Page 106 of Fire and Bones

My lids flew up.

As I reached for my mobile, the screen shifted from a message announcing an incoming call to one indicating that I’d missed it.

Ryan?

Crap!

I checked my voice mail.

Nothing.

I checked my list of recent callers.

Unknown number.

Disappointment shot through me, tinged with hurt. It hadn’t been Ryan.

Maybe the no-show lady, as I’d dubbed her? Had she phoned to explain her absence? To try to talk me into another meet-up?

The indifferent screen offered nothing except the date and time, 8:47 a.m.

Early-morning gray oozed through the window behind my bed. The sky appeared to be considering options.

I’d had another dream. This was getting ridiculous.

But I remembered this one. At least the final fragment.

And I understood the subliminal message.

The meaning of the psst at Willie Pope’s house.

While I’d been asleep, my id had cracked the enigma of the Asian woman in the poop with Norbert Mirek.

From far off, I heard the muted bonging of church bells beckoning the faithful.

It was Sunday. My second in DC.

I wanted justice for the subcellar vic. But I also wanted to get back to Birdie. To Charlotte.

To Montreal?

My emails yielded nothing of interest.

Not so my text list. Comprised of two words and an emoji, the most recent had arrived just past midnight.

Let it go!

The three-word missive was accompanied by a cartoon-styled human skull with large black eye sockets.

I didn’t recognize the number from which the text had been sent. Was it meant for someone else? Was it a joke? A mistake?

A threat?

I tried entering the digits. Got a message that the line was no longer functioning.

I knew that anonymous texting could be done using a third-party service—an app, a website, or a VoIP, a voice over internet protocol. I understood that such services could strip out an originating number and substitute another random one.

But who would do that? And why?