Bare Bones

I scanned the block.

One jogger with a mongrel dog.

Had I been followed? I felt a chill spread through my gut.

Holding my breath, I lifted the wiper blade, took the squirrel by its tail, and tossed it into the trees. Though my hands were shaking, my mind was automatically taking notes.

Stiff. Not freshly dead.

Digging Bojangles’ napkins from the glove compartment, I cleaned the glass and slid behind the wheel.

Use the adrenaline. Go with it.

Gunning the engine, I shot up the road.

The jogger and dog were rounding the corner. I turned with them.

The woman was thirtyish, and looked like she should jog more often. She wore a spandex bra and bicycle shorts, and headphones with a small antenna framed a blonde ponytail. The dog was attached to one of those blue plastic leash feeders.

I rolled down the window.

“Excuse me.”

The dog turned, the jogger did not.

“Excuse me,” I shouted, inching forward.

The dog cut to the car, nearly tripping its owner. She stopped, dropped the headphones around her neck, and regarded me warily.

The dog placed front paws on my door and sniffed. I reached out and patted its head.

The jogger appeared to relax a bit.

“Do you know Mrs. Cobb?” I asked, the calm in my voice belying my agitation.

“Uh-huh,” she panted.

“While we were visiting, something was left on my windshield. I wondered if you’d noticed any other cars near her trailer.”

“Actually, I did. That road is a dead end, so it doesn’t get much traffic.” She pointed a finger at the dog, then at the ground. “Gary, get down.”

Gary?

“It was a Ford Explorer, black. Man at the wheel. Not very tall. Good hair. Sunglasses.”

“Black hair?”

“Lots of it.” She giggled. “My husband is bald. Balding, he’d say. I notice hair on men. Anyway, the Explorer was just parked there opposite Mrs. Cobb’s driveway. I didn’t recognize the car, but it had a South Carolina tag.”

The woman called to Gary. Gary dropped to the pavement, hopped back up against my side panel.

“Is Mrs. Cobb doing all right? I try, but I don’t get over to her place very often.”

“I’m sure she’d appreciate company,” I said, my thoughts on a black-haired stranger.

“Yeah.”

Tugging Gary from my door, the woman repositioned her headphones and resumed her jog.

I sat a moment, debating my next move. Talking myself down.

Lancaster and Columbia.

Short with black hair. Good black hair.

That described Wally Cagle’s coffee partner.

That described Palmer Cousins.

That described a million men in America.

Did it describe the Grim Reaper?

What the hell was going on?

Calm down.

I took a deep breath and tried Katy’s cell phone.

No answer. I left a message on her voice mail.

Lancaster and Columbia.

I phoned Lawrence Looper to check on Wally Cagle.

Answering machine. Message.

I phoned Dolores at the USC anthropology department.

Wonderful news. Wally Cagle was coming around. No, he was not yet coherent. No, he’d had no other visitors