Feed her, clean the cat box, use her allowance to get her spayed …” She was rambling.
The cat climbed up into Laura’s arms and onto her shoulder. It felt natural to Laura; the small vibrating body, the warmth. Comforting.
Holding the cat, she thought of Jessica. Jessica, who liked Josh Hartnett and Nelly. Jessica, who took such good care of her cat. Something crumbled in her chest, and tears pricked the corner of her eyes.
She turned away so the mother couldn’t see and set the cat down.
As Laura left through the front door, she glanced up the street at the roped-off area where the turnouts were. Officer Noone stood in the road, hands on his waist above his heavy duty belt, the yellow crime scene tape quivering behind him. When he saw her he waved. If he was bored by his new duty— waiting for the tire cast to dry—he didn’t show it.
Buddy appeared from around the corner of the house, where David Parris, Jessica’s father, was hammering away at something.
Buddy nodded toward Noone. “You about done up there?”
“Might be another half hour. How’s Mr. Parris?”
“Wouldn’t talk to me. We put up three sections of rain gutter, though.”
“Wouldn’t talk at all?”
“The only thing he said was, if Cary Statler ever showed his face around here again, he’d kill him.”
As Laura reached the turnout, Noone said, “They’re almost dry.”
Beside the metal-framed cast lay a couple of sticks, all that was left of a sampling of twigs, grass, and debris Laura had instructed Noone to collect from around the site. These Laura had used to reinforce the plaster. Not only would it make the cast stronger, but it would also supply a soil and debris sample for the crime lab. Laura picked up a stout twig and wrote her initials onto the cast, along with the case number.
“I never saw anyone take a tire cast before. It’s pretty interesting,” Noone offered. “Too bad there weren’t any footprints.”
It was clear Officer Noone had made the leap from the motor home sighting on Brewery Gulch to the abduction of Jessica Parris on West Boulevard, concluding that the killer had used a motor home.
“These tracks could belong to anyone. I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you.”
“But it could be his.”
“Could be.” Emphasis on the
12
To business.
Musicman wrote: “D—Your shipment has come in.”
Immediately, a reply popped up.
DARK MOONDANCER: Hello, friend.
Musicman’s fingers flew over the keys.
MUSICMAN: I have that special order you requested.
DARK MOONDANCER: Same price?
MUSICMAN: Two thousand more.
DARK MOONDANCER: Verification?
MUSICMAN: Turn on the local news.
DARK MOONDANCER: That one? You’re in my jurisdiction! Let’s meet.
MUSICMAN: I never meet my clientele. It’s not good to mix business with pleasure.
DARK MOONDANCER: You do it all the time, mix business with pleasure. LOL. But seriously, we are an exclusive club, you and I. Please come visit. Bring a friend.
MUSICMAN: My plans are fluid at the moment.
DARK MOONDANCER: Fluid? There’s a pun. So you are still here. I would have thought you’d be a thousand miles away by now.
MUSICMAN: Parting is such sweet sorrow.
DARK MOONDANCER: Don’t be cryptic. I’d love to know what’s going on in your mind.
MUSICMAN: Shall I make the shipment or not?
DARK MOONDANCER: By all means. As before, payment is forthcoming. But if you’re planning an extended stay, do give serious thought to my invitation. You might not come this way again.
Musicman thought:
Dark Moondancer’s desires were base, his enthusiasm clumsy. He didn’t get the subtle distinctions; he was just another cretin saturated with blood lust, looking for a vicarious thrill. The guy reminded him of a comic book character—way over the top.
Still, he paid the bills.
Musicman pulled up the photograph he intended to use: baby ducks following their mother across a lawn. Beautiful, the play of sunlight and shadow on their soft yellow down. So innocent. And yet beneath the surface
