Page 113 of Fire and Bones

Deery didn’t acknowledge my witticism. I soldiered on.

“The Stoll brothers must do well enou—”

“They live in a cellar.”

“Yes, but—”

A silencing hand lifted.

I glanced at Deery. His eyes were narrowed, his attention focused on the rearview mirror.

I quelled the urge to swivel my head.

A beat.

Two.

A car passed close to the Durango.

Electricity slammed through me.

The car was a piss-yellow Toyota Camry.

I could tell little about the silhouette at the wheel. Tall, probably male. Wearing a brimmed cap. The passenger seat was empty.

Barely breathing, I followed the Camry’s progress.

The car crawled the block, its taillights flashing fitfully. Suddenly the driver shot forward and braked. A six-point maneuver got him into the space vacated by the Mini Cooper.

A man climbed out.

Sunglasses covered his eyes—standard drugstore issue. A Washington Nationals cap covered his head.

After locking the Camry, the man walked in our direction, a grease-stained brown bag cradled in his left arm.

“That’s one of the Stolls?” I asked.

Either Deery didn’t know, or he didn’t bother to answer.

I put Possibly Stoll’s height at six feet, his weight at slightly less than Birdie’s. His tee—perhaps the ugliest I’d ever seen—was plum with two chartreuse parrots wing-draping each other. Below the tee, neatly pressed khaki shorts, sandals, and white socks pulled up to mid-calf.

As expected, Possibly Stoll headed for the yellow building. A series of muted metallic thuds came through my window as he clumped down the stairs.

A door opened. Slammed.

I waited for a signal from Deery. A directive. An admonition to remain silent. Got the usual nothing.

Somewhere out of sight, a dog yapped, high and whiny. A car engine turned over.

Another five minutes passed.

Just as I feared my eyes might bleed from the tedium, Deery spoke.

“You say nothing.”

“Got it.”

“We do this by—”

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