I stroked the purring Chablis and noticed Syrah had taken his spot above my left shoulder on top of the couch. “When I lost John, I felt the same kind of grief. Wounded is the right word. But you talked earlier about how you failed. I don’t see what you could have done to make anyone in your family act differently.”
Tom stared down at the can he held with two hands. “I just wish I could have made things right.”
“Who wants to play with a time machine now?” I asked.
He looked at me and smiled slowly, as if something was shifting in his mind. “You’re right. Regrets are a wish for time travel, aren’t they?”
“Yes. You are a good man,” I said, matching his smile. “Time to let go of the
He didn’t answer because the back door opened and Yoshi came racing in. Chablis took off like her tail was on fire, leaving a bleeding claw mark on my arm. The dog greeted me and then Tom by putting a paw on each of our legs, his stubby tail wagging ferociously.
I called, “There’s Dr Pepper in the fridge, Finn.”
He joined us, holding a can. When he saw what Tom was drinking, he said, “Isn’t this the best?”
Tom said, “Mmm. So good.”
I almost laughed. He was a terrible liar, but Finn didn’t seem to notice.
Finn said, “Did you know they make this in Texas? Every now and then, you can get it in little bottles made with the original recipe. With cane sugar. But this is dope even with the high-fructose whatever.” He held up the can and admired it.
“
“Okay,” Finn said. “It’s sick. How’s that?”
We all laughed.
My phone rang and I pulled it from my pocket.
The male voice said, “Tom’s got you on speed dial. You know what that means.” It was Bob—being Bob.
“You want to talk to Tom?” I said.
“Nope. Just tell him to come home pronto. His dumb cat got out again.”
Twenty
Fearing Tom might deck Bob given half a chance, I decided to ride along and help find Dashiell. Maybe I could keep Tom focused on what was important. Too bad his poor kitty got outside again, not only because a cat shouldn’t be wandering around in the dark but because Tom had just been mellowing out, getting a lot of old business off his chest.
We left Finn with the security system armed and instructions not to open the door for anyone. I expected to see Bob outside with a flashlight looking for Dashiell, but he was sitting in Tom’s living room watching TV. I’d tried to understand Bob, had realized after Tom’s story he was probably a bitter man, but any morsel of compassion disappeared when I realized he felt no compunction to find Dashiell. Guess we should be grateful he’d made a phone call.
Tom, to his credit, only offered his brother a dirty look, not fighting words. I followed him into the kitchen and he found a couple flashlights. We went out the back door, which, I noted, was still ajar. Did Bob think Dashiell would come back if he left the door open?
“Be careful out here, Jillian. The drop-off to the creek is pretty steep.” He swept his flashlight left and right, revealing the sparkling, dewy lawn.
I pointed straight ahead. “Last time, I found him by a tree over there near the slope.”
We both hurried toward the creek. Tom’s neighbor to the left had a fence, and I went that way while Tom jogged in the opposite direction calling Dashiell’s name. Slowly we shined our lights over the grass and up into the trees.
I passed the spot where I’d found him last time. Not there. If he’d slipped into the creek, we’d need more than flashlights to find him. I pushed such a horrible thought to the back of mind. He wouldn’t go far, I wanted to believe. But if his blood sugar crashed, he could be lying unconscious anywhere.
When I reached the fence and ran my beam along the bottom, I took a deep breath and thought about cat behavior. Sick cats hide. This was their instinctive reaction, seeing as how a vulnerable cat could become prey to a larger animal. While Tom eased his way down toward the creek, I called out to him. “I’ll search the shrubs around your house.”
I continued to focus my flashlight on the ground, looking right and left as I walked back toward the house. Tom had thick holly bushes lining his house in the back and as I turned the flashlight on them, bright red berries glowed like tiny Christmas ornaments.
“Dashiell,” I called. “Come here, baby.”
A tiny meow in response. Plaintive. Afraid.
My heart sped, but not wanting to scare Dashiell, I kept a quiet, even tone as I knelt and extended my hand in the direction of the sound and said his name again.
I moved the light along the ground, but at first I didn’t see Dashiell—though I heard him again.
I did find something, though. Something my brain couldn’t make sense of at first.
A hiking boot.
But as the flashlight captured the shape completely, I realized to my horror the boot was filled by a foot and the foot was attached to a bent leg. The rest of the person was hidden beneath the prickly holly.
“T-Tom,” I said. But I spoke too softly for anyone but Dashiell to hear. I backed up and then ran in Tom’s direction. When I reached him, I said, “Come with me. Now. Something’s very wrong.”
“Did you find him? Is he hurt?” Tom said, following me as I ran back toward the house.
I shined the light on the blue-jeaned leg.
Tom knelt and tried to push aside the thick shrubs, but the holly wouldn’t budge much. Tom’s presence did have a positive effect because Dashiell made his way out. Tom swooped him up.
He said, “Do you have your phone?”
I called 911 and it took only five minutes for a squad car to come squealing around the corner of Tom’s street, siren blasting. It was followed close behind by not only the paramedics, but the fire department. In Mercy, it’s an all-out effort when there’s an emergency.
Deputy Rodriguez rushed to our side. He shook the foot, saying, “Hey. You stuck under there?”
No response.
Tom handed Dashiell to me and ran into his garage. He returned with his hedge cutters.
“Can you pull whoever it is out?” I said.
“Don’t move them,” Marcy, our paramedic friend, said as she came up and dropped to her knees by the prone figure. “I can check for a pulse on the foot. Might need help taking the boot off, though.”
“Let’s do it,” Rodriguez said, untying the dirty boot.
Once the foot was bare, looking waxy in the artificial lights, she pressed two fingers on the ankle. She moved her fingers around the top of the foot, searching for what was apparently an elusive pulse. Finally she looked up, her lips pressed tightly together, and shook her head. “His foot is cold and there’s no pulse. Unless this is a woman with very large feet, you’ve found a dead man.”
Firefighter Billy Cranor came running up, holding a gigantic battery-powered light. “Will this help?”
“Light him up, Billy,” Rodriguez said, still kneeling by the body.
Billy only illuminated what we all could see—the leg and bare foot. Nothing more. He said, “How the heck did he get under there? Unless someone was trying to hide him under one of the meanest bushes I’ve ever tangled with.”
“You’re gonna have to cut away the holly to get to him,” a voice behind me said. “Let me get my camera before you start. We’ll probably need crime scene tape, too.”
It was Candace. She wore sweats and no makeup. Even in the dim castoff from flashlights, I saw dark circles
