Chapter 29
I hesitated.
Enlist backup?
No way. I’d had enough drama for one day. Besides, I wanted no damsel in distress dynamic with Ryan.
Easing the door open, I peered through the crack.
Moonlight oozed in from the window, sparking the stainless-steel appliances and brightening the porcelain sink. Digits on the stove glowed neon orange.
The kitchen looked normal.
Until my gaze reached the back door.
Then my heart threw in a few extra beats.
A black swath bordered the jamb. The gap wasn’t wide. Just big enough to accommodate a cat.
Shit! I may have cursed out aloud.
Had Birdie followed the call of the wild and ventured forth?
I hurried outside, whisper-calling his name to avoid disturbing the neighbors.
“Birdie?”
No cat.
I tried again, louder.
Louder.
I kept at it for several minutes before giving up. The night was warm. The grounds were reasonably safe. It wouldn’t be the first time the cat had overnighted outside.
Moments later, back in bed, I couldn’t help but wonder.
How had Birdie made his escape? Had I left the back door ajar when I’d returned from searching for Ruthie? Had Ryan? Had a breeze blown it open?
Had someone entered my house?
How?
Who?
The killer?
My upstairs toilet drips. It always has.
The next morning, after another lecture about locking my doors, arming my security system, and watching my six—which I assumed meant staying aware of what was happening behind me—Ryan said that something called a flapper needed replacing. At nine, he set off in search of the part.
When he’d gone, I made another loop of the grounds. Spotted no sign of Birdie.
Returning to the Annex, I phoned Katy.
Got voice mail. Guessing she’d already gone to the center, I left a message asking if Ruthie had turned up.
After brewing coffee, I booted my laptop, determined to make a dent in the dozens of emails I’d been ignoring over the past several days. Weeks?
Focus eluded me. My mind kept going to Ruthie and Birdie.
At ten, the hated task only partially complete, I took a break to give another shoutout to the errant feline. He remained AWOL.
I tried Katy again. Still no answer.
Ruthie. Same result.
Wondering if Slidell had made any progress finding Quaashi Brown’s killer, I dialed his mobile.
Strike three.
I was out.
Disconnecting with an irritated thumb jab, I winged my mobile onto the counter.
Seriously, Brennan? You’re acting like Harry.
To distract myself, I turned my attention to overdue paperwork owed to Nguyen.
The ploy succeeded. When I next glanced at the wall clock, both hands were pointing straight up.
Le monsieur still hadn’t returned.
Ditto Birdie.
Assuming Ryan was intrigued by all the wondrous gizmos and gadgets, or whatever it is that appeals to men’s brains in hardware stores, I decided to take a quick jog. Exercise would relax me, and I could look for Birdie. Changing to shorts, a tank, and running shoes, I headed out.
From that point, my memory grows hazy.
Sharon Hall has a small body of water at the back of the property. We call it a lake, though it hardly qualifies as such.
The lake’s inhabitants tend toward the small and unexciting—darters and shad in the water, salamanders and frogs on the banks.
Surrounded by pickleweed and corkscrew rushes, except for the landscaping stones rimming its perimeter, the feature is an archetypically Carolina pond.
Uninteresting to anyone but aquatic biologists.
And my cat.
Knowing Birdie would beeline for the water, I headed in that direction.
One advantage to a white pet is its visibility. Except in blizzards.
I spotted no cat on the thin strip of shoreline. No snowy tail protruding from the surrounding vegetation.
Torn between worried and irked, I scrambled up a mound of algae-coated rocks near the water’s edge. At the top, maybe ten feet off the ground, I braced my feet, hand-shielded my eyes, and did a three-sixty scan.
Saw nada.
I was beginning my descent, ass first, blindly testing for footing, when I heard movement behind me.
I froze, surprised by the adrenaline suddenly firing through me.
Then embarrassed.
Jesus, Brennan. You’ve been bellowing for the cat. Don’t scare him off.
Then, before I could turn my head, something long and sinuous wrapped my right ankle. Startled, I loosened my grip to explore my leg. Bad move. Gravity and the slimy flora colluded to send me slide-banging downward.
I don’t remember what I thought as I fell.
I didn’t scream. No time.
I recall my already raw elbows and knees yielding more skin.
A sharp crack to my head.
“… you okay, Dr. Brennan?”
Someone was crouching beside me, hands on thighs, sweaty face close to mine.
Did I recognize the features?
No name emerged from my fog-muddled brain.
“Are you hurt?”
Faux red hair. Gold ring. Gorilloid build.
Ruthie’s UNCC friend Danielle Hall.
Hall offered a hand to help me rise.
“I slipped while climbing the rocks to look for my cat,” I managed, feeling foolish.
“Algae can be a mean mother. You sure you’re okay? Maybe I should take you to a hospital?”
Reflexively unwilling to admit that I’m ever anything less than shipshape, I immediately protested.
“No, no, I’m fine. Just klutzy. Never met a rock I couldn’t trip over,” I said, trying to affect nonchalance at having scraped skin off my limbs twice in the past twenty-four hours. Jesus, Brennan, get your act together.
We stood a moment, the noon sun sparking the hoop riding Hall’s brow.
“You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here.” Hall broke the awkward silence.
“Whatever the reason,” I said, wondering exactly that, “your presence was certainly serendipitous for me.”
Hall regarded me blankly.
“Lucky timing,” I clarified. Then a sudden thought occurred to me. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Ruthie in the last couple of days?”
“I’m sorry. I haven’t.”
“Would you happen to have contact info for Lester Meloy?”
“I do on my phone. But I don’t have it with me.”
“Right,” I said, hiding my disbelief. These days, it seemed like everyone under thirty had their phone with them 24/7.
A moment, then, “Ruthie probably didn’t tell you about my hobby.”
“She did not.”
“I mean, why would she?”
I said nothing, anxious to get inside and out of the heat.
“I paint landscapes. Most are crap, I know. But I like working with oils. Ruthie said your pond was bussin, so I wanted to get a few pics.”
I assumed “bussin” was a positive thing.
“I suggest you shoot from the bottom, not the top of the rocks,” I said.
“Smart,” said Hall, winking and pointing a very large finger at me.
“Thanks again,” I said.
“No biggie.”
“Have at it.” My attempt at a smile hurt the scrape on my cheek.
Hall gave a double thumbs-up.
I moved off toward the Annex, eyes doing one last visual sweep for the cat. An delivery truck parked on the circle drive blocked much of my view of the front lawn. Noting spiderweb cracking on the rearview mirror, I wondered briefly about the company’s upkeep regs.
I was at my door when Hall yelled at my back.
“What does he look like?”
I turned, unsure her meaning. “Sorry?”
“The cat. Describe him.”
“He’s all white,” I shouted. “And should be looking guilty as hell.”
Hall gave yet another double thumbs-up.
The woman must have liked doing that.
I’m not an alarmist. But by late afternoon I was growing concerned.
Ryan hadn’t returned.
Katy hadn’t heard from Ruthie. She’d phoned Meloy but only gotten voice mail and left a message.
No cat.
I tried calling the two who were carrying phones.
Neither answered.
Though the temperature had risen into the midnineties, I decided to go out for another brief hunt for Birdie.
I’d done a quick spin around the property and was rounding my neighbor’s hedge, hot, sweaty, and peeved as hell, when footsteps sounded behind me.
As I turned, I felt something sting my left arm.
A moment of dizziness.
Then the world went black.