Page 39 of Sharp Force
The antique leather sofa and matching club chairs, the hand-knotted Persian rugs, almost everything of value is from Benton’s family. I’m used to the abundance he’s brought to our relationship. But it was overwhelming at first, and difficult to accept that I had little to offer by comparison. I didn’t become a forensic pathologist for the money.
Dropping my briefcase on top of the bed, I start undressing as I walk to my closet. I hang up my suit, tossing undergarments into the hamper. The black silk pajamas I put on were a birthday present from Benton. I wash my face, brushing my teeth again, scrubbing away Rowdy O’Leary’s remembered stench.
I can’t stop seeing the wistful faces of Mick and Rick looking out the window as Marino and I drove away. I’m afraid I’ll see the twins forever in my thoughts. I know why I had to stop by their house. It was important to return their father’s personal effects, and I gathered important information in the process.
What Marino and I did was professional and humane, even kind and considerate. Underlying that are my own personal reasons. Except there’s no getting over childhood traumas milled deep into the psyche.
How’s it going?I type another text to Benton, lonely for him.
He doesn’t answer immediately, and I crouch in front of the fireplace, the bricks bordered in blue-and-white Delft tiles the sea captain imported from the Netherlands. Drawing open the metal mesh curtain, I make sure the flue isn’t closed. I grab a section of theWashington Postfrom the sweetgrass basket next to the low hearth.
Merlin is watching my every move, his tail twitching as another message lands on my phone.
Potomac Yard.Benton writes back that he’s three miles away.Slow but moving at least. Maybe 30 mins.
Be careful when you get here,I remind him.
Have my friend with me.He means his gun.
Park near front door.
Can’t,he answers.
Benton needs to recharge his electric SUV, and I don’t like the idea of him leaving it halfway down the driveway in the carriage house. Black bears, bobcats, coyotes in this part of the world aren’t known for attacking people. But that doesn’t mean they won’t, depending on the circumstances. They have before. For sure, they’ll go after pets.
But I’m more concerned about a predator of a different variety as I think of the red orbs on the driveway. I don’t believe it was animal eyes, and I continue to sense a sinister presence. At moments the creaking of the house sounds like whispering. I hear creepy music that turns into the eolian strains of the wind.
Opening my bedside drawer, I retrieve my Glock. Removing the trigger lock, I rack back the slide, chambering a round. Setting the 9mm pistol on top of the nightstand within easy reach, I try Lucy’s cell phone and she doesn’t answer.
I’m texting her about the strange red lights, the growling and screaming, when Merlin hisses and sallies out of the bedroom.
“Well, you can’t go very far without your collar,” I call after him, my nerves humming.
Arranging split logs on the fireplace grate, I keep glancing at the security monitor across from the bed. My attention returns to the shaded windows as I envision the ghostly hologram that levitated into Dana Diletti’s house. I expect it to happen here any second while anticipating how I might handle such a ghastly visitation.
I tell myself not to allow my imagination to get the best of me. But the sensation persists while I crunch up sheets of newspaper, stuffing them under slender strips of fatwood, my hands sooty from newsprint. I pick up the electric match, pressing the trigger.
Flames shoot up, licking around logs, smoke curling, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. Getting up from the hearth, I step inside the bathroom to rinse my hands. From there I head to the nearest window, the wind making its baleful music. Pushing open an edge of the shade, I peer out at darkness, snowflakes dancing madly.
Lightning flickers, and I can see the boxy shape of the greenhouse in the garden, the UV lamp inside a pale purple smudge. If a large animal were prowling around, motion sensor lights would turn on, and they haven’t. Not noticing anything out of the ordinary, I step away from the window.
Burning logs snap and crackle, the smell of woodsmoke heavenly. I pad barefoot to the tall cabinet that belonged to Benton’s great-grandfather, an industrialist friendly with the Carnegies and Vanderbilts. I open the flame mahogany doors, the bottles of liquor and tumblers neatly lined up.
Pouring a Macallan Scotch aged fifteen years in sherry casks, I set my drink on the nightstand as Lucy tries to FaceTime. I accept her call, my phone’s display filling with an image of her in a gray sweatsuit.
She’s sitting on the bed in the FBI Academy dorm room where she’s staying the night. Her keenly pretty face is somber, and she looks frustrated as she pushes back her short hair, the overhead lights catching the rose-gold tints.
“I’ve checked the security system,” she says. “What you saw isn’t the eyes of a deer or any other large animal. Otherwise, motion, thermal imaging and other sensors would have detected it.”
“Possibly it was the hologram?” I reluctantly suggest. “In fact, what else could it have been?”
“Consistent with it.”
“Should I be worried someone’s on the property right now, Lucy?”
“No one is, Aunt Kay.”
“We’re sure?”
