Cat's Claw (25 page)

I hit the horn three times, fast and light—the Texas equivalent of
“Howdy—anybody home? You’ve got company.” I kept my eye on the front door. If Timms was awake, he’d come out to see who had just arrived to disturb his peace.

He didn’t. Well, okay. I had talked myself out of being afraid. On the other hand, there was an APB out for this man, and it was entirely likely that nobody at PSPD knew about this “secret getaway” place, as McQuaid had called it. I had a responsibility for reporting his whereabouts. I reached for my phone. I’d call 9-1-1 and report that I had found the automobile. The dispatcher would contact the county sheriff and a deputy would come out, take Timms into custody, and notify Sheila. I flipped open my phone.

Uh-oh, no bars. I tried anyway, but all I got was that frustrating message,
No network coverage
. Which left me with a choice. I could drive back up the road to a place where I could make the call—the top of the hill, near the mailboxes and that cat’s claw vine, probably. Or I could get out and have a look around, then drive back up the road until I got a signal. I was considering the options when it occurred to me that Timms might be in some kind of trouble here, and that I might need to ask for medical assistance. I opted to have a look first.

A moment later, I was at the front door, ringing the doorbell, which gave a stirring peal of “The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You.” I could hear a voice—radio or television, I thought—from somewhere inside. But there was no answer to the doorbell, and after punching the button and calling Timms’ name a couple of times, I stepped off the front porch and walked around the side of the house.

It was truly an attractive place, one level in front, two in the back, with a roofed, wooden deck built against the sloping hill and another open deck a little farther down, with the guesthouses off to the left, behind a screen of landscaping shrubs. I stepped up onto the upper-level
deck, which was furnished with lacquered bamboo furniture with bright-colored cushions. Two large stereo speakers hung against the walls. On a glass-topped table beside a lounge chair was a half-empty mug of stale-looking beer and a plate holding a partly eaten sandwich and a handful of wilted potato chips. A single-serving cup of yogurt still wore its foil lid, a spoon beside it. I felt the yogurt cup. It had been out of the fridge for a while. A thick white terry towel was draped over the back of the lounge and an open book, its pages damp, lay on the seat, beside a pair of binoculars. In an ashtray, a half-smoked cigarette had burned itself out. It was damp, too. I frowned. Beer, the sandwich and chips, yogurt, a cigarette, a book—they all looked like they had been left out in the overnight drizzle. Yesterday’s supper? Yesterday’s lunch?

I turned and looked toward the house. A pair of sliding glass doors opened onto the living-dining area. I went closer and called again, louder. No answer, so I stepped inside, noting that the voice I had heard was coming from a radio on the kitchen counter, tuned to KUT in Austin and broadcasting the usual NPR “Morning Edition.” I turned it off, called again, and listened. Not a word, not a sound. Where was Timms?

I went quickly through the kitchen, which was equipped with the latest in stainless steel appliances; the vaulted living-dining area with a massive stone fireplace, carpeted in pale beige; a bedroom with a huge unmade bed, the walls hung with framed erotic photographs; a darkroom off the bedroom; a bathroom with shaving equipment laid out on the marble-topped counter. Upstairs, there was another bathroom and two loft bedrooms—both empty—with windows overlooking the tops of the trees in the canyon below. The entire place was beautifully and expensively furnished and completely deserted. But I spotted a telephone on the table beside the unmade bed in the master bedroom and another, with an answering machine, in the kitchen, the message light blinking.
I picked up the receiver and was relieved to hear a dial tone. I could call out from here, rather than drive all the way back up the road to a point where my cell could pick up a signal. But first—

But first, I needed to find Timms. I went back outside, shouting his name, listening for an answer and hearing none, more and more convinced that the man had met with—what? An accident? Or something else?

I went down to the lower deck, where I saw a flagstone path slanting diagonally down and across the steep hill toward a silvery thread of creek forty feet below. I took the path, noticing that the hillside had been completely cleared of the usual underbrush, then terraced with native limestone rock and landscaped with yaupon hollies, madrones, Mexican buckeyes, cat’s claw acacia, and clumps of Lindheimer’s muhly. Agarita, lantana, salvias, and other native plants were growing in sculpted pockets of lush plantings along the path. Off to one side, what looked like a miniature concrete-bottomed stream was under construction, and an unobtrusive network of soaker hoses snaked through the shredded cedar mulch, ensuring that the plants would get a drink whenever they were thirsty. A drapery of tiny fairy lights festooned the trees, and I could picture the hillside illuminated at night. It would be quite beautiful. Timms had invested a great deal of effort—and spent some serious money—in destroying the real wilderness and creating a “wilderness look” in its place.

The well-groomed imitation wilderness ended abruptly at the foot of the hill, where the authentic Hill Country wilderness began, with a thicket of snarled redbud saplings, elbow bush, and catbrier, under a canopy of live oaks and cedar elms so thick they almost shut out the early-morning light. A narrow trail continued on in the direction of the creek, hacked through the dense underbrush. The sloping ground,
covered with loose leaf litter, was soft and moist, and if Timms had come this far, I should be able to see his footprints. I looked down at the path ahead and spotted the track of a running shoe, the sole deeply ridged. Then another and another, long strides, running strides, a man in a hurry. Chasing something?

And then, ten paces farther on, I saw a red Texas Rangers baseball cap beside the trail. It looked as if it had been stepped on and pushed into the soil. It marked a spot where a heavy scuffle of shoeprints roughed up the path’s surface. I knelt for a closer look. I was seeing not one shoeprint, but two, very close together and deep, as if the man with the long strides had suddenly stumbled and was trying to regain his balance. Then another short, heavy step, almost a stagger, and the deep, unmistakable print of a hand, palm flat, fingers spread. Just off the trail, a cedar elm sapling was snapped off a foot above the ground, broken branches scattered as if there had been a struggle. On the other side of the trail, I saw a jagged, bloody rock with a scrap of silvery fur on it, and a dark stain, the size of a dinner plate. I bent over to smell it and knew immediately that the ground was soaked with blood. A lot of blood.

My arms broke out in goose bumps, my breath was coming short and sharp, and I had to fight the urge to turn tail and run back up the hill. But I told myself that whatever had happened here had happened some time before—hours, perhaps. The danger was gone and my need to know was urgent. I swallowed my fear and straightened, looking around.

Another ten feet off the trail, in the direction of the creek, I spotted scuff marks in the soil, more broken branches, and patches of disturbed and scattered leaf litter. Something glittered in the leaves and I picked it up: a man’s Rolex, solid and heavy, its face studded with small diamonds. There was a smear of blood across the crystal and the gold accordion
watchband was twisted and broken. I sucked in my breath. What had happened here? What had
happened
?

And then I looked ahead. Beyond the point where I picked up the watch, I could see the unmistakable furrow created by something heavy—a body—dragged through a thick green patch of river ferns. I followed the trail of torn leaves and broken stems. Twenty yards on, a Nike running shoe, the lace still tied. It was soaked with blood. It had been shredded.

Another twenty yards on, I found the man. He was buried under a pile of twigs and leaves and forest litter meticulously scraped over him, covering all of him but his feet. One foot wore a running shoe, the mate to the Nike I had found. The other foot… wasn’t there, just a gnawed, bloody stump.

I fought with myself, my heart thumping, my mind racing, my hands sweaty. I didn’t want to look but I couldn’t leave this place without being sure. On my knees, I frantically scraped the leaves away from the dead man’s face—and then fought against the panic that rose inside me like a terrified creature, fighting to get out. I rocked back on my heels and heard my scream echoing through the trees.

His face was gone, too.

Chapter Twelve

Sheila hadn’t slept well. She wasn’t sure whether it was the investigation into Kirk’s death or the almost-quarrel with Blackie, or the absence of his large, warm body in their bed. She missed him. It wasn’t the first time they’d been apart since they married, but it was the first time she had
felt
apart from him, as if they were separated by more than just distance. Separated by what they had said to each other. Even worse, what they had not said. Or what she had not said: that their marriage had been a mistake. There had been other times in her life when love (or lust or whatever it was) hadn’t been enough to bridge the gap between what she wanted and what she needed, not just in her heart but in her head and in her work life. Would it be enough now, not just for her but for Blackie, too?

So she’d slept badly, in her dreams turning over the events of the previous day as if they were pieces of a puzzle, trying and failing to fit them together into something recognizable. A dead man and a missing man, Larry Kirk and George Timms: two separate puzzles or one larger, interlocking puzzle? She and Bartlett: a good partnership or a bad mistake that she would live to regret? She and Blackie, growing closer or pulling apart, separated by wants and needs that the other couldn’t
fulfill? In her dream, she had only a few hours to find the answers, solve the puzzles, or—

Or what? That was a puzzle, too.

She woke before the dream brought her any meaningful answers and lay, frustrated and wakeful, in the blackness. Rambo slept in his bed on the floor beside her, his breathing rhythmic and easy. After a while, she fell back asleep, lulled by the gentle sound as she was often lulled by Blackie’s breathing.

She was up at four thirty and out for a longer-than-usual run through the dark, cool morning, she and the dog taking the street that led up the hill above her house, tackling the steep part first, then leveling off across the wooded ridge, coming downhill as she cooled off, four miles altogether. The asphalt pavement was still wet, although the drizzle had almost stopped. She loved running while the houses were still dark, the people asleep, just herself and Rambo, all alone, moving together through the silent, empty morning.

Usually, the running silenced her busy thoughts and filled her with a flowing energy that was all muscle, all body, no mind. But this morning, she couldn’t stop thinking about Blackie, and worrying. He and McQuaid knew what they were doing, but travel in northern Mexico right now was dangerous. To locate the missing child, they’d have to ask questions of people who wouldn’t want the questions answered. They could run into some serious trouble.

By five thirty, she was home again and in the shower. By six, she was dressed, not in her uniform but in uniformlike civvies: a dark blue open-collared blouse, burgundy blazer, dark blue pants, black half-boots, her blond hair snugged back out of the way. On days when she dressed in street clothes, she left her duty weapon locked up and wore her personal gun, a Glock 27, in a paddle holster that fitted into the back of her pants
or skirt. That’s where it was now, the solid heft of it smooth and cool in the hollow of her back.

It was still dark when she went down to the kitchen, where she fed Rambo and poured a cup of fresh coffee from the coffeemaker. Then she fixed a bowl of corn flakes and milk, booted up her laptop on the table in the dining nook, and settled down to work, spooning up cereal while she logged into her secure office network and went rapidly through as many emails as possible. Connie Page, her assistant, didn’t get in until eight, but Sheila left a message on Connie’s answering machine, asking her to clear the morning’s calendar. She’d be working away from the office, reachable by cell.