Old Wounds (19 page)

15.

I
NTRUSION

Friday, October 14 and Saturday, October 15

“So, Jared’s taking
you to see Trish Trantham tomorrow—is that still the plan?”

Before Rosemary could answer, Elizabeth slowed the jeep. “That’s weird—I thought for sure I left the outdoor lights on. I figured it’d be dark when we got back and…I don’t know, maybe the power’s out. It still happens now and then—but usually only when we’ve had a lot of rain.”

She pulled the car to a stop in the driveway and opened her door. No dogs. It was well past their feeding time and she had expected to be greeted by James’s eager barking as well as the accusing glare that Molly had down to perfection. But all was quiet. Nothing.

“Molly! James! Urrr-sa!” As they climbed the steps to the porch, Elizabeth whistled and then called again for the missing trio. No response. “They must have given up on us and gone off on a toot. But I’ve never known
James
to go off—”

“Mum, I thought you locked the door. Look, it’s wide open. Do you think that kid is back?” Rosemary pushed past Elizabeth, hitting the switch by the door and flooding the living room with light.

It was like a blow to the stomach, Elizabeth thought. First she felt sick. And then angry. Very, very angry.

Every drawer in the living room had been pulled out—contents dumped on the floor. The shelves that lined the back walls gaped empty; the books lay in tangled heaps on the floor. Sofas, tables, chairs were all overturned and pictures had been pulled from the wall and tossed to the floor to rest atop the other carnage.

Room by room, it was the same. Closets and cabinets had been disemboweled, drawers and shelves ransacked. Mattresses lay askew on beds, and in each room an untidy pile of Elizabeth’s possessions lay on the floor.

“Mum, we have to call the police.” Rosemary was reaching for the telephone. “It must have been that kid. Or the creepy guy who came looking for him. And we shouldn’t touch anything.”

“Where are my dogs?” was Elizabeth’s only reply.

Phillip looked up from the papers he was correcting. He’d been puzzling over a student’s definition of “recidivist” as “a person who receives stolen goods but gives them back,” when he realized that the muffled beep of his cell phone was sounding from somewhere. He pulled himself to his feet and went in search of the jacket he had worn earlier.

It was Sheriff Blaine. “Hawk, we got a situation here. I’m on my way to your lady friend’s place right now. Her daughter called—”

“What is it? Is Elizabeth okay? What’s—”

“She’s fine. She’s outside looking for her dogs, the daughter said. But it sounds like someone’s tossed the house pretty good. I thought you’d want to know.”

Now the phone on his desk, his landline, was ringing. “Hold on, Mac.”

Elizabeth’s voice was small and frightened. “Phillip, could you come out here? Tonight?”

He made the call to Gabby as he sped toward Marshall County. His old shipmate seemed unsurprised by the news, saying only that Del had been afraid of something like this.

“Maybe it’s time you come clean with her. Red may have told her more than he let on to us. Hell, she may know exactly where the stuff is hidden. Or she could know something without exactly
knowing
she knows it, if you follow me. But once we have that deposition and the pictures—especially the pictures—the other side won’t have any reason to go after her.”

Mackenzie Blaine was waiting for him in one of the sheriff department’s four-wheel-drive vehicles. “Thought I’d give you a ride up, Hawk. My boys are done and Miz Goodweather and her daughter are trying to put things back together.”

The sheriff’s eyebrows lifted slightly as Phillip tossed a little overnight bag into the back seat of the SUV. “Good idea. Those two women are pretty shook up. And Miz Goodweather said that the Mexican fellas who live down here are off for the night at some fiesta over in Henderson County. I doubt whoever it was would come back, but just as well for you to be here. Something like this can really—”

Phillip broke in. “What’s your take on this, Mac? Does it look like robbery, or what?”

The sheriff started the car and flipped on his headlights. “I don’t like it. Miz Goodweather thinks it was BibMaitland—says she had a threatening message from him on her machine back on Sunday night—”

“What? She never—”

“No, and she erased the message. So we got nothing there. But—”

“What about prints? Was anything taken? If you find Maitland in possession of stolen goods…”

Blaine slowed the SUV as the headlights caught the forms of Ursa and Molly in the field just ahead of them. “Those her dogs? She’s been worried sick about two dogs that are missing. We found that little one hiding under the porch—doesn’t seem hurt, just pretty scared. Those two look okay. They hers?”

Phillip leaned forward to peer out the window. “Yeah, those are hers. Looks like they’re headed home now.”

He watched Molly loping gracefully up the road, followed by Ursa, whose broad-beamed body plodded laboriously just ahead of their car. Phillip smiled as the big dog sat down to scratch, eliciting a muttered curse from the sheriff as he stopped the vehicle.

“That one moves at her own pace, Mac. Tap the horn; she’ll get up eventually.”

As they waited for Ursa to move out of the road, Phillip said, “Listen, Mac, have you sent someone to pick up Maitland? Because if you’re shorthanded, it would be my pleasure. I’m still sworn in as a deputy from that thing with the militia last year—”

“Slow down, Hawk, I’m not so sure it was Maitland. This doesn’t look like ordinary vandalism or burglary.”

Blaine enumerated his points. Nothing seemed to be missing. A locked door had been opened as if by a locksmith. “If it was Bib trying to scare her, I’d expect to find stuff broken or torn up. This was more like someone looking for something. And unless they found what they wanted when they pulled out that last drawer, I’m thinking they’re still going to be looking.” The sheriff continued, looking troubled. “And the daughter—what’s her name, Rosemary? She’s saying stuff like this is all her fault, but that she has to find the little Mullins girl. Hawk, it’s a helluva mess.”

A helluva mess doesn’t come close.
Phillip looked in dismay at the heaps of books and objects covering the rose red Oriental carpet. A deputy, who was picking up and stacking some of the books in random piles, looked up in relief at the sight of Sheriff Blaine.

“Miz Goodweather and her girl are out back lookin’ fer them other dogs.” He set an outsized copy of
Moby Dick
on top of a stack of fat paperbacks by James Michener. “Reckon she’s read all these books?”

Leaving Blaine and the deputy in the chaos of the living room, Phillip went quickly to the guest room where a French door opened onto the wooded area behind the house. There, more confusion greeted him: ransacked drawers; a wooden chest turned on its side, spilling out a collection of sepia-toned pictures; blankets twisted over the mess on the floor. The outer door opened and a dark-haired young woman stepped into the room. Seeing Phillip, she froze, but before he could explain himself, Elizabeth burst through the door and hurled herself into his arms.

Hours later, Phillip and Rosemary had been introduced, the sheriff and his deputies had gone, a modicum of order was restored to the house, and all three dogs had been fed and were happily asleep in Elizabeth’s bedroom.
I wonder who else is in there now,
Rosemary mused.

Rosemary had taken herself off to bed upstairs, firmly closing the door behind her, while her mother and the burly ex-detective still sat talking quietly in the living room.
She went into his arms like she belonged there.

Rosemary smiled.
It’s good to see her able to lean on someone again. She’s insisted on absorbing all the shocks and troubles by herself for too long. And he seems to really care about her—the way he insisted on staying till we find out who’s behind the break-in. And for once Mum didn’t argue.

Rosemary yawned and snuggled into her bed. The thought that her mother might have found someone after five—
no, almost six
—years of widowhood was comforting.
Who knows, maybe there’s hope for me.

As she drifted into sleep, images from the day in Cherokee followed one after another. A mask in the museum, a gourd rattle in a gift shop, the waterfall that had been their last stop. Surely she had seen it before. But it was bigger than she remembered, much bigger. Wasn’t it usually just the opposite? Didn’t things remembered from childhood always turn out to be smaller, less impressive?

It was good of Jared to offer to go with me to see Mrs. Mullins—or rather, Trish Trantham.
The thought emerged unbidden.
He said it was unfinished business for him too…and that it was fate that had brought me back. Maybe tomorrow…

Phillip Hawkins stepped noiselessly out to the little porch that lay beyond the guest room’s French door. He took his cell phone from his belt, punched in a number, and began to speak quietly. After a moment he shook his head in disgust and ended the call. He stood in silence, absorbing the sounds of the night, weighing and assessing each rustle and creak that came to his ears. At last satisfied, he went inside and set his phone on the bedside table, then put his pistol beside it.
Back in the guest room again.
With a sigh, he sank into the bed. The luminescent dial on his watch told him that it was after two a.m.