Marcia Muller - McCone And Friends

There June was, reclining on her pile of pillows, glass of wine beside her on the raised hearth. So like the other night, but something was wrong here, something to do with the way she was lying, as if she’d been thrown there, and why was the fireplace poker in her hand-Oh God June no!

I reeled around, smashing my fist into the wall beside me. My eyes were shut but I could still see her crumpled there on the gaudy silk pillows, velvet robes disarrayed, hand clutching the poker. Why was she still holding it? Something to do with going into spasm at the moment of death.

Disconnected sounds roared in my ears, blocking the wind. Then I heard my voice saying bitterly to Sharon, “Until the next time,” meaning until the next death. And Sharon saying to me, “If there is one.”

Well, Shar, this is the next time, and I wish you were here to tell me what to do because what I’m about to do is go to pieces and there’s a killer somewhere outside and a helpless young woman who I promised to bring back to her mother-

Go to the phone, Rae, and call the sheriff.

It wasn’t Sharon’s voice, of course, but my own-a cool, professional voice that I’d never known I had. It interrupted the hysterical thoughts that were whirling and tumbling in my brain, calmed me and restored my balance. I dredged up memories of the other night, pictured an old-fashioned rotary-dial phone sitting on the kitchen counter. I felt my way until I touched it, and picked up the receiver. No dial tone.

Maybe the storm, maybe something Waterson had done. Whatever, there wasn’t going to be any car full of Marin County Sheriff’s deputies riding to my rescue.

You’ll just have to save yourself-and Adrian.

With what? He’s armed. I don’t even have a flashlight.

Kitchen drawer. I felt along the edge of the warped linoleum counter, then down to a knob. Pulled on it. Nothing in there but cloth, dishtowels, maybe. Another knob, another drawer. Knives. I took one out, tested its sharpness. Another drawer, and there was a flashlight, plus some long, pointed barbecue skewer. I stuck them and the knife in the slash pocket of my slicker.

And then I went outside to face a man with a gun.

The wind was really whipping around now, and it tore the cottage’s door from my grip and slammed it back against the wall. I yanked it closed, went down the slick, rickety steps, and made for the eucalyptus trees. As I ran I felt the flashlight fall from my slash pocket, but I didn’t stop to find it. Silly to have taken it, anyway-if I turned it on, I’d be a target for Waterson.

Under the trees I stopped and leaned against a ragged trunk, panting and feeling in my pocket for the knife and the skewers. They were still there-not that they were much of a match against a gun. But there was no point in stewing over the odds now. I had to pinpoint those outbuildings. If I remembered correctly, they were closer to the shore and to the left of this grove.

I slipped through the trees, peering into the surrounding blackness. Now I could make out the shoreline, the water wind-tossed and frothy, and then I picked out the shapes of the buildings-two of them, the larger one probably the studio. Roofs as swaybacked as the cottage’s, no lights in either. Windows? I couldn’t tell. They sat across a clearing from me, a bad way to approach if there were windows and if Waterson was inside and looking out. A bad way if he was outside and looking in this direction.

How else to get over to them, then? Along the shore? Maybe. June had said something about a beach…

I went back through the trees, their branches swaying overhead, ran for the cottage again, then slipped along its side and ducked under a half-collapsed deck. The ground took a sudden slope, and I went down on my butt and slid toward the water, waves sloshed over my tennis shoes-icy waves.

Dammit! I thought. What the hell am I doing out here risking pneumonia-to say nothing of my life-for a thieving teenager I’ve never even set eyes on?

I pulled myself up on one of the rotten deck supports-nearly pulling it down on my head-and started moving again. Then I stopped, realizing there was no beach here now, just jumbled and jagged rocks before the spot where the sand should begin. The beach was completely submerged by the high storm-tide.

Stupid, Rae. Very stupid. You should have realized it would be this way and not wasted precious time. You should have gotten back into the Wreck as soon as soon as you found June’s body and driven to the nearest phone, called the sheriff’s department and let them handle it.

No time for recriminations now. Besides, the nearest phone was miles away, and even if I had driven there immediately, the deputies wouldn’t have gotten here fast enough to save Adrian. I wasn’t sure I’d gotten here fast enough to save her.

I crawled back up the incline and looked around, trying to measure the distance I’d have to run exposed to get to the shelter of the outbuildings. From here it was twenty, maybe twenty-five yards. Not that far-I’d go for it.

I hunched over, made myself as small as I could, and started running-not much of a run, but still the longest, scariest of my life. I kept expecting the whine of a bullet-that’s what you hear, Sharon’s told me, before you hear the actual report, and she ought to know. You hear the whine, that is if the bullet doesn’t kill you first.

But all I heard was the howl of the wind and the banging of a door someplace and the roaring of my own blood in my ears. Then I was at the first outbuilding, crouching against its rough wood wall and panting hard.

The banging was louder here. When my breathing had calmed, I crept around the building’s corner and looked. Door, half off its hinges, and no sound or light coming from inside. I crept a little closer. Empty shed, falling down, certainly not June’s studio.

I moved along until I could see the larger building the space between the two was narrow, dark. I ran again, to a windowless wall and flattened against it, putting my ear to the boards and trying to hear if anyone was inside.

A banging noise, then a crash-something breaking. Then an angry voice-male, Waterson’s. “Where the hell is it?”

Sobbing now, and a young woman saying, “I told you I don’t know what you’re talking about. Where’s Aunt June? I want-”

“Shut up!” It sounded like he hit her. She screamed, and my hand went into my pocket, grasping the knife.

More sobbing. Waterson said, “I want those pictures and the negatives, Adrian.”

“ What pictures? What negatives? I don’t know anything about them!”

“Don’t give me that. Kirby said you were holding them for him. Just tell me where they are and I’ll let you go.”

Sure he would. He’d shoot her just like he had June, and hope that this would go down as a couple of those random killings that happen a lot in remote rural areas where weirdos break into what look like empty houses for stuff to steal and sell for drug money.

“I wouldn’t hold anything for Kirby!” Adrian said through her sobs. “I’m scared of him!”

“Then why did he come out here yesterday after he tried to hit me up for money? Coming to get his evidence to prove to me that I’d better pay up, that’s why. And don’t lie to about it-I followed him.”

“No! I didn’t even see him! He figured out where I was and wanted to talk me into going back to the city. I hid from him, and Aunt June ran him off.”

So this was where Kirby had gone when I’d lost him. I remembered the eucalyptus leaves in his hair, the sand on his shoes when I’d talked to him at his parents’ house-probably picked up while he was skulking around outside here, looking for Adrian after June had told him he couldn’t see her. Waterson had not only followed Kirby here, but later to the Naples Street house, where he’d killed him.