Death Du Jour (33 page)

Silence. The only light in the room came from my bedside clock.

Then the sound of shattering glass sent the hairs straight up on my arms and neck. My adrenals went to high tide. I had a flashback to another break-in, reptilian eyes, a knife flashing in moonlight. A single thought crackled in my brain.

Not again!

Crash! Thud!

Yes, again!

The noise wasn’t outside! It was downstairs! It was in my house! My mind sprinted through options. Lock the bedroom. Check it out. Call the police.

Then I smelled smoke.

Shit!

I threw back the covers and fumbled across the room, digging below the terror for elements of rational thought. A weapon. I needed a weapon. What? What could I use? Why did I refuse to keep a gun?

I stumbled to the dresser and felt for a large conch I’d collected on the Outer Banks. It wouldn’t kill, but the point would penetrate flesh and do damage. Turning the sharp end forward, I wrapped my fingers inside and braced my thumb against the outer surface.

Hardly breathing, I crept toward the door, my free hand sliding over familiar surfaces as if seeking guidance in Braille. Dresser. Doorjamb. Hallway.

At the top of the stairs I froze and peered downward into the blackness. Blood pounded in my ears as I clutched the shell and listened. Not a sound from below. If there was someone there I should stay upstairs. Phone. If there was fire downstairs, I needed to get out.

I took a breath and placed one foot on the top stair, waited. Then the second. Third. Knees bent, shell raised to shoulder level, I crept toward the first floor. The acrid smell grew stronger. Smoke. Gasoline. And something else. Something familiar.

At the bottom I stopped, my mind playing back a scene from Montreal less than a year ago. That time he’d been inside, a killer, waiting to attack.

That isn’t going to happen again! Call 911! Get out!

I rounded the banister and looked into the dining
room. Blackness. I doubled back toward the parlor. Darkness, but strangely altered.

The far end of the room looked bronzed in the surrounding gloom. The fireplace, the Queen Anne chairs, all the furnishings and pictures glimmered gently, like objects in a mirage. Through the kitchen door I could see orange light dancing on the front of the refrigerator.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

My chest constricted as the silence was split by a high-pitched wail. I jerked and the shell struck plaster. Trembling, I pressed backward against the wall.

The sound was from the smoke detector!

I watched for signs of movement. Nothing but darkness and the eerie flickering.

The house is on fire. Move!

My heart drumming, my breath coming in short gasps, I lunged toward the kitchen. A fire crackled in the center of the room, filling the air with smoke and reflecting off every shiny surface.

My shaking hand found the switch and I threw on the light. My eyes darted left and right. The burning bundle lay in the middle of the floor. The flames hadn’t spread.

I put down the shell and, holding the hem of my nightie across my mouth and nose, I bent low and circled to the pantry. I pulled the small extinguisher from the top shelf. My lungs drew in smoke and tears blurred my vision, but I managed to squeeze the handle. The extinguisher only hissed.

Damn!

Coughing and gagging, I squeezed again. Another hiss, then a stream of carbon dioxide and white powder burst from the spout.

Yes!

I aimed the nozzle at the flames and in less than a minute the fire was out. The alarm still screamed, the sound like shards of metal piercing my ears and dragging across my brain.

I opened the back door and the window above the sink, then crossed to the table. No need to open that one. The panes were shattered, and glass and splintered wood covered the sill and floor. Tiny gusts of wind played with the curtains, tugging them in and out of the jagged opening.

Circling the thing on the floor, I turned on the ceiling fan, grabbed a towel, and fanned smoke from the room. Slowly, the air began to clear.

I wiped my eyes and made an effort to control my breathing.

Keep fanning!

The alarm shrieked on.

I stopped waving the towel and looked around the room. A cinder block lay beneath the table, another rested against the cabinet below the sink. Between them were the charred remains of the bundle that had been burning. The room reeked of smoke and gasoline. And another odor I knew.

With shaky legs, I crossed to the smoldering heap. I was staring, not comprehending, when the alarm stopped. The silence seemed unnatural.

Dial 911.

It wasn’t necessary. As I reached for the phone I heard a distant siren. It grew louder, very loud, then stopped. In a moment a fireman appeared at my back door.

“You O.K., ma’am?”

I nodded and folded my arms across my chest, self-conscious about my state of undress.

“Your neighbor called.” His chin strap dangled.

“Oh.” I forgot my nightie. I was back in St-Jovite.

“Everything under control?”

Another nod. St-Jovite. Almost a synapse.

“Mind if I make sure?”

I stepped back.

He sized it up in one look.

“Pretty mean prank. Know who might have heaved this through your window?”

I shook my head.

“Looks like they broke the glass with the cinder blocks, then chucked that thing in.” He walked over to the smoldering mound. “They must’ve soaked it in gasoline, lit it, and pitched it.”

I heard his words but couldn’t speak. My body had locked up as my mind tried to rouse some shapeless notion sleeping in the core of my brain.

The firefighter slipped a shovel from his belt, snapped open the blade, and poked at the heap on my kitchen floor. Black flecks shot upward, then rejoined the rubble below. He slid the blade below the object, flipped it over, and leaned in.

“Looks like a burlap sack. Maybe a seed bag. Damned if I can tell what’s inside.”

He scraped the object with the tip of the shovel and more charred particles spiraled up. He prodded harder, rolling the thing from side to side.

The smell grew stronger. St-Jovite. Autopsy room three. Memory broke through and I went cold all over.

With trembling hands I opened a drawer and withdrew a pair of kitchen scissors. No longer concerned about my nightie, I squatted and cut the burlap.

The corpse was small, its back arched, its legs contracted by the heat of the flames. I saw a shriveled eye, a
tiny jaw with blackened teeth. Anticipation of the horror that the sack held made me begin to feel faint.

No! Please no!

I leaned in, my mind recoiling from the smell of burned flesh and hair. Between the hind legs I saw a curled and blackened tail, its vertebrae protruding like thorns on a stem.

Tears slid down my cheeks as I cut further. Near the knot I saw hairs, scorched now, but white in spots.

The half-full bowls.

“Nooooooooooooooooo!”

I heard the voice, but did not connect it to myself.

“No! No! No! Birdie. Please God, no!”

I felt hands on my shoulders, then on my hands, taking the scissors, gently pulling me to my feet. Voices.

Then I was in the parlor, a quilt around me. I was crying, shaking, my body in pain.

I don’t know how long I’d been sobbing when I looked up to see my neighbor. She pointed at a cup of tea.

“What is it?” My chest heaved in and out.

“Peppermint.”

“Thanks.” I drank the tepid liquid. “What time is it?”

“A little past two.” She wore slippers and a trench coat that didn’t cover her flannel gown. Though we’d waved to each other across the lawn, or exchanged hellos on the walk, I hardly knew her.

“I’m so sorry you had to get up in the middle of the nigh—”

“Please, Dr. Brennan. We’re neighbors. I know you’d do the same for me.”

I took another sip. My hands were icy, but trembled less.

“Are the firemen still here?”

“They left. They said you can fill out a report when you feel better.”

“Did they take—” My voice broke and I felt tears behind my eyes.

“Yes. Can I get you anything else?”

“No, thank you. I’ll be fine. You’ve been very kind.”

“I’m sorry about your damage. We put a board across the window. It’s not elegant, but it will keep the wind out.”

“Thank you so much. I—”

“Please. Just get some sleep. Perhaps this won’t seem so bad in the morning.”

I thought of Birdie and dreaded the morning. In desperate hope I picked up the phone and dialed Pete’s number. No answer.

“You will be O.K.? Shall I help you upstairs?”

“No. Thank you. I’ll manage.”

When she’d gone I crawled into bed and cried myself to sleep with great, heaving sobs.

*   *   *

I awoke with the feeling that something was wrong. Changed. Lost. Then full consciousness, and with it, memory.

It was a warm spring morning. Through the window I could see blue sky and sunlight and smell the perfume of flowers. But the beauty of the day could not lift my depression.

When I called the fire department I was told the physical evidence had been sent to the crime lab. Feeling leaden, I went through the morning motions. I dressed, applied makeup, brushed my hair, and headed downtown.

*   *   *

The sack contained nothing but the cat. No collar. No tags. A hand-lettered note was found inside one of the cinder blocks. I read it through the plastic evidence bag.

Next time it won’t be a cat.

“Now what?” I asked Ron Gillman, director of the crime lab. He was a tall, good-looking man with silver-gray hair and an unfortunate gap between his front teeth.

“We’ve already checked for prints. Zippo on the note and blocks. Recovery will be out to your place, but you know as well as I do they won’t find much. Your kitchen window is so close to the street the perps probably pulled up, lit the bag, then threw everything in from the sidewalk. We’ll look for footprints, and we’ll ask around, of course, but at one-thirty in the morning it’s not too likely anyone was awake in that neighborhood.”

“Sorry I don’t live on Wilkinson Boulevard.”

“You get into enough trouble wherever you are.”

Ron and I had worked together for years. He knew about the serial murderer who had broken into my Montreal condo.

“I’ll have recovery go over your kitchen, but since these guys never went inside, there won’t be any trace. You didn’t touch anything, I assume.”

“No.” I hadn’t gone near the kitchen since the night before. I couldn’t bear the sight of Birdie’s dishes.

“Are you working on anything that could piss folks off?”

I told him about the murders in Quebec and about the bodies from Murtry Island.

“How do you think they got your cat?”

“He may have run out when Pete went in to feed him. He does that.” A stab of pain. “Did that.”

Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.

“Or . . .”

“Yes?”

“Well, I’m not sure. Last week I thought someone might have broken into my office at school. Well, not exactly broken in. I may have left the door unlocked.”

“A student?”

“I don’t know.”

I described the incident.

“My house keys were still in my purse, but I suppose she could have made an impression.”

“You look a little shaken up.”

“A little. I’m fine.”

For a moment he said nothing. Then,

“Tempe, when I heard about this I assumed it was a disgruntled student.” He scratched the side of his nose. “But this could be more than a prank. Watch yourself. Maybe tell Pete.”

“I don’t want to do that. He’d feel obligated to babysit me, and he doesn’t have time for that. He never did.”

When we’d finished talking, I gave Ron a key to the Annex, signed the incident report, and left.

Though traffic was light, the drive to UNCC seemed longer than usual. An icy fist had hold of my innards and refused to let go.

*   *   *

All day the feeling was there. Through task after task I was interrupted by images of my murdered cat. Kitten Birdie sitting upright, forepaws flapping like a baby sparrow’s. Birdie, flat on his back beneath the sofa. Rubbing figure eights around my ankles. Staring me down for cereal leavings. The sadness that had plagued me in recent weeks was deepening into unshakable melancholy.

After office hours I crossed campus to the athletic complex and changed into running gear. I pushed
myself as hard as I could, hoping physical exertion would relieve the ache in my heart and the tension in my body.

As I pounded around the track my mind shifted gears. Ron Gillman’s words replaced the images of my dead pet. Butchering an animal is cruel but it’s amateur. Was it merely an unhappy student? Or could Birdie’s death be a real threat? From whom? Was there a link to the mugging in Montreal? To the Murtry investigation? Had I been drawn into something far bigger than I knew?

I kicked it hard and with each lap the tightness drained from my body. After four miles I collapsed on the grass. Breath rasping, I watched a miniature rainbow shimmer in the spray of a lawn sprinkler. Success. My mind was blank.

When my pulse and breathing had slowed, I returned to the locker room, showered, and dressed in fresh clothes. Feeling better, I climbed the hill to the Colvard Building.

The sensation was short-lived.

My phone was flashing. I punched in the code and waited.

Damn!

I’d missed Kathryn again. As before, she’d left no information, only a statement that she’d called. I rewound the message and listened a second time. She sounded breathless, her words tense and clipped.

I played the message again and again, but could make nothing of the background noise. Kathryn’s voice was muffled, as though she were speaking from inside a small space. I imagined her cupping the receiver, whispering, furtively checking her surroundings.

Was I being paranoid? Had last night’s incident sent
my imagination into overdrive? Or was Kathryn in real danger?