“Izzie?” came a voice from the open doorway across the room.
From the other room she could hear sizzling and the clatter of pots and pans. She lowered her hands and lifted her head, sniffing the air. It smelled tantalizingly of bacon, and her stomach rumbled in response. If this was a delusion, it smelled delicious.
“Was that you talking just now?” Patrick stuck his head around the corner. He was wearing a grey t-shirt with Recondito Police Athletic League printed on the front, and a dishtowel draped over one shoulder. “Oh good, you’re awake.”
“I guess I am.” Izzie shrugged. “Mostly.”
Patrick smiled, looking relieved. “I was a little worried. You were thrashing around pretty bad just a minute ago.”
“Yeah?” Izzie reached up and rubbed the inside corners of her eyes with her finger tips. Judging by the angle of the light shining through the window, she knew that she couldn’t have slept for more than an hour or so, and if anything felt more tired than when she’d lain down.
“Bad dream?”
She nodded.
“Not surprised. Rough night.” He pulled the towel off his shoulder and used it to dry his hands. “Well, breakfast will be ready by the time Joyce and Daphne get done with their showers, so just hang tight.”
“Copy that,” she answered as Patrick went back through into the kitchen. She sighed, and ran a hand through her braids, which were still damp from the quick shower she’d taken before lying down. They were getting so fuzzy that she was half-tempted to cut the whole mess off, rather than go on messing with them. But she had other things to worry about. “Rough night, he says. . . .”
Her feet were cold against the hardwood floor, and so she pulled on her socks and stomped into her boots before getting up and going in search of her phone.
Calling what they’d all just been through a “rough night” was like saying that World War II was a “minor disagreement.” That the four of them had lived to see the sun rise again was just a little short of a miracle. Not that the nights ahead promised to be much better.
But they had survived. Of course, Officer Carlson hadn’t been so lucky.
Izzie found her phone in the pocket of her jacket, hanging on a hook near the front door along with her FBI credentials and holstered firearm. But before she turned the phone on to check her messages, she had second thoughts. Whatever was waiting for her, whatever texts or emails or missed calls, could wait until after she had some coffee and food in her, in that order. Then, as her stomach growled audibly, she realized that she hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before, so maybe food before coffee.
She slipped the phone into the pocket of her jeans, and turned to glance around the room. She wasn’t quite sure what she had expected Patrick’s place to look like, but this? This wasn’t it.
There was an electric bass guitar in one corner on a stand, beside a small portable amplifier, a boombox, and a turntable sitting on top a shelving unit filled with vinyl LPs. Stacks of old comics and magazines were piled atop a bookcase crammed with paperback and hardcover books. On the mantle above the fireplace were dozens of Pez dispensers arranged in careful rows, and on either side hung movie posters framed behind glass, mostly action films from the eighties and nineties. Opposite the fireplace, in a place of prominence, hung what appeared to be a hand-woven tapestry with a tessellated geometric design. Below the tapestry, on a narrow table of lacquered wood,was a small collection of framed photos, including one showing an old Polynesian man in denim overalls, standing next to a small boy wearing a Power Rangers t-shirt and sporting a gap-toothed grin. Other than the couch there was a low table and a couple of chairs, but no TV or computer to be seen, and while the furniture seemed a little threadbare and old, it was in good repair.
They had been trying to get here the night before, until the road was blocked and they were forced to find another refuge. Making it to the Ivory Point lighthouse had been a lucky break in more ways than one, but still Izzie wished that they had made it to Patrick’s place the night before. This would have been a much more comfortable spot to ride out a terrifying night than the cold, dusty living quarters attached to the lighthouse.
The shambling horde that had stood vigil on the boardwalk across from the lighthouse had fled with the sunrise, thankfully before the tide rolled out and the muddy land bridge once more connected the white rocks of Ivory Point with the shore.
It had been Patrick who suggested that they come home with him to get cleaned up and get something to eat before tackling everything that lay ahead of them. Daphne had driven them over in her bureau car, which had survived the night without so much as a scratch, and Patrick had given directions from the backseat. From the passenger side window Izzie could see the spiraling whorls of the engraved markings that Patrick had shown her when he had described how his great-uncle had carved swirls into the houses in the neighborhood
Patrick’s house was a two-story Victorian row house, with a living room, bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen on the first floor, and on the second floor another bedroom, sitting room, and a second bath. But when Izzie had gone to use the upstairs shower the second floor turned out to be mostly filled with junk—old furniture, moving boxes, stacks of yellowing papers, battered musical instruments, and broken toys. The shower in the upstairs bath was functional, but the bathroom itself didn’t look like it had been used in ages.
Considering how fastidious and organized the first floor was, Izzie had been surprised by the chaotic clutter upstairs, and had meant to ask Patrick about it when she came
