wrong. They had no fallback. All three of them could get killed. The more she envisioned Craig Barlow here, in this house, the more her muscles tied in knots. By the time her makeup and hair were done, she vowed to go to the police herself rather than let D. carry out his harebrained idea.
Except she had no absolute proof yesterday’s murder ever happened. What if they believed the photos had been staged—all for publicity for a has-been writer?
Margaret slapped down her brush and trotted over to turn on the television, weak hope floundering in her chest. If by some miracle the victim at least had been found …
She punched the remote to Channel Seven, where
Commercials.
Margaret massaged her neck and waited.
The familiar face of local anchor Matt Hagerty appeared. He clipped through stories of an Oakland attorney indicted for trying to bribe a judge, a string of home burglaries in San Francisco’s Marina District. Traffic conditions on local freeways. “And now,” he nodded, “back to
Margaret’s shoulders fell.
Punching off the TV, she strode to her desk in the far corner of her room. It was less likely the papers would carry anything about the murder this quickly, but she’d look anyway. She turned on her computer, idling with impatience as it booted. She clicked to the
Nothing.
Margaret returned to Google and searched for “Gayner homicide victim”—the same words she’d run yesterday for D.
No breaking stories. Only those of the last two victims.
She typed in “Gayner missing woman.” Her heart leapt at the returned hits, but again none of them linked to current news.
Who was this woman, that no one had even reported her missing?
Margaret made a face at the computer. This was useless.
As she exited the bedroom she left the computer running.
In the kitchen she made coffee and choked down some toast. The house screamed the silence of a tomb. Darell had instructed her to wake him at nine.
Margaret prowled the kitchen, coffee in hand, unease a leaden block in her chest. How to convince Darell to change his mind? When the man decided something his feet set in concrete.
And even if she did convince him—what then? They’d be back where they started, with Kaitlan trapped here, helpless.
Toting her coffee cup, Margaret returned to the computer. She refreshed the
She stared out the window into thick fog. The backyard lay obliterated.
Maybe she should go back to perusing D.’s old novels. Yesterday she only read the opening chapters of the first ten. How driven she’d been. But that strong urge had been swept aside amid the events of last night.
Perhaps within one of the books lay an idea not to help Darell catch Craig Barlow after all, but to talk him out of trying.
As Margaret considered that possibility, the urge returned.
She pushed back from the computer. Eight-twenty. She had forty minutes—enough time to scan through the openings of ten or so novels.
In the kitchen Margaret refilled her coffee mug. With purpose she headed to the library and planted herself before the bookcase holding D.’s first editions. An empty space spoke of the novel she’d been reading last night.
Margaret fetched the book from the desk where it lay and returned it to its place on the shelf. She stared at the next novel, D.’s eleventh.
Appropriate title.
Breathing a prayer, she slipped it off the shelf.
forty-five
In and out of fog Leland Hugh ran, chased by phantoms. Cloud wisps wound around his head, squeezing his thoughts to cotton. Somewhere he’d lost his way. He saw nothing, heard nothing, felt no earth below his feet. His muscular arms pumped, pumped …
Both biceps crumbled. His fingers turned inward, gnarled, the legs beneath him now wobbly and stiff. His mind thickened, and he didn’t know what to do, where to go, his thoughts gauzy and white, while something,
“D.” A voice out of the ether.
His hand jiggled.
“D., wake up.”
Darell’s eyes opened. He lay in bed, Margaret standing over him. Anxiety tangled her expression.
The dream roiled in his mind. Leland Hugh. The fog. The confusion.
He blinked.
“It’s nine o’clock,” Margaret said. “Time to get up.”
Memory poured over him.
Darell pushed up on one elbow and tossed back the covers. “Okay. Right.”
Margaret stood back as he finagled his feet to the floor. Detritus from the dream drifted fitfully in Darell’s mind like sand settling after the tide. Hugh, lost and alone, becoming
Why?
A sense of urgency rose within Darell. So much to do. So many details. He reached for his cane, throwing Margaret an impatient glance. “Go on, I don’t need your help. I’ve got to make that call right away.”
She folded her arms, determination etching her face. “D., I don’t want you to do it.”
“Huh?”
“You’re not going to lure that killer here.”
What a way to put it. He gawked at her. “Have you gone mad, woman?”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“I have to save Kaitlan.”
“We’ll find another way.”
“You got a better idea?”
“Yes, let the police handle it. Like we should have done in the first place.”
“Oh, right. They’re doing a real good job.”
She shook her head impatiently. “I was reading your old novels, thinking one of them might give us an idea of what to do. That’s why one was lying out in the library last night—”
“What are you blathering about, woman?” One of his books off its shelf? He had no memory of any such thing.
“See?” Margaret hunched forward as if she’d scored a major point. “You can’t even remember that. Yet you think you can outwit this killer—”
“I know I can outwit him!” Darell waved his cane.
“D.—”
“Stop talking to me like I’m an old man!” He lurched to his feet. “My only grandchild needs saving, and I’m going to do it.”
Margaret stood her ground, vertical lines puckering around her tightened lips. “Is this really about Kaitlan? Or is this about proving yourself—to
The words stabbed to the core of him. Darell’s face went hot. He threw back his shoulders and stalked around her with all the dignity he possessed. “Out of my path, woman, I’ve got work to do.”
