Chapter 7 #2
She rotated her desk chair and watched as he settled himself into the window seat that overlooked the backyard. He held her gaze. “Let me guess. You’re working on the Huber case.”
She laughed. “Ah, gee, you must be an ace detective or something.”
“Or you might be pretty transparent.”
“That, too,” she admitted, as Mikado found his bed near her desk. “You got anything for me?” she asked. “Fink is all over me for a story.”
“And he thinks you can get information from me.”
She lifted her brows. “Can I?”
He shook his head. “Nothing to tell.”
“Oh, come on. Really?”
“Really.” He held up his hands, palms out, as if in surrender, as he stood again. “Look, when I can tell you something, I will. You know that. Now, though, I’m heading to bed.”
“Want company?” she asked.
A smile inched across his chin, and she noticed the beard shadow covering his jaw and the twinkle in his eyes. “Always.”
She clicked off her computer, took hold of his hand, and tugged, pulling him to the stairs.
“And whatever you do, do it heartily, as to the Lord and not to men, because … no, as to the Lord and not to men, that’s it”—he murmured under his breath, remembering the verses he’d learned as a child—“not to men knowing that from the Lord you will … you will receive the reward of the inheritance. Because you serve only the Lord Christ.”
Not exactly word for word of the New King James Version of Colossians 3:23–24, but it would suffice. He loved to whisper Scripture as he worked, here in his basement, a private space, his space, carved beneath one of his sheds.
His tools surrounded him, all hanging on the stone walls, or arranged perfectly on the table next to his pistol and his open Bible.
Chisels, hammers, and mallets. He felt a warm pleasure and a glow of anticipation as he fondled the stone, smooth now that the edges had been honed and polished in his tumblers.
And there was the antique bookcase with glass doors, behind which he kept his Bibles.
Yes, all was in perfect order.
He smiled, satisfied that he’d recovered his stolen property. Over the noise of the tumblers, humming and turning the stones, music was audible via the old stereo he’d refurbished, playing his father’s cherished vinyl records. Chamber music filled the small space.
Mozart.
For a second, he closed his eyes, listening to the woodwinds and piano.
His music collection was eclectic, what he played depending upon his mood. Everything from country to rock, jazz to blues, heavy metal to folk, hip-hop to ska. Whatever his mood dictated.
Tonight, he needed Mozart’s melodic strains.
He hummed along as he picked up his etching tool and began to engrave, only to freeze as he heard his dogs.
Barking madly.
Growling.
Sounding angry.
A warning.
Apprehension crawled up his spine on spidery legs.
Had he been found out?
But how? He’d been so careful …
For a second, his throat went dry, and everything—the rumble of the tumbler, the music—was drowned out by the sound of the dogs and his accelerated heartbeat.
But it couldn’t be.
He waited.
His anxiety mounted, his fingers still grasping his etching tool in a death grip.
And then it was quiet.
The hounds had given up their baying.
Maybe it was nothing. Some creature had gotten over the fence and prowled too close to the kennels.
That was all.
And yet …
He couldn’t be too cautious.
Not now.
Not when his sacred work had just begun.
He slid the Glock from its holster lying on the table and carefully, quietly mounted the ladder-like stairs, waiting near the top rung before sliding open the trapdoor, hoisting himself into the shop, then moving swiftly and silently across the old hickory floorboards to the window.
Through a slit in the blinds, he studied the gravel yard between the kennels and the stable.
The horses were restless.
Shuffling in their stalls.
But the dogs … quiet now.
Good.
Beneath the warm glow of the security lamps, he saw nothing more than a bat swooping from the surrounding pines, and … wait! What was that? A shadow darting past the old pump house. A man? Crouching low?
No—two small men.
Crouching low.
His fingers tightened over the gun’s grip.
How …
Sudden movement.
His heart clenched for a second.
Before realizing he was wrong.
As he focused on the movement, he recognized a lone coyote throwing its shadow against the aging boards of the kennel.
Yes, that was it.
Now, the beast was apparently downwind and out of sight of the kennels.
He aimed the Glock at the narrow nose and glowing eyes.
Bit his lip.
But he didn’t pull the trigger. Couldn’t risk the blast.
Tense, pistol in hand, he kept his gun aimed as the scrawny coyote trotted past the kennels.
Again the damned dogs sent up their warning howls! Baying loud enough to wake the damned dead.
Good-for-nothings.
Not even hunting.
But she liked them. So … fine.
Miserable curs.
Once the coyote disappeared, the hounds settled down again. As did his racing, reactive heart.
He lifted the trapdoor again and made his way down the stairs, checking his watch. He had little time. Would have to work faster.
He’d almost shot the marauding coyote, which would have risked everything. He couldn’t afford to be reckless. Not now.
He told himself he was just nervous.
Anxious.
Juiced by anticipation.
Back in the basement, he slid the pistol into its holster and glanced at the stones—shining and ready, sorted neatly by the open Bible. Repeating his favorite verse, he changed the music on the old stereo’s turntable.
Led Zeppelin.
“Stairway to Heaven.”
As Robert Plant wailed and the music filled the room, he slipped onto his stool, picked up a small chisel, and went back to work, carefully etching the number into the stone’s gleaming surface.
And then?
He glanced over to the vials propped in their rack. All neatly labeled. All with purpose. All shimmering dark red in the light.
Perfect.
But he needed to pick up his pace, he thought, as the song faded and he eyed the glossy photo he’d tacked to the bulletin board.
A headshot.
Of a woman.
Who didn’t know what was in store for her. Didn’t realize that she would soon meet her maker.
Judgment Day was coming for her.
And coming fast.