Page 11 of Fire and Bones

“Okay.”

“Really? You’ll come?”

“Yes.” It was so far from okay it wasn’t even in the same galaxy.

“Thank you so, so much.” There was that bubbly that I recalled. “How soon can you leave?”

I glanced at the clock. Nine-seventeen. I had to repack, placate and deliver Birdie to my neighbor, then drive to the airport.

“Eleven.”

“I’ll book a hotel and a flight and call you right back.”

“Right back” was almost an hour later. The bubbly was gone, replaced by an elevated level of distress.

“I’m sorry this took so long. My secretary, my assistant, and I have all been on the phone. In addition to the normal Memorial Day frenzy of tourists, DC is hosting WorldPride 2025 and there’s some mammoth event this weekend. The district will be insane. The good news is that I managed to finagle a room at the Hyatt Place, which is right across the street from our office.

“The bad news is that there isn’t a single seat on any direct flight from Charlotte. I could get you here by seven, but it would involve changing planes and a long layover in Philadelphia.”

Mother of God. Could this get any worse?

“I’ll drive,” I said.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s only six hours.” In the wrong damn direction.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. Text when you’re an hour out and I’ll arrange for a meet in my office. The fire investigator will be thrilled to have you.”

He wasn’t.

I don’t mind long road trips. Cross-country travel brings out the pioneer in me. Not that I was migrating west in a covered wagon. Or blazing a trail through uncharted wilderness.

I’d made the trip to DC many times. Still, I enjoyed reading each exit sign as it flew by. Mooresville. Greensboro. Richmond. Fredericksburg.

I played mental games imagining life in those towns. The school plays. The office rivalries. The neighborhood dramas.

The lure of the open highway. Unknown people. Unknown places.

At the height of the craze, my father owned a CB radio. When I could score the family car, I’d put my “ears” on and chat with Thunderman or Big El or K-Bone, believing they had no idea I was only a kid. Breaker! C’Mon! My handle was Scooter.

Eventually, my sister, Harry, ratted me out. Mama shut down my trucker pastime, fast and hard.

The day was warm and muggy, with fat dark clouds rolling and shouldering low in the sky. The farther north I went, the more imminent the rain seemed. I hoped the storm would hold off until I’d reached the hotel.

As soon as I’d disconnected with Thacker, I’d phoned Ryan. The call had not gone well. Though he’d tried to mask it, I could read the annoyance in his voice. The frustration. As he correctly pointed out, it was the second time that spring I’d canceled plans with him.

Suck it up, dude. I was disappointed, too.

The hasty transfer of the cat was also unpleasant. Released from his carrier, Birdie had shot under my neighbor’s couch and begun howling like his genitals were on fire.

Same sentiment. I wasn’t going to a damn spa, Bird.

Now and then an eighteen-wheeler went by too fast, a black or red blur that rocked my Mazda and roused me from my thoughts. I’d brought coffee in one of those insulated Yetis. With each blast, I downed more, and was soon afloat on caffeine.

For a while I listened to an audiobook. When that ended, I went back to the radio, switching stations as I left different NPR broadcast areas.

I am not a slow driver. Ryan tells me I have a lead foot. An overused descriptor but, in my case, accurate.

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