Rusty stepped closer.
Just above the back of the couch, where the man's head would have been if he'd been sitting up straight, the wall was splattered with a shiny pattern of gore. At the center of the pattern, Rusty saw a hole.
Grant's right hand was still clutching a .32 automatic. His thumb was trapped inside the trigger guard.
"Looks like he ate it," Osgood said.
Rusty nodded. He'd seen this sort of thing before. "That's the best way," he said, "if you want to make sure."
"He left a note." The lanky, ashen-faced deputy pointed at a sheet of paper on the coffee table.
Rusty knelt and read the note.
When I think, fair creature of an hour
That I shall never look upon thee more -—
Then on the shore of the wide world
I stand alone.
Forgive me, Alison.
I killed not thee
With half so good a will.
Your loving,
Grant
The body of the note was typed, but the signature was longhand.
"It's his signature," Osgood said. "Or a damn good forgery."
"I doubt it was forged," Rusty said. "This looks about as much like a suicide as anything I've ever seen."
Chapter Twenty-six
Close Call
"Stop!"
As the door started to open, Pac threw herself against it. Though it was only open a fraction of an inch, her sudden impact slammed it shut with a loud crash.
"Stay out!" she shouted.
She hurried around behind the chairs.
Bending over the shotgun, she pushed its safety on. Then she twisted the steel wire loose and freed the trigger.
"What's going on?" Ina called.
"Just a second." Pac hurried to the door and untwisted the wire around the knob. Sidestepping, she swung the door open wide and watched Ina flinch to find a shotgun muzzle pointing at her bare belly.
"Holy shit!" she gasped. The bent credit card dropped from her hand, did a single flip, and clattered against the wood of the threshold.
"Come on in," Pac said, "but don't touch anything."
Keeping her eyes on the shotgun as if it were a sleeping snake that might awaken and strike her, Ina knelt to pick up her credit card. Then she stepped into the house. Once out of the shotgun's line of fire, she smiled nervously at Pac. "He's not here?"
"I doubt it." Pac shut the door. "Nobody seems to be downstairs, but I haven't searched the second floor yet."
"That." Ina pointed at the strange arrangement of chairs and shotgun. "Was that meant for Bass?"
"Apparently."
"My God!"
"You'd better wait here. I'll take a look upstairs."
Nodding, Ina lowered herself onto the couch. "Don't take long, okay?"
"I'll hurry."
Pac went to the stairway. She took the steps slowly and silently, her .45 ready and her eyes searching. Though much of the house was still light with the early evening sun slanting through windows, the stairs were obscured by shadow. She kept her left hand low, brushing the carpet of the higher stairs, hoping to feel an unseen tripwire if the stairway, too, was booby trapped.
She reached the top of the stairs. The bathroom door stood open. So did the door of the study across from it. Looking down the hall, she saw that the doors of both bedrooms stood open. She would search each room. The bathroom first; it was the nearest.
She shoved the bathroom door. It swung and bumped the rubber stop. Entering, she glanced into the tub.
Nobody.
She turned to leave.
"Pac!"
She rushed to the head of the stairs and looked down at Ina. "What's wrong?"
"Someone's coming. I heard a car."
"Get away from the door."
Ina dodged out of sight.
Pac dropped to her knees. She heard footsteps on the front porch. Keys jangled. She lowered herself to a prone position that gave her a full view of the front door and an easy shot at anyone who might enter.
She heard the metallic ratchet of a key pushing into a lock.
The knob turned. The door opened. Bass Paxton started to step inside, then let out a startled gasp and lurched away from the shotgun.
"Bass," Ina said. "It's all right. It's safe. You can come in."
"I'm not sure that's such a good idea."
"The shotgun's disconnected," Pac called down to him. "And I put its safety on."
"Who is that?" he asked, squinting up the stairs. "Pac?"
"Right," she told him. She stood, bolstered her pistol, and started down the stairs.
"I don't suppose this shotgun belongs to either of you?"
"Somebody left it for you," Pac said.
He stepped quickly past the muzzle and into his house. "I've been needing a new shotgun," he said.
"You told me you'd be here," Ina blurted. "We called and you didn't answer. We were so worried, Bass. We thought . . . something might've happened to you."
"Something happened, all right -- I got hungry."
"You shouldn't have gone off."
"I'm not so sure of that." He gave the shotgun a glance.
Pac joined them in the living room. "What time did you leave here?" she asked.
"About five."
"After you left, someone apparently broke in through your back door and set up this booby trap."
"The thing would've cut me in half."
"Wouldn't have done you any good," Pac said. "Assuming it's loaded."
"You don't know if . . . ?"
"I haven't touched it except to put on the safety. Didn't want to risk ruining any evidence. But it probably is loaded. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to set this thing up. Do you have any ideas who might've done it?"
He rubbed the back of his neck. "I can only think of one person -- the guy we saw this morning. The guy who killed that woman."
"It's certainly a possibility," Pac said.
"Excuse me," Ina muttered. Her face looked pale. "Where's your bathroom?"
"Upstairs and to your left," Bass told her.
She nodded with a quick jerk of her head. Her" shoulders were hunched. Pac saw goosebumps on her bare arms and midriff. Her stiff nipples pushed at the fabric of her halter top. Crossing her arms, she turned away and walked quickly to the stairs.
"That shotgun," Bass said to Pac. "If the killer left it for me . . . it means he knows who I am. If he found me, maybe he's already found Faye."
"Yeah. Maybe so."
"Do you think he . . . killed her?"
Pac grimaced, but shook her head. "If he only wanted to kill her, why is she gone? Why didn't he kill her at the house? Why take her clothes and luggage and car? Doesn't make sense. If he's got her, he's taking her someplace."
"But where?"
"Any ideas?" Pac asked.
"I wish."
"Is it possible that Faye knew the killer, recognized him this morning?"
"God, I don't know. No. She would've said something. She'd have told me."
"He must've recognized her, then. I can't imagine him actually following her from the Bend to the station, then waiting around while she gave her statement and finally following her to the house. It just doesn't seem likely at all. So he must've already known who she was."
"If he found out her name," Bass said, "he could've gotten her address from the phone book. She's listed."
"Yeah. Or maybe he already knew where to find her. So this afternoon he paid her a visit and snatched her. Took her clothes and suitcases to make it look like she'd gone away of her own volition. And maybe took her car because he needed it for transportation."
"But why would he do all that instead of . . . you know, booby trapping her door like he did mine?"
"Maybe he only had one shotgun. Or he was afraid he'd get Ina by mistake."
"He could've just waited for Faye and killed her on the spot."
"That's right," Pac said. "So maybe he took her away to buy himself some time. Nobody'll be looking very hard for Faye if they think she drove off to visit her parents or take a little vacation or something. That gives the killer time."
"For what?"
"Maybe he wanted to get some information from her. Maybe your address."
"My God."
"Yeah."
"So he could come over here blow me away."
Pac watched Bass's eyes, and she could see by his look that he knew what she was thinking: if the killer had taken Faye alive only to make her give up Bass's address, then maybe she'd served her only purpose and he'd killed her.
Bass dropped to the couch. Wearily, he rubbed his face. "There's still a chance she really did leave on her own."
Pac nodded. "Sure. She might be zipping along on the Goast Highway even as we speak. There's a pretty good chance of it, really. We've got no real reason to think the killer grabbed her."
Looking very tired, Bass said, "If I don't hear from her by nine, I'll phone her folks and see if they know anything. Maybe she'll even be there. . . ."
"Is it all right if I make a couple of calls right now?" Pac asked.
"Sure, go ahead. You can use the extension in the kitchen if you want."
"Thanks." She went into the kitchen and phoned her own house. After two rings, Hamey picked up.
"Hello?" he asked.
"Hi, honey, it's me."
"Hey, what's up?"
"Plenty, but I can't get into it right now. I just wanted to let you know I'll be a little late."
"Should I cancel the reservations?"
"No! I'll be back in time. I hope. I intend to be. Barring unforseen calamities."
He laughed softly. "Okay, Pop."
"Speaking of which, I've already reconfirmed with him about tomorrow. Anyway, I'd better get back to business. See you soon, honey."
"Okay, take care."
"You, too. Bye." She hung up the phone, then placed a call to headquarters. Deputy Blaine picked up the phone. Pac requested that a car be sent over to Bass's house with the crime-scene kit and camera. "When she rains," Blaine said, "she pours."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Means things don't happen one at a time, they happen in bunches. Haven't you ever heard the expression before?"
She laughed, more out of frustration than amusement. She was tired. She wanted to get home. And here was Blaine acting like a dimwit. "Can you have the stuff sent over?" she asked.
"It'll be a spell, I'm afraid."
"Why's that?"
"Sheriff Hodges has it. Over at the Parkington place? I guess you know about Dr. Parkington, the professor? The fellow who's wife got herself killed?"
"Know what?"
"Well, looks like he shot himself this afternoon."
"Is he dead?"
"Dead as it gets. Like I say, when she rains, she pours."
"Let me have Parkington's phone number."
When Elaine finally gave it to her, she called the Parkington condo. Osgood answered. "This is Pac. Is the sheriff there?"
"Sure is."
"Put him on, would you?"
A moment later, Rusty's low voice said, "Good news travels fast."
"Everyone's got a saying tonight."
"What?"
"Nothing. Doesn't matter. Was it definitely suicide?"
"I'm no coroner, but I'd say there's not much room for doubt. The pistol was still in his hand, no signs of forced entry or a struggle, and he left us a message with a signature that seems to match other samples of his writing. The note claims he killed his wife."
"Did he?" Pac asked. "Kill her?"
"I tend to doubt it. The way things look, he was just feeling responsible. He must've felt guilty about letting her out of the house last night. Natural enough way to feel."
"I suppose."
"I'd say it's a pretty definite suicide, Pac."
"Well, we just had a pretty definite attempted murder over here."
"Where?"
"I'm at Bass Paxton's house. At four three two Malfi. Ina and I came over here to check on him. She'd phoned him from her place and he didn't answer, so we wanted to make sure he was okay. He didn't come to the door, so I looked around back and found evidence of a break in. So I entered. He wasn't here, but somebody had booby trapped his front door with a shotgun. Five minutes after I disarmed it, Bass walked in."
"Looks like this is his lucky day."
"I'd say so."
"Sure is starting to look like our killer might be out to eliminate the two who saw him this morning."
"That's how it looks to me," Pac said. "I'd like to take some photos and dust the place for latents."
"Fine. We're about done over here."
"I'll be waiting."
"We don't want this to mess up your dinner at the Fireside," Rusty said. "If it looks like things are taking too long, give me a call. I'll rush over so you can take off."
"Well, thanks."
"No problem."
"Bye for now," she said. She hung up and returned to the living room.
Nearly half an hour passed before Deputy Osgood arrived with the crime-scene kit and camera. Pac took photos of the back door. Dusting its inside knob, she found a latent thumb print. Though she doubted it belonged to the man who'd broken in, she lifted it with cellophane tape, smoothed the tape across an index card, and labeled the card.
At the front door, she snapped photos of the shotgun trap. The door knob held several good prints. She lifted them. She also took partials off the backs of the dining-room chairs used to support the shotgun. The painted doorjamb had prints, too.
The shotgun was absolutely clean.
She cut it loose and opened the chamber. With Bass and Ina watching, she plucked out a bright red 12 gauge shell.
Bass turned a little pale.
Pac took the shotgun out to her car along with the tape, wire, and the eye screw from the door frame. Then she returned to the house.
"That about takes care of it," she said.
"I'm sure glad you dropped by when you did," Bass told her. To Ina, he said, "You, too."
Ina smiled nervously. She had spent a long time in the bathroom, but seemed well recovered now.
Pac turned to Bass and said, "It might be a good idea to go somewhere else for tonight. I wouldn't stay here if I were you. This fellow might come back for a second try."
"You want me to go into hiding?"
"No point making it easy for him."
"Well, I wouldn't do that. I'd make it very hard."
"It's up to you."
"You could come over and stay in Faye's room tonight," Ina suggested.
"That's an idea," he said. "But I wouldn't want to be in your way."
"I'm scared to death. I couldn't stay there by myself. Not after all this."
"It's a deal, then."
"If you hear anything about Faye," Pac told them both, "give me a call. You have my home phone number, Bass?"
"You kidding? I know it by heart."
"I'll either be there or at the Fireside restaurant."
"Ah!" he gasped as if he suddenly remembered. "That's right! This is your big anniversary dinner. Hey, congratulations."
"Yeah," Ina said, seeming a bit at a loss.
"And give my regards to the big Harn, huh?"
"Oh, I will. Thanks. Now both of you be careful, okay?"
"You bet," Bass said. "And you two have a great dinner."
With a nod and a wave, she left the house.
As she headed for her car, she decided to drive straight home. Time was getting short. Morning would be plenty soon enough to take the evidence in, and if anyone needed the camera or crime-scene kit before then . . . well, they knew where to find her.
In the car, she sighed deeply. She rubbed her face and yawned. Though she'd been keeping track of the time, she looked at the dashboard clock anyway. Almost 6:15.
It'll be a rush, but we'll make it.
More than twelve hours on duty, she thought. No wonder I'm wasted.
It had been a long time since she'd put in a day like this. But then, they sure didn't have a homicide every day.
Well, she'd probably saved Bass's life. That made the extra effort worthwhile.
If only I could've saved Faye.
Hey, cut it out. Don't bury her yet.
Faye might still be alive, she told herself. She might be on the way to Burlingame, for instance.
But Pac doubted it.
Ina obviously doubted it, too. Ina, ready and willing to accommodate Bass. She'd probably been waiting for a chance like this for a long time.
Who could blame her, though? If it weren't for Harney, Pac might've been tempted to go after Bass, herself.
No. The guy's damn good-looking -- hell, gorgeous -- but somehow, he just didn't appeal much to Pac. He made a fine friend, but she couldn't picture him as a lover.
Too possessive, she thought. He'd try to run my life.
If Faye wants to subject herself to that sort of thing, good for her. But not me. I just want a nice, laid-back guy like Harney.