Working Stiff

He stares at me, his mouth hanging open. “You know, sometimes I think you are truly nuts,” he says.

“Fine, be a skeptic,” I tell him. “But think back on all the news footage you’ve ever seen of tornado damage. What’s the one thing you always see? A trashed trailer park. Every time. Think about it.”

He squints his eyes and gives me a look that says he is about to consign me to the nearest loony bin. But then he assumes a faraway expression and I know he is replaying those news reports in his mind. Another bolt of lightning zips across the sky and he looks out the window at the neat rows of trailers.

“Oh my God,” he says finally. He reaches down and quickly shifts the car into gear. Then he creeps back out onto the main street and tries to stay on it as best he can. The hail stops almost as quickly as it started but driving rain and sleet come in its place, some of the drops splashing hard and thick, like overripe cherry tomatoes.

By the time we make it back to the house, the storm is still blowing furiously and the darkened windows everywhere tell us that the power is out. Since the automatic door opener won’t work, Izzy parks just in front of the garage.

Dispensing with any niceties, I say, “See you tomorrow,” pry myself out of the car, and run for the cottage. I can’t move very fast as my feet are numb from both cold and a lack of circulation and the thick nylon in the panty portion of my support hose is like an iron band around my thighs, hobbling me. A flash of lightning momentarily blinds me, making me trip on the front steps. Cursing, I rub my bashed shinbone a moment before I struggle back to my feet and limp my way to the door.

Once inside, I kick off my shoes, hike up my dress and peel off the hose, tossing them aside. I give the light switch a cursory try, but nothing happens. Feeling my way through the darkness, I head for the kitchen. I think of Rubbish in the split second before he decides to rub against my feet and I do an awkward little side hop to keep from stepping on him. I lose my balance and fall again, coming down hard on my left hip and elbow. Wincing with pain, I feel a warm wetness run down my arm that I am pretty sure is blood. I sit up, issuing forth with every cuss word I know. I call to Rubbish and as soon as I feel him at my feet again, I scoop him up and hold him close to my chest.

With the cat safely tucked away, I get off the floor and make it to the kitchen without further incident. I find a candle and some wood matches in a drawer and give myself a meager ring of light. Now that I can see, I put Rubbish back down and carry the candle toward the bathroom, setting it on a table just outside the door. I dig a towel out of the closet beside the toilet and plop down on the edge of the tub to dry off.

Beyond the flicker of the candle’s light, I can see the window in the upper part of my front door as well as the two windows on either side of it. All of them are covered with thin, gauzy curtains and as I’m looking toward the window on the left, another brilliant bolt of lightning turns the night into day. And just outside the window, a shadow in the shape of a person appears.

At first I think it’s just my imagination, but then I see that Rubbish is standing in the middle of the room staring at the front door with his back arched and his fur standing at rigid attention. The chill I feel in my marrow is from more than just the icy rain.

I know the shadow isn’t Izzy or Dom—it is much too tall—but judging from the broadness of the shoulders and the overall physique, I am pretty certain it’s a man. And I reason that anyone who is out in this sort of weather is either too stupid to live or up to no good. Images of Karen Owenby’s dead body flash through my mind. The inquiries I’ve made into her life—and death—flash through as well. Have I gotten close to the truth without knowing it? Close enough to make someone think of me as a threat?

The shadow moves toward the door, which, I realize in a panic, isn’t locked. I think of calling 911, but then remember that my cell phone is buried in my purse, which I dropped just inside the door as I entered the cottage. I could scream, but with the crazy weather outside, I am pretty certain no one will hear me.

Rubbish hisses, making my nerves jump, and I look around the bathroom for something to use to defend myself. An aerosol can of hair spray is the best I can find—I figure if I spray it in someone’s face, it might disable them long enough for me to get away. At the last second I see the plunger with its thick wooden handle standing in the back corner beside the toilet and grab it, too.

When I look back toward the front door, the shadow is gone. Hair spray in one hand, plunger in the other, I stand in the bathroom, my gaze shifting back and forth between the windows. Outside, thunder crashes, wind howls, and rain pounds, but I can hardly hear any of it for the rapid thump-thump of my heart, which seems to have miraculously relocated itself in my ears. The branches of a nearby tree scrape along the roof as they are buffeted by the wind, and for a panicked second I think that whoever is outside is now on the roof. But then I see fleeting movement through the window in the door.

He is still on the porch. Rubbish tosses his bravado to the storm and hightails it into the bedroom, where I figure I will find him hiding under the bed. For a second I consider joining him, but it is a pretty narrow space and the thought of being trapped under there keeps me riveted where I stand.

I realize I have a slight advantage I might be able to exploit. With the power out and the house dark, I am able to navigate far more easily than someone who doesn’t know the layout of the cottage. I suck in a deep breath to brace myself and stride across the room. I set the hair spray on a table by the door, and wield the plunger in one hand like a baseball bat. Then, with my free hand, I grab the front door and whip it open.

A horrific sight awaits me, a tall, hulking creature. And with a scream of mortal fear, I swing the plunger as hard as I can against its head.

Chapter 19

“Jesus Christ, Mattie!” David hollers, staggering under the weight of my blow. “What the hell are you doing?” He topples toward the door, nearly falling on me.

“What the hell are you doing lurking around out here? You scared the bejesus out of me, David!” Steady on his feet now, he rubs the side of his head where I can see a small trickle of blood running over his cheek.

“I wasn’t lurking,” he mumbles irritably.

“Get in here.” I grab his arm and pull him inside, then steer him into the kitchen, stopping along the way to pick up the candle. I sit him down, put the candle in the middle of the table, and set the plunger, which I am still holding in one hand, on the floor by the kitchen doorway. Then I dig out two towels from a drawer and hand one to David so he can mop off his face while I use the other to clean and examine the wound on his head.

“It’s not bad,” I tell him. I dab and he winces. “It won’t need stitches or anything.”

“Christ, you probably gave me a concussion. What the hell has gotten into you?”

“I didn’t know who you were,” I tell him. “I’m a little spooked by all that’s happened, okay? I mean, a woman in town was murdered a few days ago. Remember?”

David rolls his eyes. “How can I forget?”

“What were you doing out there on my porch?” I ask him. The lingering suspicion in my mind must have carried over into my voice because he turns to look at me and moans.

“You can’t seriously still think I had anything to do with Karen’s death,” he says. “Christ, Mattie. What’s it going to take to convince you?”

“What were you doing outside on my porch?” I ask again.

He sighs and leans forward, staring at his shoes. “Someone said you left the party in a big hurry and I was concerned. I’ve been wanting to talk to you but things got a bit nasty earlier tonight. So I came here to apologize for jumping all over you and to take another stab at talking things out. I wasn’t sure you’d hear me knock given all the noise this storm is making so I was peeking through your windows to see if you were here or at Izzy’s house. That’s all. I was about to try a knock on the door when you whipped it open and bashed me on the head.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but you scared the hell out of me,” I tell him. “You looked a sight, all rain-drenched and hunkered down inside your coat like that. I couldn’t tell it was you and figured it was safer to act first and ask questions later.”

“I guess I should be grateful you weren’t armed with a gun,” he mutters.

The bleeding from his scalp wound has stopped and I set the towel aside. “I’d offer you a drink but I don’t have any liquor here.”

“I’m fine. Although I wouldn’t mind some water.”

I get him a glass of water from the tap and then settle into a chair across from him. His gaze rises from his