2 Death Makes the Cut (17 page)

I glared at him. “If that’s supposed to be comforting…”

“No, no. I just meant…” He stopped and took a breath and started over. “Just calm down and tell me what happened. Then, when we’re done, I’ll get a nurse in here, how about that?”

I didn’t think much of it, but the need to report my attack slightly outweighed concerns about my appearance. Slightly. Besides, if it was three o’clock in the morning, he had to be exhausted.

I told him exactly what had happened in the creek bed, which didn’t take long. He listened without comment, jotting down notes. When I had finished, he looked thoughtful.

“So you don’t know which direction the guy came from?”

I tried to remember, but at last shook my head, then wished I hadn’t. A stabbing pain behind my eyes told me not to do that again. “I was facing the creek, looking away from the path. I didn’t realize he was there until the last second.”

“And this was while you were talking to me?”

“Yes, we’d just finished when I heard him. No, wait.” I tried to think back. “No, I’d heard someone a minute or two before then. I heard shoes crunching on the gravel. You know what I mean? But, I looked and didn’t see anyone, so I turned away again.”

“So it’s possible he was waiting in the bushes for a few minutes. I’ll go out there in the morning when it’s light and see what I can see. It’s unlikely I’ll find anything, but we’d better make sure.”

“Yeah,” I said, sighing.

After all, other than a few drops of my own blood, what would there be to find? The rocks of the creek would not hold footprints. Footprints. Foot. The memory of that last nasty kick suddenly returned. “You know, whoever did this was really … mean.”

“Mean? You think someone who brutally attacked you without warning, who struck you hard enough to give you a concussion, and who was apparently trying to kill you was … mean?” He mimicked my word choice and voice with some accuracy.

I wanted to be offended, but despite myself my lips twitched.

He saw it and went on. “Wow, I’d hate to have you on my jury. I bet you think that Ted Bundy was quite unpleasant and Jack the Ripper! Well, Jack was just downright naughty.”

His blue eyes crinkled as he grinned, the first real smile I’d seen from him. It changed him—the grim, tired cop transforming into a warm, attractive man. My eyes dropped briefly, taking in the long jaw, darkened slightly with a day’s growth of stubble, then moving along the width of his shoulders. Catching myself, I quickly looked away.

“Stop!” I told him, mostly because holding in laughter hurt my head. “You know what I meant. Kicking me after I was down was…” I fumbled for what I was trying to say.

He sobered, realizing what I meant. “You mean it was personal. More than just a mugging?”

“It was so angry.” Even now, I could still feel the rage and desperation that had poured from my attacker.

He thought about this, rising from his seat and pacing back and forth in the tiny space at the foot of my bed. I leaned my head back against the pillows and watched him, trying to keep my eyes from focusing on his butt. He had very longs legs and a flat stomach. Not even a hint of man-boobs.

He glanced at me. “What are you smiling at?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Hey, did you interview Ed Jones? I found out he’d been talking to Fred out by the courts the day Fred died.”

His eyes narrowed at the change of subject, but he let it go. “How did you find that out?”

“I hear things. Anyway, did you?”

“The name doesn’t ring a bell, but I talked to a lot of people. Why?”

This question stumped me. After all, did I really think Ed Jones, he of the tight knit shirts and watery eyes, had anything to do Fred’s death?

I didn’t answer. Colin shot me a curious glance but returned to the subject of my attacker.

“You think someone targeted you specifically. You weren’t just the first person on the path who looked alone and vulnerable?”

“I wasn’t carrying my purse, because I’d left it on the bus. I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, so it should have been pretty obvious that I wasn’t carrying much. If the guy was a mugger, surely he would have at least been looking for wallet or keys. He didn’t even bother to go through my pockets.”

“Okay, then that brings up the standard cop question. Do you have any enemies?” He made it sound like a joke, but he also wanted an answer.

Yesterday, I would have laughed and said no. Today, in a hospital bed, IV dripping clear liquid into my veins, I had to pause and think. Did I have enemies? It seemed completely ridiculous. After all, I was cute and lovable. Then I thought about everyone I had annoyed in the past few days.

Gary Richards wasn’t happy with me about the tennis team, but he couldn’t know for sure that I’d maneuvered him into that anthill, and no one would harbor a grudge over something like that anyway. A strongly worded letter of complaint to the school board, maybe, but a sneak attack in a park? As for everyone else, Ed Jones desired the coaching position I had claimed, Nancy Wales was pissed off because I’d stopped her from running a theater sweatshop, and Roland Wilding was ticked because I’d stolen a chance for his club to be the extras in a movie, however inadvertently. But so what? Those were small things, the minor grievances of daily life in a school. Plus, did any of them really have the rage it would take to become physically violent? In fact, usually the only thing I associated with violence was drugs. Which did bring up the joints in Coach Fred’s desk—the lumpy, poorly wrapped tubes of marijuana concealed in Marlboro packs. And even those hardly counted as drugs. There weren’t enough of them to warrant a slap on the wrist, at least not in Travis County.

Unless they tied someone to murder. Had the questions I’d been asking over the past day or two been enough to get someone very worried? Beside the folks I’d annoyed, I’d spoken to Stan the Parking Nazi and to Maria Santos in the front office. Pat Carver had overheard everything I’d said to Maria, and, of course, any of them might have talked about me to anyone else. Had something I’d asked or said frightened a murderer?

Colin had stopped pacing and now stood with his arms crossed. “I wish you could see the expressions going across your face. What are you thinking about? Did you hear my question?”

“I don’t have enemies. A few people might not send me a Christmas card this year, but that’s it.”

“Okay, well, I’m going. You get some sleep, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Giving me a searching look, he left with an awkward little wave. I sat motionless as the door closed behind him with a quiet click, not quite shutting out the constant drone of hospital noises, dormant now at 3:00
A.M.
, but never quite still. Somewhere in the building, machines hummed without pause, nurses padded down halls in rubber-soled shoes, and janitors pushed floor polishers between yellow warning cones. I couldn’t help feeling a little bit sorry for myself. The worst part of being single always came at moments like these when it became very clear that no one minded that I wasn’t at home in my own bed. Kyla had taken care of Belle, but other than my fat, curly-haired poodle, no one was lying alone in the dark wishing I was beside him.

I wondered what Colin Gallagher was like when he wasn’t working. There was something very attractive about the man, and more than just his looks, which were pretty darned okay all by themselves. I liked the flashes of humor I’d seen and had a feeling he’d be fun and funny when he was off duty. And I liked the way he focused on what was being said. Even when nothing important was happening, he gave the impression that he was paying attention. Of course, the unending stream of questions and his ability to track me down could get annoying. Which reminded me, I was supposed to be mad at him still for spreading rumors about drugs and Fred. And he still had Fred’s key. My key. I would ask for it tomorrow.

I fiddled with the control of the bed, lowering it a couple of inches and trying to get more comfortable. Despite the drip, my injuries were making themselves felt now that I had no other distraction. Glancing at the clock, which seemed to be moving in slow motion, I wondered what Alan was doing right now. It was Saturday morning in Italy, the final day of his tour, which meant he would be coming home tomorrow. His home, not mine. I wondered what would happen, or rather, I wondered how it would happen. Knowing Alan, breaking up wouldn’t be nasty at all. Just a few kinds words, a laugh or two, and a gentle “let’s be friends” speech. And of course I’d agree. And who knows, we might even exchange those Christmas cards that I wouldn’t be getting from Gary Richards, at least for a few years. That was the problem about dating someone I genuinely liked. Lose the boyfriend, lose the friend.

Thankfully, a moment later the nurse bustled in, checking the pulse in my wrist, taking my temperature, asking if I wanted ice chips. She had a kind face, ridiculously alert for three in the morning. I thought about asking for a mirror so I could see my bruises, but a wave of tiredness swept over me again, and I let her turn out my light instead.

Chapter 11

BURGLARY AND BODYGUARDS

I left the hospital in the morning, glad it was Labor Day weekend and I didn’t have to try to go to school. I’d left a stack of homework that needed grading on the desk in my classroom, but that could wait. Colin had not exaggerated—I had an impressive black eye. The swelling at my temple had subsided, leaving a graze that was little more than a raised red welt, but the bruising was a glorious purple and black, splashed across the eye socket and pooling under the corner of my eye as though I wept inky tears. After the initial shock wore off, I decided I felt no worse than I had the day after my first college party, when for some reason I had thought it would be a good idea to pour alternating layers of vodka and coke, beer, and fraternity punch into my stomach, like a mad scientist mixing a particularly vile potion. The resulting explosion had been inevitable and spectacular, although no villagers had come after me with pitchforks and torches. This was like that, minus most of the nausea, and I figured I would live.

Kyla arrived bearing a Louis Vuitton duffle bag filled with some of her own clothes, which were a little snug and low-cut for my taste, but better than the bloodstained rags I’d been wearing. She then walked me out, attempting to fuss over me and not doing a great job. She had never been particularly maternal. She did hold the door of her little red convertible open for me and held my things when I slid into the front seat. It was not yet nine o’clock, and the black seats were already hot enough to draw a yelp from me as my thighs met leather.

“I’ll get Sherman to come and pick up your car,” she said, pulling out of the hospital parking lot and accelerating quickly enough to press me back into my seat.

“Sherman?” I asked, for a moment not remembering who she meant. Then the image of the guy at Artz Rib House popped up, the one she’d wanted to set me up with.

“He’s a good guy. He won’t mind.”

“That’s nice of him,” I said doubtfully. “You know, Kyla, I hate to break it to you, but he was not interested in me at all. And that’s not just me being modest.”

“I know,” she said, unperturbed. “I’m pretty sure he’s interested in someone else. Hope you’re not upset.” She wove in and out of the surrounding traffic, the motor of her car a deep purr that I could feel in my chest. I made an effort not to clutch the sides of my seat.

I felt immensely relieved, but I wasn’t sure how tactful it would be to say so. “Not at all. I have interests in other directions anyway.”

“Colin Gallagher,” she said with a knowing smirk.

“Alan Stratton,” I countered.

“Yeah, whatever. The guy is never here though. Doesn’t that get old?”

I didn’t answer right away. “Maybe. A little.”

She lifted her eyebrows.

“Okay, yes a lot. I admit I don’t have a good feeling about it.” Saying it out loud hurt more than it should have considering how much I’d been thinking about it.

Uncharacteristically, she left it alone. A few minutes later, she pulled into a neat little neighborhood, full of tiny and all but identical houses, all neatly maintained, and gleaming in the sun. Preceding me to my front door, she unlocked and opened it while I followed gingerly, still not quite sure my head wasn’t going to explode.

Kyla’s gasp was my first indication something was wrong. Without a word, she backed away from the door, pulling it closed behind her. With one hand she dug in her purse for her phone, and with the other she grabbed my arm and tried to pull me away.

I dug in my heels, too slow and confused to understand what was going on.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

Her eyes met mine. “I need to report a break-in,” she said into the phone.

Even then, it took a minute before her words clicked into place. I tore my arm from her grasp and rushed to the door.

My little living room looked like the Pamplonans had decided to hold the running of the bulls at my house this year. My floral sofa, a hand-me-down from my parents, had been overturned and every cushion slashed. Chunks of yellow foam rubber littered the floor. My coffee table was on its side, the tempered glass shattered but still intact. Bookcases were toppled, books scattered, spines broken like crows caught in a jet engine then spit out on the asphalt. My television lay smashed, thrown from its stand, and the floor was littered with my small DVD collection. Each case had been opened, the silvery disks stomped into fragments. Photographs and pictures had been snatched from walls or off shelves and thrown with force to the ground or against walls. Beyond the living room, the kitchen had received the same treatment. Drawers opened, contents strewn over the floor.

I felt as though I’d been punched in the gut. Even drawing breath took an effort. Then I remembered my dog.

“Belle?” I shouted. There was no response. “Belle!”

I raced through the rooms, my headache forgotten in my terror, only vaguely aware that Kyla was trying to hold me back. She said later that going in had been stupid, that we didn’t know whether anyone was still in the house, but none of that occurred to me at the time. My only thought was for my fat poodle. In the distance, the wail of sirens started low, then grew steadily louder. Kyla was still on the phone with the 911 operator, repeating the address, giving her own name, then mine. In my bedroom, the devastation was, if anything, more complete. Nothing breakable was unbroken, nothing standing was left upright. The king-sized mattress had been ripped from my bed and tossed into a corner, a feat that must have required a good deal of strength or quite a bit of rage. But there was no sign of Belle. I stopped and called her name again.