Shelter in Place (Page 102)

He lifted her to her toes, then an inch higher, capturing her mouth as she hung suspended, holding it as he brought her down. “Don’t ever stop.”

“I cast your heart, and mine, together in bronze. That’s forever.” She gripped him tight, pressed her face to his shoulder. “You waited for me. You waited until I could tell you.”

“Waiting’s over.” He took her mouth again, circled her toward the stairs. “Come with me. Be with me. I need—”

His phone went off. “Fuck. Just fuck.”

He yanked it out. “Yeah, yeah, it better be—” His eyes went flat, cold. “Where. Anybody hurt? Okay. I’m on my way. Sorry. Damn it.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No, no, cop business.”

“What cop business?”

“Somebody shot through the window of a cabin up on Forest Hill.”

“Oh my God.”

“Nobody’s hurt. Cecil’s already there, but … I need to go.”

“Be careful.”

“Probably some asshole trying to shoot a deer, and probably long gone. Let’s go, Barney. I’ll be back.” He caught Simone’s face in his hands, kissed her.

* * *

When Reed arrived at the cabin, one neatly tucked into the inland woods, Cecil walked out.

“Hey, Chief. I heard the dispatch go out when I was on my way home, so I radioed Donna I’d take it, since I was close.”

“What’ve we got?”

“Family from Augusta renting the cabin for a week—couple and two kids. They’re having some ice cream, talking about going for a walk, and hear a shot—a sort of pop—and breaking glass. This window here.”

He walked Reed over to examine a side window with a hole and radiating cracks from it in the glass.

“Hit a lamp inside, too,” Cecil told him. “The wife grabbed the kids up, kept them down and away from the windows. The husband called nine-one-one. He looked around out here some after, but didn’t see anything.”

Reed examined the damaged window, turned to study the trees and the shadows deepening in them with dusk.

Inside, he spent some time soothing nerves and tempers before hunkering down by the broken lamp. Avoiding the shards from the globe, he pulled out a penlight, shined it under a chair.

And came up with a BB.

While he soothed, reassured, apologized to the frazzled family, Patricia watched the cabin through field glasses. She’d noted Reed’s response time, the make, color, tags of his car for future reference. When he stepped out again, she lifted the BB rifle onto her shoulders, softly said, “Bang!” and laughed.

“No island kid’s stupid enough to shoot a BB gun like that, Chief. It has to be some dumb-shit summer kid.”

“We’re going to go by all the cabins and cottages in this area, see if we can find a dumb-shit. I appreciate the overtime, Cecil.”

“Aw, that’s no problem.”

They split up to handle it, but Reed’s thoughts kept circling. A small cabin, he thought, four people inside. But the pellet hits in an area no one’s near at that time. And bull’s-eyes a lamp.

Maybe a dumb-shit. Maybe not so dumb.

* * *

For the next week, Reed dealt with a rash of petty vandalism. Spray-painted obscenities on the window of the Sunrise, flowerpots stolen right off the porch of the mayor’s house, three cars keyed while their owners enjoyed dinner at the Water’s Edge, all four tires of another slashed as it sat in front of a rental overlooking the south inlet.

He sat in the mayor’s office as Hildy unloaded.

“You have to put a stop to this, Reed. Every damn day it’s something else, and it’s not the usual summer problems. I’m spending most of my time on the phone dealing with complaints. If this keeps up, it’s going to cost us revenue and damage our reputation. Dobson’s making noises about writing up a petition to have you removed as chief. You need to handle this.”

“We’re doing full-island loop patrols, on foot, in cruisers. I added night patrols. We’re on twenty-four hours.”

“And still can’t catch some nasty kids.”

“If we were dealing with nasty kids, we would have. This is too smart for that.” He rose, went to the map on her wall, tapped various points. “Every sector’s had a hit of some kind. That means whoever’s doing it needs to have a car or bike. And the time frames are all over the clock.”

“You think this isn’t some nasty, bored kid or kids, but a deliberate attempt to undermine the island?”

“Something like that. I’m going to shut it down, Mayor. This is my home, too.”

As Reed walked back to the station, he couldn’t blame Hildy for the anger. He had plenty of his own. He couldn’t blame her for the shaky faith in him, as he believed that was one of the purposes of the vandalism.

Hit every point of the island, he thought, see how he responded, how long it took, where he went, how he got there. Not bored kids, he thought. Hobart, and she was stalking him.

He’d checked the rental offices, the B&Bs, the hotel. No single check-ins. But she’d found a way around that because he knew she was on the island. And watching him.

He ran through the content of the last card—number four. A sympathy card this time, why be subtle?

Enjoying the summer, asshole? Soak up those rays because you’re going to spend a lot of time in the cold and dark. I won’t come to your funeral, though all those tears would be delicious! But I’ll come back, and spit on your fucking grave.

My luck’s in. Yours is running out. It’s time to die.

XXOO, Patricia

Pretty direct, he thought, but what had interested him more had been the scrawling handwriting, and the pressure of the pen on the card. She’d written this one while riding hard on emotion, and she hadn’t been as clever with the rental car she’d used for her last kill. Not when they’d tracked it with GPS within an hour of that kill. He had to leave it to the feds to track down if she’d taken a cab or bus from the airport, rented another car, bought one. Maybe she’d already had one waiting in the lot.

But whatever she’d driven out of Ohio, she’d driven onto the ferry in Portland and onto the island.

Because she was here.

* * *

Patricia opened the door to the twice-a-week housekeeper in a robe, her wet hair slicked back. “Oh my! We overslept.”

“I can come back.”

“No, no, please. It’s fine. We wouldn’t want to throw you off schedule. My husband’s still in the shower, but maybe you can start in the loft? He told me to tell you thanks for offering to at least vacuum in his office, but it’s fine.” She rolled her eyes. “I swear he thinks about his work like state secrets or whatever. I’m going to go get dressed. You’re welcome to make yourself some coffee. I sure miss being allowed that one cup a day.”

She patted her belly as she crossed the living area to the master. She opened the door to let the sound of the shower she’d left running spill out before she closed it again.

As she dressed—capris and a pink T-shirt, fancy hiking boots—she held a conversation with no one, added some laughter, opened and closed drawers, the closet door.

She inspected the room—bed tumbled on both sides—a spy thriller and a nearly empty glass of wine on one nightstand, a historical romance and teacup on the other. A man’s belt slung over the back of a chair. Damp towels in the bathroom—two toothbrushes—bristles damp. Male and female toiletries.