Part 60 (2/2)

I tried returning to the records. My mind wouldn't focus.

I got up and paced the room, eyes wandering the desk, the window, the images woven into the rug. What story did those images tell?

What story would Max tell if he could speak?

Blotnik and Kaplan talked. Why? Had Kaplan called the IAA to squirrel out whatever he could on the skeleton? No, that would be for Ferris. Kaplan was only the middleman. Was Blotnik a potential buyer?

Was Jake unwell? Could he be lying unconscious on his bedroom floor?

Was he angry? Had he resented my comments about Blotnik more than he'd let on?

Was Jake correct in his a.s.sessment of Blotnik?

A terrible thought.

Was Blotnik more than ambitious? Was he dangerous?

I tried Jake again. Got the answering machine again.

”b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!”

Throwing on jeans and a Windbreaker, I grabbed Friedman's keys and hurried down the stairs.

Not a single window in Jake's flat was lit. The fog had thickened, all but obliterating the surrounding homes.

Terrific.

Leaving the car, I hurried across the street, wondering how I would gain entrance to Jake's property. Above the wall I could see treetops, their branches fuzzy claws against the night sky.

I needn't have worried. The gate was unlatched and slightly ajar.

Lucky break? Bad sign?

I pushed through.

In the yard, a single bulb threw a sickly yellow cone onto the goat pen. As I pa.s.sed, I heard movement. Glancing sideways, I saw murky horned cutouts.

”Baaa,” I whispered.

No response.

Animal odors joined the damp city smells. Feces. Sweat. Rotting lettuce and apple cores.

Jake's stairway was a thin black tunnel. Shadows linked to shadows, forming a rosary of shapes. The climb took an eternity. I kept looking backward.

At the door, I knocked softly.

”Jake?”

Why was I whispering?

”Jake,” I called out, banging with the heel of my palm.

Three tries, no answer.

I turned the k.n.o.b. The door swung in.

A tickle of fear.

First the gate, now the door. Would Jake have left the place unsecured?

Never, if he'd gone out. But did he lock up when at home? I couldn't recall.

I hesitated.

If Jake was home, why didn't he answer? Why hadn't he phoned me?

Images began free-falling in my head. Jake lying on the floor. Jake unconscious in bed.

Something touched my leg.

I jumped, and a hand flew to my mouth. Heart thudding, I looked down.

One of the toms stared up, eyes s.h.i.+ny globes in the dimness.

Before I could react, the door swung inward. Hinges creaked softly, and the cat was gone.

I peered through the gap. Across the room, I could see objects tossed beside the computer. Even in the dark, I knew what they were. Jake's sungla.s.ses. Jake's wallet. Jake's pa.s.sport.

And what they meant.

I pushed through the door. ”Jake?”

I groped for a light switch, found none.

”Jake, are you here?”

Feeling my way through the darkness, I rounded the corner into the front room. I was searching the wall, when something crashed to my left.

As adrenaline fired through me, my fingers found the switch. Trembling, I flipped it, and the room filled with light.

The cat was on the kitchen counter, legs flexed, muscles tensed for flight. A vase lay shattered on the tile, rusty water oozing outward like blood from a corpse.

The cat dropped and sniffed the puddle.

”Jake!”

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