in the background. Windchimes, I?d thought. But Coloradans usually stored their windchimes until June. The danger of harsh winds and unexpected ice could reduce the chimes to fractured bits. But this guy kept his croquet set in the garage. Tom?s voice said to the far reaches of my brain. Maybe he didn?t know you were supposed to store your windchimes.
I?m losing it, I reflected ruefully as I scrambled onto the deck off Olson?s kitchen. Light crept up from the eastern horizon. My flashlight beam played over the deck. No chimes. I inched down the short outside wooden staircase, careful to avoid the center of each step, where a dark glaze of ice crystals no doubt lay under each fresh layer of snow. At the bottom of the stairs was a crawl space under the house that Father Packrat Olson had used for storage. My light scanned a paint-chipped lawn mower that would never cut another blade, at least a dozen straw boxes stamped with the name of the moving company that had brought Olson to this abode. One of the boxes was upturned, its contents spilled. They were tall iced-tea glasses made of a light green, translucent shell-type material.
The kind used to make windchimes.
The Sheriff?s Department would not have noticed this. How could they? I had forgotten tot ell them of the background noise when I was on the phone with Schulz. I knelt down, scooted forward, and flashed my light inside the box. Some glasses were broken, some unbroken. I took a deep breath and dumped the entire contents on the ground, and heard the same noise I?d heard in the background on the pone, only louder. It had not been windchimes that had caused the noise ? it had been this box being upended, or a box like it. This was why Schulz had told me to wait. He?d heard it and gone to see what was going on. The killer had been hiding under the house.
I flashed my light over the mess on the ground. It was hard to see in the darkness But there were no chokers or jewelry of any kind in the pile of broken glass. When I set the box upright, a wet piece of paper clung to its side. I pulled my right glove off with my teeth and cautiously peeled the damp paper off the side of the box.
It was a standard piece of 8 1/2 by 11 paper, typewritten and photocopied. There was no name on it, but at the upper left were four brief lines.
92-492
Set I
Part A
Page 25
It was the last page of one of the candidates? exam essays, already read by the General Board of Examining Chaplains, and soon to be read by our own diocesan Board of Theological Examiners. 92-492 was the encoded identification number of the writer. The type words began, ?such actins can only be attributed to false prophets, whose actins undermine the one mission of the church.? And it went on, but I was not going to read it now, I wanted to get home.
I listened for the sound of a Sheriff?s Department vehicle and heard none. If a burglary isn?t hot and no one?s in danger, it?s not one of the first things we respond to, Schulz had told me. No telling when the police would arrive. I needed to rouse Julian and Arch. Besides, the frigid weather was permeating my skin. I carefully snatched up the paper, scooted out from the crawl space, and started walking fast through the trees to the creek. Once home, I could look up the identification number of the examinee on the master sheet I wasn?t supposed to open until I?d finished reading the exams. This candidate shouldn?t have left the last page of one of his exams underneath Olson?s house.
In the broad meadow space, the brilliant moonlight melted into the faint sunbeams touching the frosted tops of trees on the surrounding hills. Pink light suffused the air and made the snow glow. On a neighboring slope, a dog began to bark. I couldn?t wait to get home. Behind me, a morning breeze swept through the trees.
When I arrived at the creek bank, a faint cracking noise caused me to whirl around.
?Boyd?? When there was no reply, I lifted my voice. ?Furman County Sheriff??
The sudden stillness made me think I?d been deceived. Tom? I called internally. As if he were guiding my face with the tips of his fleshy fingers, I slowly turned toward the creek. This was the exact spot where he had been dragged or prodded across. Snow lay around not only my own footprints down the bank, but a second set. Transfixed, I stared at the prints. Leave quickly. I could hear Schulz?s voice say.
At that moment, I heard a whooshing of air behind me. In a moment that went too fast, a hard blow hit the middle of my back. I heard myself expel breath, felt the pain explode across my vertebrae. I fell to my knees. Blackness engulfed me. I had an unexpected vision of Arch as a baby, then as a toddler. I?m dying, I thought. My life is flashing before me. My face fell into the snow, and I felt the rushing air of someone pulling the sheet of paper from my hand and then moving past me. I?m trying to help you, my mind cried out to Tom, who seemed suddenly far, far away. Very faintly, before I passed out, I could hear his response.
You are.
17
?Goldy! Gol-dy!?
Somewhere above me and far away, voice called. Louder and more insistent was the bone-splitting pain in the middle of my back. I gasped chilly, wet air. Was I drowning? Or had I undergone surgery from an unknown ailment and was I now struggling miserably to dispel the anesthetic? The voices grew close.
?Don?t touch her,? warned one, a woman. ?See if she wants to move on her own.?
I opened my eyes. With infinite slowness and a searing pang across my spine, I tried to maneuver onto my side. ?Help.? My voice was so faint I hardly hear it.
The floating faces of two people came into sight. I knew this man and woman. Their names were just out of reach.
?It?s Helen,? prompted the female face. ?Remember me? I?ve called Mountain Rescue.?
?No.? I tried to raise my head and sagged backward helplessly. ?Don?t need it,? I added unconvincingly. Imagining the scene at my house if I arrived in an ambulance brought a wave of dizziness. Julian and Arch would go nuts. ?No stretcher. No EMTs. Please,? I begged. Talking required an impossible effort. Every time I breathed, my body shrieked at the exertion.
?The heck you say,? said a male voice.
I squinted. The sky had become bright without my witnessing it, and my clothes were chilled and soaked. ?What day is it? What?s the time?? I croaked.
The man and woman looked at each other, and I had a sudden memory of my parents above my crib. But these were no relatives of mine; these were Sheriff?s Department Investigator Horace Boyd and Victim Advocate Helen Keene. And I had something to tell them, but the agonizing vice cramping my spine made it impossible to think. I struggled to move my legs, to see if my body worked. Summoning an enormous effort, I pulled my knees into my chest, then pushed up into a crouch. My spine shuddered in anguish.
?Don?t move if it hurts,? Boyd voice ordered.
?I am getting up,? I announced, and shakily came to my knees.
?Please wait,? Helen said softly, too late.
In the distance I could hear the whine of a siren. The ambulance. A stretcher. Arch and Julian having a fit. I cried out as I stood up on the icy ground. My knees wobbled and the ground seemed to be coming back up to my nose.
?Oh, Jesus,? muttered Boyd as he grabbed me on the shoulder and under the arm, then hauled me back to an upright, balanced position.
?I was attacked,? I said weakly. ?Someone hit me. The paper.? I looked around on the ground. Snow and mud wavered in and out of focus. ?Where is it??
But it was gone. Boyd and Helen thought I was hallucinating and wanted The Denver Post. I asked them to help me walk. They said I should wait, see if anything was broken. I told them nothing was broken. I needed to move; lying motionless could worsen frostbite. With Boyd and Helen reluctantly walking beside me as I moved unsteadily across the field, we unraveled the story. My call had come in and been triaged. When someone in Dispatch had realized that the robbery location was the same as murder victim Olson?s, Boyd had been informed. When Boyd wanted to know who had placed the call and Dispatch gave them my name, he had cursed and phoned
