shortly after her disappearance? Maybe I should have picked up on the fact that June didn’t seem all that worried about her niece, but otherwise I’d had no clues. Not then.
Now I did, though. The Golden Gate Transit schedule in Adrian’s backpack, for one. Golden Gate was the one bus line that ran from the city to Marin County, and she would only have needed it if she planned a trip north. There had been no one with a Marin address other than June Simoom on the list of people who were close to Adrian that the police had checked out. And then there was the graphic evidence on the therapy wall-the soaring bird so like the symbol June’s place. Wingspread, next to one broken gold chain and the word FREEDOM. But most of all it was Adrian’s own words that had finally tipped me: “somebody to protect me, somebody strong and fierce.” That was June’s way of describing herself, and Adrian had probably heard it enough to believe it. After all, her aunt had taken the name of a fierce, relentless African wind; she had called her home Wingspread, a place of refuge.
But there was another side to June-the possessive, controlling side that Donna Conway had described. Frying pan to fire, that’s where Adrian had gone. From one controlling person to another-and in this case, a control freak who probably delighted in keeping the niece from the hated sister-in-law. June hadn’t called Donna after my visit to make peace; she’d probably been fishing to find out if I’d relayed any suspicions to her.
Slowed to a crawl, peering through the smears on the windshield and the rain soaked blackness for the mailbox with the soaring bird. That stand of eucalyptus looked about right, and the deeper shadows behind it must hide Tomales Bay. Hadn’t the road curved like this just before the turnoff to the rutted driveway? Wasn’t it right about here…?
Yes! I wrenched the wheel to the left, and the Wreck skidded onto the gravel shoulder.
What I could see of the driveway looked impassable. Deep tire gouges cut into the ground but they were filling with muck and water. Better not chance it. I turned off the engine-it coughed and heaved several times, not a good sign, Willie had recently told me-and then I got out and started for the cottage on foot.
The wind blew even stronger now, whipping the branches of the trees and sending big curls of brittle bark spiraling through the air. The rain pelted me, stinging as it hit my face, and the hood of my slicker blew off my head. I grabbed at it, but I couldn’t make it stay up, and soon my hair was a sodden mess plastered to my skull.
Adrian, I thought, you’d better be worth all this.
I couldn’t see any lights in the cottage, although there was a truck pulled in under the trees. That didn’t mean anything-the other night June had relied on the fire for both heat and light, and there was no reason she would have turned on the porch lamp unless she was expecting company. But what kind of a life was this for Adrian, spending her entire evenings in darkness in that crumbling shack? And what about her days-how could she fill the long hours when she should have been in school or working or doing things with her friends? If her mother hadn’t hired me and I hadn’t figured out where she was, how long would she have hidden here until reality set in and she began to want to have a life again?
My slicker was an ancient one, left over from my college days, and its waterproofing must have given out, because I was soaked to my skin now. Freezing too. Please have a fire going, June, because I’m already very annoyed with you, and the lack of a fire will make me truly pissed off-
Movement up ahead, the door of the cottage opening. A dark figure coming out, big and barrel-shaped, bigger than June and certainly bigger than Adrian…Ben Waterson.
He came down the steps, hesitated, then angled off toward the left, through the tress. Going where? To the studio or the other outbuilding?
I began creeping closer to the cottage, testing the ground ahead of me before I took each step. Foot-grabber of a hole there, ankle-turner of a tree root here. At least the wind’s shrieking like a scalded cat so he can’t possibly hear me.
The cottage loomed ahead. I tripped on the bottom step, went up the rest of them on my hands and knees, and pushed the door open. Keeping low, I slithered inside on a splintery plank floor. There was some light at the far end of the room, but not much; the fire was burning low, just embers mainly.
What’s that smell?
A gun had been fired in there, and not too long ago. I opened my mouth, tried to call to June, but a croak came out instead. The room was quiet, the wind howling outside. I crept toward the glowing embers…
There June was, reclining on her pile of pillows, glass of wine beside her on the raised hearth. So like the other night, but something was wrong here, something to do with the way she was lying, as if she’d been thrown there, and why was the fireplace poker in her hand-Oh God June no!
I reeled around, smashing my fist into the wall beside me. My eyes were shut but I could still see her crumpled there on the gaudy silk pillows, velvet robes disarrayed, hand clutching the poker. Why was she still holding it? Something to do with going into spasm at the moment of death.
Disconnected sounds roared in my ears, blocking the wind. Then I heard my voice saying bitterly to Sharon, “Until the next time,” meaning until the next death. And Sharon saying to me, “If there is one.”
Well, Shar, this is the next time, and I wish you were here to tell me what to do because what I’m about to do is go to pieces and there’s a killer somewhere outside and a helpless young woman who I promised to bring back to her mother-
It wasn’t Sharon’s voice, of course, but my own-a cool, professional voice that I’d never known I had. It interrupted the hysterical thoughts that were whirling and tumbling in my brain, calmed me and restored my balance. I dredged up memories of the other night, pictured an old-fashioned rotary-dial phone sitting on the kitchen counter. I felt my way until I touched it, and picked up the receiver. No dial tone.
Maybe the storm, maybe something Waterson had done. Whatever, there wasn’t going to be any car full of Marin County Sheriff’s deputies riding to my rescue.
With what? He’s armed. I don’t even have a flashlight.
Kitchen drawer. I felt along the edge of the warped linoleum counter, then down to a knob. Pulled on it. Nothing in there but cloth, dishtowels, maybe. Another knob, another drawer. Knives. I took one out, tested its sharpness. Another drawer, and there was a flashlight, plus some long, pointed barbecue skewer. I stuck them and the knife in the slash pocket of my slicker.
And then I went outside to face a man with a gun.
The wind was really whipping around now, and it tore the cottage’s door from my grip and slammed it back against the wall. I yanked it closed, went down the slick, rickety steps, and made for the eucalyptus trees. As I ran I felt the flashlight fall from my slash pocket, but I didn’t stop to find it. Silly to have taken it, anyway-if I turned it on, I’d be a target for Waterson.
Under the trees I stopped and leaned against a ragged trunk, panting and feeling in my pocket for the knife and the skewers. They were still there-not that they were much of a match against a gun. But there was no point in stewing over the odds now. I had to pinpoint those outbuildings. If I remembered correctly, they were closer to the shore and to the left of this grove.
I slipped through the trees, peering into the surrounding blackness. Now I could make out the shoreline, the water wind-tossed and frothy, and then I picked out the shapes of the buildings-two of them, the larger one probably the studio. Roofs as swaybacked as the cottage’s, no lights in either. Windows? I couldn’t tell. They sat across a clearing from me, a bad way to approach if there were windows and if Waterson was inside and looking out. A bad way if he was outside and looking in this direction.
How else to get over to them, then? Along the shore? Maybe. June had said something about a beach…
I went back through the trees, their branches swaying overhead, ran for the cottage again, then slipped along its side and ducked under a half-collapsed deck. The ground took a sudden slope, and I went down on my butt and slid toward the water, waves sloshed over my tennis shoes-icy waves.
Dammit! I thought. What the hell am I doing out here risking pneumonia-to say nothing of my life-for a thieving teenager I’ve never even set eyes on?
I pulled myself up on one of the rotten deck supports-nearly pulling it down on my head-and started moving again. Then I stopped, realizing there was no beach here now, just jumbled and jagged rocks before the spot where the sand should begin. The beach was completely submerged by the high storm-tide.
Stupid, Rae. Very stupid. You should have realized it would be this way and not wasted precious time. You should have gotten back into the Wreck as soon as soon as you found June’s body and driven to the nearest phone, called the sheriff’s department and let them handle it.
