Spider Bones Read Online Free PDF

garden in back appeared recently plowed.
    Catching movement through a window, I turned to Ryan. He saw it too.
    “Bandau better not be pulling more of his Lone Ranger bullshit.”
    The outer door stood open, its frame gouged and splintered at the level of the knob. Ryan and I entered directly into a living room sparsely furnished with what looked like Salvation Army castoffs. Bandau was in it. Hearing footsteps, he turned.
    At Bandau’s back was a desk holding a MacBook Pro that appeared fairly new. Its cover was open.
    “Not jumping the gun again, are we, Agent?” Ryan’s smile was icy.
    “No, sir.”
    “You entered ahead of the warrant.”
    “Just securing the scene.”
    “Let’s hope that’s true.”
    Bandau offered nothing in defense or apology.
    Ryan and I moved methodically, unsure what we were seeking.
    In the kitchen cabinets were chipped tableware, cleaning products, supermarket shelf goods, and enough home-canned produce to outlast the next coming.
    The refrigerator offered the normal array of condiments, dairy products, lunch meat, and bread. No caviar. No capers. No French bottled water.
    A plate, glass, and utensils stood drying in a green plastic dish rack. A half-empty bottle of Scotch sat on one counter.
    The bath, like the kitchen, was surprisingly clean. Over-the-counter meds and personal products in the medicine cabinet. Cheap shampoo and soap in the shower.
    The bedroom was equally unremarkable. Double bed with gray wool blanket, pillow, no coverlet. Side table with lamp, clock radio, and lubricating eye drops. Wooden dresser containing boxers and tees, one striped tie, a half dozen pairs of rolled socks, all black.
    The closet was the size of a mailbox. Jeans and shirts. Black polyester pants. One bad sports jacket, tan corduroy.
    On the floor were two and a half pairs of boots, one pair of oxfords, and one pair of sandals, the kind with tire treads for soles.
    The overhead shelf held stacked magazines.
    Ryan pulled and scoped a couple. “Hell-o.”
    I read the titles. Tit Man. Butt Man.
    “The guy’s flexible,” I said.
    Ryan chose another. Lollypop Girls. The lead story was headlined Park It in My Panties. I tried to decipher that literary gem. Gave up. The request made no sense.
    I looked at Ryan. His eyes were doing that scrunchy thing. I knew a panty suggestion was coming my way.
    “Decorum, sir.”
    “Hither we yonder to fair computer?” Ryan asked demurely.
    “Hither is not a verb.”
    “Let us forth, flaxen-haired maiden.”
    My eye roll may have attained a personal best.
    “I yield to my lady’s superior skills.”
    “Thank you.”
    “And to her unclean undies.” Whispered.
    Smacking Ryan’s arm, I hithered to the desk.
    Bandau continued staring out the window, feet wide, elbows winging, hands clasped behind his back.
    “No phone,” I said. “No cables. Did Laurier have an ISP account?”
    “Meaning?”
    “Internet Service Provider. Like Videotron or Bell.”
    “Not that I found record of.”
    The Mac whirred to life, asked for a password. I tried PASSWORD. 123456. ABCDEF. Various combinations of Jean and Laurier. Laurier’s address and street name. All of the above jumbled, reversed.
    No go.
    LOWERY.
    Nope.
    YREWOL.
    I took the initials JCR and converted them to number positions within the alphabet. 100318. Flipped the sequence. 813001. Reversed the initials to RCJ. 180310. Flipped that. 013081.
    Still the little cursor defied me.
    Picturing a phone, I tried the digits associated with the letters LOWERY, 569379.
    I was in.
    When the computer was fully booted, I checked a fan-shaped icon on the far right of the toolbar. Three stripes. I clicked on it.
    “He pirated signal from the neighbors.” I pointed to a network code name. Fife.
    “Can he do that?”
    “The Fifes probably use their phone number as their password. A lot of folks do. Laurier knew or looked it up. Or maybe he asked permission. Anyway, once the password is entered, the computer remembers and