“Out west. Who reported her missing?”
“Sylvia Cannon. It’s a Calgary address, so it must be the mother.”
I gave Hardaway the pager number and asked him to phone Ryan.
“When you speak to him, please have him call me. If I’m not here I’ll be at home.”
I boxed and locked up the Murtry bones. Then I stuffed my diskette and case forms, Hardaway’s autopsy report and photos, and the CAT scan paper into my briefcase, secured the lab, and left.
The campus was deserted, the night still and moist. Unseasonably warm, the broadcasters would call it. The air was heavy with the smell of grass just cut and rain about to fall. I heard the faint rumble of distant thunder, and pictured the storm rolling down from the Smokies and across the Piedmont.
On the way home I stopped for take-out at the Selwyn Pub. The after-work crowd was dispersing, and the younger set from Queens College had not yet arrived to take over the premises for the evening. Sarge, the rascally Irish co-owner, sat on his usual corner stool dispensing opinions on sports and politics, while Neal the bartender dispensed any one of a dozen draft beers. Sarge wanted to discuss the death penalty, or rather have his say about the death penalty, but I was not in the mood for banter. I took my cheeseburger and left quickly.
The first drops were patting the magnolias as I slipped my key into the Annex lock. Nothing greeted me but a soft, steady ticking.
It was almost ten when I heard from Ryan.
Sylvia Cannon had not lived at the address provided in the missing person report for over two years. Nor was she residing at the one given the post office for forwarding.
Neighbors at the earlier address remembered no husband and only one daughter. They described Sylvia as quiet and reclusive. A loner. No one knew where she had worked, or where she had gone. One woman thought there was a brother in the area. The Calgary PD were trying to locate her.
Later in bed, up under the eaves, I listened to rain tick on the roof and leaves. Thunder rumbled and lightning popped, now and then backlighting the silhouette of Sharon Hall. The ceiling fan brought in a cool mist, and with it the smell of petunias and wet window screen.
I adore storms. I love the raw power of the spectacle: Hydraulics! Voltage! Percussion! Mother Nature has dominion and everyone awaits her whim.
I enjoyed the show as long as I could, then got up and crossed to the dormer. The curtain felt damp and water was already pooling on the sill. I closed and latched the left window, took hold of the right, and breathed deeply. The thundershower cocktail triggered a flood of childhood recollections. Summer nights. Lightning bugs. Sleeping with Harry on Gran’s porch.
Think about that, I told myself. Listen to those memories, not the voices of the dead clamoring in your brain.
Lightning flashed and my breath froze in my throat. Was something moving under the hedge?
Another flicker.
I stared, but the shrubs looked still and empty.
Could I have imagined it?
My eyes searched the dimness. Green lawn and hedges. Colorless walks. Pale petunias against the darkness of pine chips and ivy.
Nothing moved.
Again the world lit up and a loud crack split the night.
A white form burst from the bushes and tore across the lawn. I strained to see, but the image was gone before my eyes could focus.
My heart beat so frantically I could feel it in my skull. I threw back the window and leaned into the screen, searching the darkness where the thing had disappeared. Water soaked my nightgown and goose bumps spread across my body.
I scanned the yard, trembling.
Stillness.
Forgetting the window, I turned and raced down the stairs. I was about to throw open the back door when the phone shrilled, sending my heart pounding into my throat.
Oh, God. What now?
I grabbed the receiver.
“Tempe, I’m sorry.”
I looked at the clock.
One-forty.
Why was my neighbor calling?
“. . . he must have gotten in there on Wednesday when I showed the place. It’s empty, you know. I went over just now to check on things, with the storm and all, and he came tearing out. I called, but he just took off. I thought you’d want to know . . .”
I dropped the receiver, threw open the kitchen door, and rushed outside.
“Here, Bird,” I called. “Come on, boy.”
I stepped off the patio. In seconds my hair was drenched and my nightie clung like wet Kleenex.
