the Speedway.
Again, I told him why we were there.
My explanation had something to do with Slidell. And Birdie.
Ryan opened his mouth to respond.
Another car screamed past, drowning out his words.
Another.
Another.
Mind clawing to the surface from a very deep sleep, I opened my eyes.
The room was filled with that hazy half-light that presages the coming of dawn.
The clock now said 6:47.
The souped-up race car shrilled again.
No, it was the phone.
I lifted the device and clicked on.
“Yes.”
“We may have us another one.”
“Detective Slidell?” Over-enunciating as one does when trying to sound awake.
“No. It’s room service ringing with your wake-up call.”
It was too early, and I’d had no coffee. I said nothing.
