Part 28 (1/2)

Mr. Peebles was crouched on a desk in front of the open window. His tiny fingers were working the wheel of the lighter. His next sacrificial victim, a floppy hound dog, lay splayed on the desktop in front of him. When the door clicked shut, his febrile hands went still and his head swiveled. His eyes, glaring at Jo in the dark, reflected the gleam of distant streetlights.

He sat as still as an idol. A tiny, hairy, manic idol that may or may not have been vaccinated for rabies. Jo crept toward him.

With a screech he threw the lighter out the window, like a busted dealer dumping his junk. He grabbed the floppy hound and leaped onto a floor lamp. Jo crossed the room and slammed the window. Mr. Peebles sprang to a bookshelf, clutching the puppy to his chest.

On the floor in the corner of the room, a plastic container tub was tipped over. The lid had been pried off and dozens of Beanie Babies spilled onto the floor. Some were ripped apart. Others had been- ”Oh, you nasty monkey.”

They'd been... loved to death. A terrible sound rose in her head. Barry White, singing ”Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Babe.”

On an easy chair was a larger, thoroughly debauched collectible. And if Tickle Me Elmo wanted a cigarette to celebrate his night with Mr. Peebles, he was out of luck. The lighter was gone.

”Couldn't you just pee in his shoes like a normal pet?” she said.

Ferd was either in denial or too oblivious to see that what ailed his helper monkey wasn't viral but hormonal. She glanced around the room. There were no World of Warcraft stickers, nor a Klingon dictionary. The bookshelf contained coffee table books about Italy. This office didn't belong to Ferd, but to the owners of the house. So, probably, did the collectibles.

Mr. Peebles chuffed and glared at her. She reached for him and he nearly flew into her arms. He curled against her shoulder, clutching her sweater with three prehensile extremities and the toy hound with the fourth.

”Where's your crate?”

The one strewn with copies of Plush Toy Monthly and Monkey Hustler magazine.

Holding him tightly, she headed up the hall. Two doors down, in Ferd's office, was a six-by-six-foot crate with a climbing tree and comfy bedding. She peeled Mr. Peebles's fingers and toes from her s.h.i.+rt, turned him smartly around, and set him inside. She latched the door and turned to the desk, looking for something to seal it with. Her hand b.u.mped the computer mouse and Ferd's screen woke up.

She inhaled. A vein began throbbing in her temple.

On-screen was a Technicolor image downloaded from an episode of Star Trek. She recognized the s.e.xy Borg woman wearing a silver bodysuit slicked to her skin like spray paint. Her hip was thrust out. She was hoisting a weapon the size of a whaling harpoon.

Jo's head had been Photoshopped onto her body.

In the crate, Mr. Peebles screeched and jumped on the bars. She gaped at the screen.

Seven of Jo. She didn't know whether to rip out the computer's guts or laugh her head off.

Out the window, movement caught her eye from next door. She looked across the fence and down into her brightly lit kitchen. Froze.

A man was inside.

Fear lit her up like lightning. From the sharp upstairs angle, she could see only his legs. He was slight and nimble, wore jeans with a blue bandanna hanging from the back pocket. He walked across the kitchen and turned, slowly, looking around.

Where was Tina?

She stuck her hand in her jeans pocket for her phone. Came up empty.

s.h.i.+t. Her phone was on her kitchen table. She picked up the phone on Ferd's desk and punched 911.

She couldn't see Tina anywhere. The living room looked empty. Upstairs, the lights were off. The man turned to the kitchen table and opened her laptop.

”Nine-one-one emergency.”

”There's an intruder in my house.” She gave the dispatcher the address. Her voice sounded chipped. ”My sister's in there. Hurry.”

”Stay on the line, ma'am,” the dispatcher said. ”I'm sending a police car.”

As the intruder's hands moved across her keyboard, a second man's set of legs strolled into the kitchen, holding her satchel. He dumped it out on the kitchen table.

She tried to catch her breath and couldn't. ”There's another one.”

Where was Tina?

The second man, stockier than the first, picked up Jo's notebook and flipped it open.

What was in the notebook?

What wasn't? Ruth Fischer's name and number. Snarky notes on Riva Calder. A mention that Alec Shepard was Ian Kanan's brother.

Misty Kanan's home phone number and address.

”Get the cops here. The intruders are going through my computer and my notes on a missing person case and murder investigation. They're going to find the address of the missing man's wife and son. Get somebody over to her house, too.” She gave the dispatcher Misty Kanan's name and address.

Sounds of typing and background chatter. ”Officers are on their way, ma'am. Stay on the line.”

On their way wasn't good enough. ”My sister's in there. I'm going to find some neighbors and go get her.”

The dispatcher's voice hopped up half an octave. ”Ma'am, sit tight. Do not confront the intruders. Stay where you are-”

Jo dropped the phone on the desk and ran for the stairs. She wanted a weapon. She wanted her katana.

In Ferd's kitchen she pulled open a drawer. Silverware rattled. She moved to the next. Knives. She grabbed a serrated bread knife with a twelve-inch blade. She hefted it. It was heavy, well-balanced, and looked wicked. The stainless steel blade glinted when she turned it.

She looked out Ferd's back door. Two intruders were in her house. Were more of them outside, waiting in a car or hiding in the park across the street?

Palms tingling, she ran quietly out the back door and down the steps. What did the men want? Was it Kanan and his posse? She bent low, keeping her head below the top of the fence. Holding the knife along her leg, she ran to the corner of the mansion. She peeked around at the darkened sidewalk that led along the side of the house to the street.

Shadows faded to darkness. She couldn't tell whether anyone was hiding there. Holding her breath, she began tiptoeing along the sidewalk.

From the far side of the fence came a man's voice. ”Back door's open. What's out here?”

Feet stepped onto her patio. ”What's all this c.r.a.p on the lawn?”

She heard a jangling sound. She slowed. A whisper pa.s.sed her on the air and a hand grabbed her shoulder.

She spun, bringing up the knife, and found herself staring into Tina's wide and frightened eyes. Tina's jaw fell open and she inhaled, about to scream. Jo threw a hand across her sister's mouth and pressed her against the fence. The coins on Tina's hip scarf clicked like nickels pouring from a slot machine.

”You hear that?” said one of the men.

Jo held Tina tight against the fence. Tina's gaze kinked back and forth. She was shaking like a Chihuahua.