Catherine Coulter - The Cove

There was no answer.

She looked around, not wanting to go further, to take one more step into that room. She saw a blur, something moving quickly. She heard a loud thump on the hardwood floor, then the raucous sound of a rocking chair. There was a loud, indignant meow, and a huge gray cat leaped off the back of the sofa to land at her feet. Sally shrieked. Then she laughed, a horrible laugh that made her sound crazy. "Good Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

kitty," she said, her voice so thin she was surprised she could breathe. The cat skittered away.

She heard the rocking chair moving, back and forth, back and forth, creaking softly now. She stifled the scream in her throat. The cat had hit the rocking chair and made it move, nothing more. She drew a deep breath and walked quickly to the far side of the living room. The rocker was moving slowly, as if someone were putting pressure on it, somehow making it move. She walked around to the front of the chair.

The air was as still and dead as the old man slumped low in the old bentwood rocker, one arm hanging to the floor, his head bowed to his chest. His fingernails scraped gently against the hardwood floor. The sound was like a gun blast. She stifled a scream behind the fist pressed against her mouth. Then she took several fast breaths. She stared in fascination at the drops of blood that dripped slowly, inexorably, off the end of his middle finger. She turned on her heel and ran back into the hallway.

She yelled, her voice hoarse with terror and the urge to vomit, "James! Doc Spiver is here! James!"

"One wonders-if you weren't here, Ms. Brandon, would there have been two deaths?"

Sally sat on the edge of Amabel's sofa, her hands clasped in her lap, rocking gently back and forth, just like old Doc Spiver had in that rocking chair. James was sitting on the arm of the sofa, as still as a man waiting in the shadows for his prey to pass by. Now where, David Mountebank wondered, had that thought come from? James Quinlan was a professional, he knew that for sure now, knew it from the way Quinlan had handled the scene at Doc Spiver's house more professionally than David would have, the way he had kept calm, detached. All of it screamed training that had been extensive, had been received by someone who already had all the necessary skills-and that easy, calm temperament.

Quinlan was worried about Sally Brandon, David could see that, but there was something else, something more that was hidden, and David hated that, hated the not knowing.

"Don't you agree, Ms. Brandon?" he asked again, pressing now, gently, because he didn't want her to collapse. She was too pale, too drawn, but he had to find out what the devil was going on here.

She said finally, with great simplicity, "Yes."

"All right." He turned to Quinlan and gave him a slow smile. "Actually, you and Sally arrived at nearly the same time. That's rather an odd coincidence, isn't it?"

He was too close, James thought, but he knew David Mountebank couldn't possibly know anything. All he could do was guess.

"Yes," he said. "It's also one that I would have willingly forgone. Amabel should be back soon. Sally, would you like some tea?"

"His fingernails scraped against the hardwood floor. It scared me silly."

"It would scare me silly, too," David said. "So, both of you were there just because Hunker Dawson fell off his chair and hurt his shoulder."

"Yes," James said. "That's it. Nothing sinister, just being good neighbors. Nothing more except what a couple of the old men said when we were leaving. Something about it didn't matter. That Hunker shouldn't go. To let us go, that it was time."

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"You aren't saying that they knew he was dead and wanted you and Sally to be the ones to find him?"

"I have no idea. It doesn't make any sense, really. I just thought I'd pour out everything."

"Do you think he killed himself?"

Quinlan said, “If you look at the angle of the shot, at how the gun fell, at how his body crumpled in, I think it could go either way. Your medical examiner will find out, don't you think?"

"Ponser is good, but he isn't that good. He didn't have the greatest training. I'll let him have a go at it, and if it turns out equivocal, then I'll call Portland."

Sally looked up then. "You really think he could have killed himself, James?"

He nodded. He wanted to say more, but he knew he couldn't, even if the sheriff weren't here. He had to rein in all the words that wanted to speak themselves to her. It was too much.

"Why would he do that?"

Quinlan shrugged. "Perhaps he had a terminal illness, Sally. Perhaps he was in great pain."

"Or maybe he knew something and couldn't stand it. He killed himself to protect someone."

"Where did that come from, Ms. Brandon?"

"I don't know, Sheriff. It's all just hideous. Amabel told me after we found that poor woman that nothing ever happened here, at least nothing more than Doc Spiver's cat, Forceps, getting stuck in that old elm tree in his back yard. What will happen to the cat?"

"I'll make sure Forceps has a new home. Hell, I'll just bet one of my kids will beg me to bring the damned cat home."

"David," Quinlan said, "why don't you just break down and call her Sally?"

"All right, if you don't mind. Sally." When she nodded, he was struck again at how familiar she looked to him. But he couldn't nail it down. More likely, she just looked like someone he'd known years ago, perhaps.

"Maybe James and I should leave so nothing else will happen."

"Well, actually, ma'am, you can't leave The Cove. You found the second body. There are so many questions and just not enough answers. Quinlan, why don't you and I make Sally some tea?"

Sally watched them walk out of the small living room. The Sheriff stopped by one of Amabel's paintings, this one of oranges rotting in a bowl. Amabel had used globs of paint on those parts of the oranges that were rotting. It was a disturbing painting. She shivered. What did the sheriff want to talk to James about?

David Mountebank watched Quinlan pour water in the old kettle and turn on the heat beneath it. "Who are you?" he asked.

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James stilled. Then he took down three cups and saucers from the cabinet. "You like sugar or milk, Sheriff?"

"No."

"How about brandy? That's what I'm putting in Sally's tea."

"No, thank you. Answer me, Quinlan. There's no way you're a PI, no way in hell. You're too good.

You've had the best training. You're experienced. You know how to do things that normal folk just wouldn't know."

"Well, shit," James said. He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open. "Special Agent James Quinlan, Sheriff. FBI. A pleasure to meet you."

"Hot damn," David said. "You're here undercover. What the hell is going on?''

10

JAMES POURED A finger of brandy into the cup of tea. He grinned when the sheriff held out his hand.

“No, hold on a second. I want to give this to Sally. I want to make sure she's hanging in there. She's a civilian. This has been incredibly tough on her. Surely you can understand that."

"Yes. I'll wait for you here, Quinlan."

James returned after just a moment to see the sheriff staring out the kitchen window over the sink, his hands on the counter. He was a tall man, a runner, rangy and lean. He was probably only a few years older than James. He had a quality of utter concentration about him, something that made people want to talk to him. James admired that, but he wasn't about to talk. He was beginning to like David Mountebank, but he wasn't about to let that sway him, either.