Drop Dead on Recall (29 page)

94

I was about to
turn right out of the Shadetree parking lot onto Anthony when I saw a line of red taillights creeping into the underpass. They seemed to stretch a full block, the last one in the lineup idling a couple of car lengths past the intersection north of the nursing home. The road was alive with water, swirling and grabbing at wheel wells, arcing away behind the cars like long, fluid fins. If drowning is my destiny, I’d rather not fulfill it in an oily underpass, so I turned south on Anthony, cut west to Lafayette, and then north through downtown. The rain and wind were picking up again by the time I turned east on State, and night settled over the city like a shroud.

The traffic lights were out all along State, at Reed, Maplecrest, and Lahmeier, adding to the challenge of the windblown obstacle course. Cars slowed and wove back and forth between lanes, dodging big tree limbs and crushing small ones. Three or four garbage cans rolled around the street, spinning this way and that, as if a giant cat were knocking them from one lane to another. I thought of
my
cat and hoped he was safe and dry.

So far people were civil, taking turns at the cross streets. I crept through the last uncontrolled intersection before my turn, inching up to 35 mph, which seemed to be fast enough for everyone except the vehicle on my rear bumper. Its brights bounced off my mirrors into my eyes, and I couldn’t see what it was, but the height of the lights said truck or van or SUV. Big. For one paranoid moment I thought it was that cargo van again, and for some reason Connie’s admonition that “it’s not all about you, Janet” came screaming into my head. As much as that had stung, she was right, and not every wacko driver was out to get me. At least I hoped not.

I tried slowing down to get the fool to pass me. When that didn’t work, I sped up to 40. All I could see in my mirrors was the blinding brightness. I used a couple of expletives when the lights followed me around the corner onto Maysville.

The turn onto my street was half a block away when I put my signal on. I was tapping my brakes and hoping the jerk wouldn’t hit us when a sheet of newspaper splatted against my windshield and diverted my focus from the truck on my bumper. I hit the down button on my window and reached into the maelstrom to try to pull the paper out of my way, but a morsel of newsprint tore away in my fingers, leaving the bulk glued to the glass.
Great! They’ll find us dead in a papier-mâché car.
The wipers tore at the paper, shredding a little more with each swipe until I could see enough to make the turn if the nut on my tail didn’t rear-end us first.

For a couple seconds, the lights stayed put, then suddenly swung to the left as I skidded around to the right. I checked my rearview mirror again, but there was nothing to see. I glanced over my left shoulder and got a quick impression of a big-wheel pickup. Not a cargo van.
What is it with idiot drivers lately?

I pulled into the garage, turned off the engine, shut the overhead door, and leaned my head back against the headrest. I realized that I was panting, my lungs trying to catch up with my heart, and I forced my muscles to loosen as the tension oozed from my arms and legs. A headache had sunk its fangs into the base of my skull and was nibbling its way up the nerve paths to the top. The timer on the light from the overhead-door opener ran its course, and the garage went dark. Jay shifted in his crate and gave a little whine, bringing me back to the moment.

I got out and felt my way around the front bumper to the light switch on the wall. I didn’t want to raise the overhead door again, so I popped the back of the van and let it rise slowly to a forty-five degree opening, the leading edge braced against the inner surface of the garage door, leaving an opening just big enough for me to crawl under to open the crate. Jay rolled his eyes up to look at the low-
hanging hatch, and carefully hopped to the concrete floor. I slammed
the hatch shut, and we retreated to the comfort and safety of the house.

I checked in with Goldie. Still no sign of Leo. I shed my wet clothes, toweled my hair, and put the kettle on for some tea. Blackberry sage, my comfort brew. Jay snarfed up his dinner in record time, but looked at me like I was nuts when I offered to let him out. I could see his point. The rain had lightened to a sprinkle, but the wind whipped the forsythia and lilac branches into a frenzy, and thunder rumbled somewhere to the west. I’d hold it awhile too if I had to go out there to pee.

I dialed Connie’s number, but there was no answer. I wondered to her machine whether she’d heard about Greg, although I figured that Giselle had no doubt called her. There was nothing much on the television, and my headache seemed to be settling in for the night, so I decided to drug myself, take a nice relaxing lavender bubble bath, and hit the sack.

I fished around the bottom of my purse for some naproxen, but couldn’t find any. Then I remembered the bottle I keep in my training bag, along with gourmet cheese-and-liver training treats, an emergency collar, and a lot of stuff I forgot about long ago. I started pulling things out of my bag and setting them on the end table by the couch, next to the old dumbbell I’d put there the previous week. Goldie would razz me again if she saw it still sitting there. I pulled out some notes and maps from tracking sessions. Several bungee cords—you never know when you’ll need one. Finally I dug out the naproxen bottle.

I took two naproxens, went to the bedroom, and was pulling off my soggy pants when Jay started barking like a mad man somewhere in the front of the house.

95

Jay usually quits barking
when I tell him “Quiet,” but not this time, so I pulled my pants back up and went to see what was happening. He bounced around the living room window, his hair standing straight out around his neck, booming a warning into the darkness around us. I tried to see through the glass into the night, but couldn’t make out anything except frantic branches and their shadows cavorting in the scattered lights.

“It’s okay, Bubby. Just the wind.” He gave me a “You can’t fool me, I know you’re scared!” look, but he quieted down except for an occasional soft
brffff
.

The adrenalin from the drive home had left me a bit woozy, and my head was about to explode, so I went to the kitchen and half filled a bowl with ice cubes and water, carried it to the living room, and set it on the floor by the couch. Then I trudged to the bathroom, pulled a washcloth from the towel rack, trudged back to the couch. I dunked the cloth into the ice water, wrung it out, and folded it in half. As I stretched out on the cushions, I lay the cloth across my forehead, pressing the soothing cold into my scalp line and temples, and lay as still as I could. Finally, the headache flinched and loosened its hold on the back of my skull, giving me some hope of a reasonable night’s sleep.

Forty minutes later I was feeling a lot better, but the whine and clatter of the wind through the kitchen vent was making my nerves itch, so I dragged myself off the couch and down the hall to my bedroom.

My little respite on the couch wasn’t nearly so relaxing for Jay. He had spent the entire time torn between lying next to the couch to keep an eye on me, as always, and running to bark at the kitchen door, then back to me every time I told him to be quiet, a most un-Jay-like behavior. The wind was making us both weird.

“Where’s Leo, Bubby?” I asked my dog. I put on some old but clean sweatpants and a T-shirt and checked outside both doors once more. I was pulling the covers back on the bed when all hell broke loose. Something crashed outside the kitchen door, followed by a jarring wham into the door itself.

Jay barked frantically, looking at me for instructions as I ran into the kitchen. I held on to his collar and opened the door. “Leo?” I called, hoping against hope that he would pick this hostile night to return to us.

A maple branch sprawled across the patio, its main arm a foot or so in diameter, its smaller tentacles reaching toward the house. It saddened me to know that the big old tree was damaged, but I told Jay, “Look, Bubby, it’s just a big stick.” I closed the door and locked it, and decided to double check the front door while I was at it.

By the time I crawled into bed I was wide awake again, so I snuggled in and opened my book. Jay plastered his back against the length of my blanketed leg and heaved a sigh. The normal routine is for me to read and for him to fall fast asleep, but every few minutes he raised his head, ears swivelled toward the front of the house. I rested a hand on his flank. He rolled his hip tight against me, but kept his attention on the door.

A nearly imperceptible growl vibrated in Jay’s throat, raising the hairs on my arms. I was about to get up and see for myself what was beyond the bedroom door when Jay rested his chin on his crossed paws, letting me off the hook. The storm was still roaring around us twenty minutes later when I stuck a piece of tissue between the pages of my book, set it next to the lamp, and turned out the light.

I was floating very near slumber land when Jay’s barking jolted me back to full consciousness.

96

Jay stood on the
bed, and it shook every time he let out a booming
buroof
. I should know by now to listen to my dog, but the shock to my adrenals had brought my headache back with a vengeance, and I took Jay by the collar and hustled him down the hall toward the kitchen. I flipped the switch for the hallway light, but nothing happened.
I told you to replace that bulb,
whispered the voice from my pompous side.

Jay tried to pull me into the living room, growling and barking, but I hauled him through the dark to the kitchen and out the door. “Go out and pee, and have a look around. Then maybe we can get some sleep!”

I groped for and found the light switch by the door, but it made no difference. No lights.
Storm must have knocked out a transformer
, I thought, until I noticed that Goldie’s back porch light was on, as it often was all night. My circuit breaker must have tripped.

I turned toward the laundry room, felt my way past the kitchen table and chairs, hoping not to catch a toe on a chair leg, and followed the smooth surface of the wall into the gloom of the windowless laundry room. My fingers hit the cool edge of the dryer, drifted to the right, touched the wall, and ran over the vinyl wallpaper until they found metal. I felt for the pull ring and yanked the breaker box open, then realized that I had no idea which breaker was where. I needed some light.

I backtracked into the kitchen and slowly made my way to the counter. I opened the first drawer to the right of the sink and felt around, trying to remember whether anything sharp lay waiting to stab me. The biggest hazards in the drawer were probably a couple of pens. As my fingers closed over the hard plastic flashlight handle, I thought I heard something behind me.

I stopped, listening into the dark.
Must be the wind.
I picked up
the flashlight and tried it. No go.
Note to self: replace flashlight
batteries
.

I fumbled in the drawer again, and my fingers closed over a small
cardboard box. I pushed it open and felt inside. Two matches.
Another note to self. Renew supply of matches.

Jay was raising hell outside the door. It wasn’t his usual “let me in” bark, but more serious, a prolonged medley of deep-throated boofs and high-pitched squeals. “Quiet!” Knowing he didn’t like the wind but puzzled by the panic in his voice, I hollered that I’d be right there.

My fingers fumbled further into the drawer and were rewarded by the feel of a cylinder about four inches long. I pictured its scarred red surface and blackened wick, and was glad I’d kept it though its tabletop days were done. As I’d told Goldie many times, you never know when something may come in handy. I put the candle stub in my pocket and edged back toward the laundry room. I was just starting to pull open the matchbox when a stunning pain knocked all thought out of my mind.

97

The pain severed any
commitment I had made to clean up my language, and I swore like a lady pirate as I leaned against the door frame and bent to massage my poor little piggies. Jay leaped and banged against the kitchen door, barking and squealing, and the flap on the dryer vent clattered and whined erratically in the wind. I knew my headache was back when a fist of pain clutched my skull, unsheathed its claws, and sank them in.

Suck it up, MacPhail.
I let go of my toes, straightened up, and tried to focus on the job at hand. I gently nudged open the matchbox. My fingertips caught one of the matches and pulled it out. I slid the cover over the inner box, felt for the striker paper, and stroked the head of the match along the rough surface. A couple of sparks, nothing more. “Crap!” I struck it again, harder. The head of the match snapped off, flared and arced like a fairy’s comet, and fizzled before it hit the floor.

I dropped the useless bit of wood and carefully retrieved the remaining match from the box as I moved back into the laundry room. I held my breath and laid the head of the match against the striker. And stopped.

That sound again, a hint of sound really, not quite there, a whisper, like metal against cloth. I stepped backward out of the laundry room and listened. No sound, but something.

I backed further into the kitchen and inclined my head toward the living room, straining to hear. The kitchen window offered a dim glow, but not enough to reveal whatever the deep shadows concealed. Visions of maniacs danced in my mind, their heads aglow with incandescent red hair.

My cheek grazed something cold and hard. The phone. I picked up the receiver and pushed Goldie’s speed dial button, listening for the ping ping ping of the electronic numbers. Nothing. I pushed and released the phone cradle, and listened. Still nothing. I knocked the cradle up and down a few more times. Dead.

Jay scratched and barked and banged at the door. I remembered the
dead receiver in my hand, and plunked it back into the cradle. Never had the lights and phone both pooped out together. I felt along the top of the counter until I found my cell phone, but it was dead as well. I’d forgotten to recharge it. Again. A shot of panic flashed through me, and I wanted my dog beside me. If there were anything—or anyone—inside the house, Jay would know long before I would. Maybe he did know. Maybe that’s what he’d been trying to tell me. My head throbbed and a razor of fear slashed into my gut.

I found the back door and pulled on the handle. It wouldn’t open. The deadbolt had apparently slipped into place when I let Jay out, or maybe I’d turned it unconsciously. I grasped the deadbolt’s knob and twisted, heard the click as it opened and caught. As I reached for the door handle, a new shock of pain bit into the base of my skull and coiled upward until my whole head was in its grip. It squeezed, and then the world went black.