Unknown - Cat_shining_bright_Merfi_630007

Two blocks away stood Barbara Conley’s house, yellow crime tape still surrounding the property. He was watching it idly when he saw, in the high attic window, a shadow move, a figure looking out.

There was no police car parked nearby, no car in front or in the drive—and no one should be there but the cops, the house was off-limits. Curious, he abandoned all thoughts of his quarantine in favor of expediency. Whatever was going on was more important than the unlikely danger that he’d bite someone and give them rabies.

Crossing the streets on overhanging branches, soon he crouched in the rain gutter just across the street from Barbara’s house. Directly below, only scattered cars were parked, though usually the curb was bumper to bumper. A blue Ford cruised slowly by, heading west toward the seashore, the driver slowing to gawk at the crime tape. The driver … Joe came to full attention.

Egan Borden. Long thin face, pale blond hair, a thrust of his broad slanted shoulders against the side window—but Egan was in jail. Joe had seen him shackled and shoved into a squad car. The man drove on to the next intersection, made a U-turn, came back and parked just below Joe, headed in the direction of the freeway. Now Joe could see his passenger, a thin middle-aged woman with medium-length brown hair. Lena? He had seen her around Voletta Nestor’s place when he rode up to the ruins with Ryan; he had heard Ryan describe her, not flatteringly. Their voices were sharp with argument. Straining to hear, he almost lost his footing, almost fell off the gutter.

Backing away, forgetting about quarantine promises, he slipped down a stone pine that grew against the end of the house. There he crouched in the bushes beside the car not three feet from Lena’s open window. When Egan started to get out, she reached a hand to stop him.

“Stay here, Rick. For once, will you do it my way!”

Rick? This was Rick Alderson? The executed guy’s kid who might be in jail or might not, who might have warrants out for him or might not? Rearing up to get a better look, still Joe couldn’t see much of him. Where had he come from? What was he doing in Molena Point? And who the hell was Egan?

“I told him I’d park around the corner,” Rick said. “He can see out the side window. What do you mean to do?”

“Just stay in the car and watch for Randall, we don’t know if he’s even here yet. How dumb can he get, breaking out of jail? What a stupid place to hide, right under the cops’ noses. Stay here and watch for street patrol. I’ll see if he’s in there.”

“When he sees the car, he’ll come out. What’s taking him so long? If someone sees you go in there, if you blow his cover, he’ll be mad as hell.”

“I told you, the way Randall’s treated me, I don’t give a damn. I don’t feel the same about him anymore, I hate his guts. It’s you who wanted to rescue him.”

“He’s my father—my stepfather! He didn’t always treat you this way. And he always treated me decent. Why were you so hot to come along, when you hate him?”

She leaned over, looked through the windshield at the upper story of the frame house, up at the attic window high in the peak. Did she see the faint movement there, a disappearing shadow beyond the dirty glass? She had her hand on the door handle.

“How you going to get in? If he has the key from under the back porch …”

“I have the front-door key—I think that’s what this is. Randall took it off his key ring, the morning after the murder. Took it off and hid it. What else could it be but Barbara Conley’s key? He wanted to get rid of it before the cops found it on him.”

“What else do you have in your purse? Is that Randall’s gun, wrapped in that handkerchief?”

“You’re a nosy bastard. Yes, it’s Randall’s gun. I know enough about you, Rick, that the cops don’t know, you’d better mind your own business.”

He raised his hand to slap her; he seemed to have no more love for his mother than she for him, had no compunction against hitting her. But then, what kind of mother was she? She had run off and left him there that night, a seven-year-old kid in the midst of a grisly murder. She had run away and never tried to help him.

Lena got out, slid the wrapped gun into her right pocket. The tomcat followed her among the tree shadows as she headed across the street. She stepped up on the narrow porch, tried the key, and unlocked the door. She stood in the open door listening, looking around the living room. In that instant Joe Grey was behind her and inside, slipping beyond a wicker chest. The house had that empty, musty, unoccupied smell.

“Randall?” she whispered softly and moved on in, leaving the door on the latch. Again, a louder whisper. “Randall?”

No answer.

She began to prowl the rooms, her footsteps echoing faintly, her hand in her pocket on the gun. Joe could see into the kitchen, and into the hall where there would be bedrooms. If she found Randall, what did she mean to do? Hadn’t they come to rescue him, to get him away from the cops? Then why the gun? Would she shoot a cop, would she put herself in that jeopardy to save a husband she’d grown to hate?

Having covered all the rooms, she opened the door of the hall closet. There wasn’t much there, a few coats thrown to the floor. She knelt, examined the floor, brushed at something that looked like dirt or sawdust, then looked up.

A string hung from the ceiling, with a metal washer knotted at the end. She used both hands to pull open the trapdoor, its mechanism lowering a folding wooden ladder.

“Randall?”

A moan echoed from the hollow attic. Quickly she climbed—as Joe Grey slipped into the closet behind the pile of coats.

“Randall? Come on, the car’s waiting.”

A long silence, then another moan. Joe heard her move across the attic, imagined her ducking under its beams. He could see enough of its low ceiling to wonder how much head room Randall had, up there. When he heard another groan, Joe abandoned common sense, scrambled up the ladder and crouched among the shadows. The long dim space was lighted only by a tiny window at each end.

Randall lay on the dusty wooden floor, his knees pulled up, his arms wrapped around himself, his face, even in shadow, pale and twisted. It was strange to see the heavy, muscled man huddled on the floor, helpless. Lena knelt beside him, her expression unreadable. “What is it? What’s wrong? Were you shot?” She leaned down, looking for blood, her expression half of concern and half of cold satisfaction.

“Not shot,” he mumbled. “The pain … Can you get me down the steps? Something’s bad wrong. I think I need a doctor … someone that won’t call the cops.”

She reached in the pocket where she’d had the key. Joe saw her phone light up, saw her press a single button. When Randall realized she was calling 911 he tried to get up, tried to grab the phone. “I said a doctor, not the cops!” He fell back clutching his belly, letting out an animal-like cry. She stood looking down at him, dropped the phone in her pocket, and removed the wrapped revolver. Cradling it, she looked steadily at Randall, her expression ice-cold.

“Where’s the book, Randall?”

“Cops have it,” he groaned.

“Well, that was smart. That’s a one-of-a-kind edition. When a collector sees what’s in it, it’s worth more than a few hundred thousand. That information, if it’s true …”

From a few blocks away, a medics’ siren screamed—and from the street below they heard a car take off, moving fast. Lena, ducking under the rafters, raced to the little window to peer out.

“Gone! The damned bastard took off on me!” Spinning around she paused again over Randall, the revolver pointed directly at him. “You sure the cops have the book?”