Thoughts race through Emma’s mind as she tries to formulate a plan.
I can stand, briefly, but Jason doesn’t know that. He’s never been present when I’ve done it. And the only place I’ve practiced in my cottage is in the bathroom when I’m brushing my teeth. Even if he’s been spying on me, he wouldn’t have seen that. I need to catch him by surprise.
She remembers playing with her brothers. They’d crawl on their bellies up and down the hallway mimicking the GI Joe character on television.
With my upper-body strength, I can do this, Emma resolves. The alternative is unbearable.
It takes a long, grueling while, but she does it. A shroud of moist darkness envelops her when she crawls inside the cave. The blackness is smothering. It’s like being buried alive, but above ground.
Emma’s breathing slows as she takes in the stale, humid air. Using the rough wall as a guide, she hears a faint dripping noise—drip, drip, drip—like dew sliding off rocks.
While her eyes adjust to the dark, a soft squeak alerts Emma to the presence of either mice or bats. The chilled air sends shivers down her spine.
Senses heightened, she smells Jason before she sees him. Whiskey.
She feels his gaze on her back.
Her brain registers the sound of a click, immediately followed by light.
“Welcome to Devil’s Canyon,” Jason says.
Turning, she sees the smile of a madman, uplit by a flashlight held under his chin.
Dazzled by the sudden bright light, thousands of bats form a cloud-like exodus, screeching as they leave a mud and blood-covered Emma hugging the ground in their wake.
Jason’s maniacal laugh echoes long after their departure.
CHAPTER 19
“Write while the heat is in you. The writer who postpones the recording of his thoughts uses an iron which has cooled to burn a hole with.”
—HENRY DAVID THOREAU
The main house is situated on a gently sloping hill. From upstairs the panoramic view of the surrounding forest makes Libby feel like she’s in the Swiss Family Robinson treehouse.
This morning she stands at the window and watches the branches sway in the breeze. She doesn’t miss the serrated skyline of San Francisco where she and Mick grew up, but she misses their parents who still live there. I need to plan another visit.
And though she can only hear it in her imagination because the windows are closed, Libby loves the frothy roil of the bay when it recovers from a storm. She also enjoys early mornings before the fog lifts, and the sun warms the house. With no tai chi today, she delights in the idea of a wood fire, wool socks, and hot chocolate made from scratch.
As she turns to look at her lightly snoring husband, she smiles at his hair, wild with sleep, and teasingly says, “Niall, it looks like you combed your hair with an eggbeater.”
“What’s that, wife?” he asks, pulling the pillow over his head.
“You heard me, husband.” She pulls it back off. “Let’s go check on Hemingway. Dr. Sutton said we have to put the Elizabethan collar on him first thing this morning. And I bet he’s got to pee like a racehorse! By the way, where did that saying come from?”
Removing the pillow and the warm covers, Niall swings his legs over the bedside and puts on his slippers. Turning back, he looks at her from under shaggy brows and responds, “Trust me, Libby, you don’t want to know.” And with that, he heads to the bathroom.
Hemingway, wide awake in the mudroom, is busy licking salve from the stitches he can reach with his tongue, and desperately trying to get at those he can’t. He’d need the tongue of an anteater to reach the ones on his back.
Hearing Libby and Niall enter the kitchen, he stands and body-wags a greeting.
“Good morning, fella,” Niall says with exaggerated enthusiasm in his voice. “We’ve got a treat for you.”
Turning to Libby, he stage whispers out the side of his mouth. “You get the collar around his neck while I distract him.”
“Oh, hell no,” she replies. “You get the collar around his neck while I distract him.”
“All right,” he says. “Let’s think about this. Based on previous experience, we need a plan. We know that Hemingway has the advantage of speed, strength, and total lack of concern for our welfare.”
“Yes, but we get to pick the battlefield,” she says. “I say the mudroom.”
“Mudroom it is,” Niall agrees.
“Once Hemingway sees the Elizabethan collar, he’s going to go berserk,” Libby says.
“I agree, but the collar’s in the upper-cupboard in the mudroom.” Niall looks worried.
“I’ll keep him distracted at the Dutch door with treats, while you get the collar,” Libby assures him. “But I think you should change your clothes first.”
“Change?” he looks at her curiously. “Into what?”
“Oh, let’s see,” she muses, tapping an index finger on her chin. “Overalls, construction boots, welding gloves, a football helmet, a hockey face-mask, and Mick’s flak vest.”
“Right,” he says, laughing. “And that won’t scare the daylights out of him?”
“Not if we use the element of surprise.”
“We?”
“Well, you,” Libby replies, not one bit shame-faced. “Niall, once Hemingway’s on to what’s happening, speed is essential to your survival. And when it’s all over, we know it’s not—he’ll be plotting ways to kill us in our sleep. Well, you anyway,” she finishes, grinning wickedly.
Seeing the Bellingham Police Department number on the phone display, Mick sets down his coffee cup and picks up his ringing cell. “McPherson,” he answers. “Good morning. Yes, I can be there in fifteen minutes.” Crap, he thinks to himself. I was hoping to see Emma this morning before heading out to the bluff.
There in ten, Mick is the first to arrive at last evening’s scene. Not wanting to jeopardize any potential evidence, he stays clear of the area.
Two cruisers pull up. Herb and Chris get out of the first one. Two other officers exit the other.
“Hey, Mick, it’s been a while,” Joe
