Рита Браун - Pawing Through The Past

"Did the voice sound familiar?" Rick put his hand on her knee.

"Yes, but . . . it was just a whisper. I didn't recognize it, and yet, there was something familiar. Eerie."

"Height?"

"Maybe five nine, ten, average, I guess."

"Build?"

"Average."

"And you couldn't see the face?"

"Ski mask." She reached for the water now. Susan handed it to her.

Rick stood back up, asked everyone where they were. In the parking lot, they all confirmed one another's presence, except for Susan, who waited at the doors for Harry.

"Listen to me," Rick commanded. "Say nothing of this. Harry, if you can't speak normally for the next few days, put out that you have laryngitis. Let's see if we can disturb our guy. He's going to want to know what you've seen."

"Okay."

"Next thing. Keep someone with you at all times."

"I wish they could listen. Dennis Rablan!" Murphy meowed, knowing it was hopeless.

"It's all right, Mrs. Murphy." Harry reached for the cat. Pewter came over, too.

"You're covered at work. Miranda is there," Rick said.

"I'll stay," Fair gladly volunteered.

"Z'at all right with you?" Cynthia, sensitive to the situation, asked Harry.

"Yes." Harry nodded.

"Do you think he was waiting in the stairwell for Harry?" Susan shuddered.

"I don't know," Rick grimly replied. "If he was up there throughout the dinner, he'd have seen who was leaving and who was staying. If he'd gone to the dinner and then come back, well, maybe he hoped his intended victim was still there." He turned to Harry and then Fair: "This is a highly intelligent and bold individual. Take nothing for granted." Rick was seething inside that he hadn't posted a man upstairs. He assumed locking the doors would do the job.

The three animals looked at one another. They knew they'd be on round-the-clock duty, too.

47

Like most stubborn people, Harry failed to realize how shock would affect her. She thought she was fine. She was happy to go home but surprised that when she walked through the kitchen door a wave of exhaustion washed over her, adding to the throb caused by the headache. She wanted to talk to Fair but couldn't keep her eyes open.

"Honey, you need to go to bed." He lifted her out of the chair into which she'd slumped.

"I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm so tired. Maybe I should take more painkiller."

"No. You've had enough."

Too wiped out to protest, she meekly let him walk her into the bedroom and fell into bed.

"I'll sleep by the kitchen door," Tucker declared.

"I'll take the front door." Mrs. Murphy chose her spot.

"Well, I'll sleep in the bedroom then. What if someone climbs through the window?" Pewter dashed to the bedroom before the others could protest.

Tracy came home at midnight, whistling as he opened the kitchen door. Fair, stretched out on the sofa, swung his long legs to the floor.

"Fair?"

"Had a good night?"

"Wonderful. I feel like a kid again. I even kissed Miranda on her doorstep." He smiled broadly, then considered Fair on the sofa. "Am I interrupting anything?"

"No." Fair walked into the kitchen, reached under the cupboard by the door, pulled out a bottle of Talisker scotch, and poured them each a nightcap. They moved to the cheerful, if threadbare, living room, where Fair told Tracy everything he could remember from the evening.

A long, long silence followed as Tracy stared into the pale gold liquid in his glass. "We were fiddling while Rome burned, I guess. That son of a bitch was over our heads the whole time."

"Harry could have been killed." Fair put his glass down on the coffee table, first sliding a coaster under it. "And whoever it is may fear she recognized him through his voice or way of going."

"Way of going?"

"Ah," Fair explained, "a horse has a special movement and I or any good horseman, really, can identify her by her gait. A way of going. For instance, you have an athlete's walk. I might be able to identify you even if you were in costume-or BoomBoom Craycroft, that sashay."

"The sheriff's command to act as though she has laryngitis is a good one for flushing him out but not so good for Harry. She knows she's bait?"

"Of course. Rick will have plainclothes men around the post office. He's got the house covered now. There's only one drive in and out."

"Somehow that's not very reassuring."

"No." Fair picked up his glass again, holding it between both hands.

"Do you have any ideas about who, what, why?"

"No, well, not exactly. I told you Rick Shaw's idea, that this is someone who was in love with Ron Brindell. Or at least is avenging him."

Tracy emptied his glass, then leaned toward Fair. "You know what, Buddy? I'm sixty-eight years old and I don't know a damn thing. Do people snap? Can anyone snap in a given situation? Are some weak and some strong? Are there really saints and sinners? Don't know but I do know once a person loses their fear of their own death, once they no longer care about belonging to other people, they'll do anything. Anything. My God, look at Rwanda. Sarajevo. Belfast. Kill children. Kill anything."

"Presumably those killings are politically motivated."

"Yeah, that's another load, too. Some people just want to kill. Give them a reason so they can cover up their murderous selves. The church can give them a reason, the state. I've seen enough to know there are no good reasons."

"I'm with you there."

"Whoever this is no longer cares. He's given up on people. He has nothing to lose. I also think he intended to finish off his list at the reunion and he's been thwarted. He's angry. And maybe, just maybe, he'll make a mistake."

Fair nodded in agreement. "The more I think about this reunion murderer, the more the finger points to Dennis Rablan."

"There are three left." Tracy held up three fingers.

"Two. Dennis Rablan and Bob Shoaf."

"Three. Hank Bittner."

"He said he wasn't in the locker room."

"He knows too much. Three. And there's a strong possibility one of the three is the killer."

"I'd hate to be one of those guys." Fair's deep voice dropped even lower.

Truer words were never spoken.

48

"Getting the flu?" Chris asked Harry sympathetically when she heard her voice on the phone that Sunday morning.

"Laryngitis," Harry replied.

"You do sound scratchy. I called to apologize. I chickened out. I could have at least said good-bye."

"You don't have to apologize to me. If I'd been in your shoes, I'd have melted my sneakers running-flat-out flying-out of there."

"You're not mad?"

"No."

"Anybody know anything? I mean, any clues?"

"Not that I know of but then Sheriff Shaw wouldn't tell me no matter what."