Part 35 (2/2)
”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 a.s.sume.”
”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 p.i.s.s 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 a.s.sumed 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 baby-sit 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 gra.s.s. Breath rasping, I watched a miniature rainbow s.h.i.+mmer 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 flas.h.i.+ng. I punched in the code and waited.
d.a.m.n!
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 m.u.f.fled, as though she were speaking from inside a small s.p.a.ce. 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?
The sun through the venetian blinds threw bright stripes across my desk. Down the hall, a door slammed. Slowly, an idea took shape.
I reached for the phone.
22.
”THANKS FOR MAKING TIME FOR ME THIS LATE IN THE DAY. I'M surprised you're still on campus.” surprised you're still on campus.”
”Are you implying that anthropologists work harder than sociologists?”
”Never,” I laughed, settling into the black plastic chair he indicated. ”Red, I'd like to pick your brain. What can you tell me about local cults?”
”What do you mean by cult?”
Red Skyler slouched sideways behind his desk. Though his hair had gone gray, the russet beard explained the origin of the nickname. He squinted at me through steel-rimmed gla.s.ses.
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