knee into floppy bell-bottoms.
Jason grinned. Bransome had been a walking anachronism. A chuckle. Still was.
The August night carried a chill as tendrils of fog oozed around the corners and tops of the care home buildings, giving the yellow sodium vapor lights an eerie glow. It was ten minutes past ten and there was no sign of her. Jason leaned against his driver’s-side door and pushed the lumi-glow button on his watch. He’d give her two more minutes. He crossed his arms against the cool mist.
A security guard appeared inside one of the side doors of the entryway and the loud click of a dead bolt echoed in the night. The main, automatic motion-sensor doors must have been locked sometime before ten. The guard pushed the door open, and the familiar purple tunic bounced through the door and onto the covered entryway.
The woman stopped and scanned the parking lot. She turned in Jason’s direction, motioned for him to follow, and bounced away into the adjacent parking area. Jason stood next to his car and waited.
She slid a key into the door of a Saturn four-door sedan, then turned in his direction and motioned to him again.
He nodded and climbed behind the wheel of the Volvo.
Jason felt the tickle of perspiration along his hairline. She drove nearly fifteen miles over the speed limit, zigzagging through what little traffic was out at the hour. He squinted through the fog, trying his best to follow her darting taillights.
At a poorly marked intersection, she veered off the main road onto a street that seemed to disappear into the darkness and fog. Her red taillights barely defined the limits of the asphalt—streetlights and sidewalks didn’t exist. His gut sent a loud signal. This might not be a good idea.
His foot twitched on the gas pedal and the slight lurch of the car seemed to second his indecision. A dim light appeared ahead. Her brake lights blared, then sputtered, and the red streaks shot to the right, toward a bank of overhead lights. A pair of long, two-story buildings appeared through the glowing fog, and her car slid to a stop between them. Before he could complete his turn into the lot, she was out of her car, heading to the building on the left.
His wheels barely stopped before she turned a key in the door of the second-in, ground-floor apartment. She paused and faced him, then disappeared into the building. Bright light flooded the open doorway.
Hesitation. Something seemed wrong. But the apartment was dark before she entered. At this hour, that meant she probably lived alone. His feet hit the parking lot before the next wave of caution hit. He shuffled toward the light as he tried to calm his internal objection. Ella. This was about Ella.
A tap on the door brought no response so he leaned in. “Hello?”
Movement to the left caught his attention, along with the sound of a refrigerator door closing. He stepped into the apartment in time to see her approach, a can of beer pushed in his direction with a stiff arm. He kicked the door closed and accepted the beer.
He preferred to drink from glass, not aluminum. A bottle was fine with him, but never a can. He scanned the apartment. The kitchen counter was littered with dirty glasses and dishes. A pile of rumpled clothing covered a chair and part of the couch in the living room. In his quick scan, he noticed three large stains on the beige carpet. Better to make an exception in this case.
She placed a hand-rolled cigarette in her mouth and thumbed a lighter. The scent of the first few puffs told him it wasn’t tobacco. She took a deep draw and held her breath at the same time she took the joint from her mouth and held it out to him. “'Ere,” she grunted.
He raised his hand in a stop motion and shook his head. “I want to talk to you about Ella Hahn.”
The woman blew out the lungful of smoke and raised her beer can to her lips. Three noisy swallows and she pulled the can away, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. She took another long
Jason grinned. Bransome had been a walking anachronism. A chuckle. Still was.
The August night carried a chill as tendrils of fog oozed around the corners and tops of the care home buildings, giving the yellow sodium vapor lights an eerie glow. It was ten minutes past ten and there was no sign of her. Jason leaned against his driver’s-side door and pushed the lumi-glow button on his watch. He’d give her two more minutes. He crossed his arms against the cool mist.
A security guard appeared inside one of the side doors of the entryway and the loud click of a dead bolt echoed in the night. The main, automatic motion-sensor doors must have been locked sometime before ten. The guard pushed the door open, and the familiar purple tunic bounced through the door and onto the covered entryway.
The woman stopped and scanned the parking lot. She turned in Jason’s direction, motioned for him to follow, and bounced away into the adjacent parking area. Jason stood next to his car and waited.
She slid a key into the door of a Saturn four-door sedan, then turned in his direction and motioned to him again.
He nodded and climbed behind the wheel of the Volvo.
Jason felt the tickle of perspiration along his hairline. She drove nearly fifteen miles over the speed limit, zigzagging through what little traffic was out at the hour. He squinted through the fog, trying his best to follow her darting taillights.
At a poorly marked intersection, she veered off the main road onto a street that seemed to disappear into the darkness and fog. Her red taillights barely defined the limits of the asphalt—streetlights and sidewalks didn’t exist. His gut sent a loud signal. This might not be a good idea.
His foot twitched on the gas pedal and the slight lurch of the car seemed to second his indecision. A dim light appeared ahead. Her brake lights blared, then sputtered, and the red streaks shot to the right, toward a bank of overhead lights. A pair of long, two-story buildings appeared through the glowing fog, and her car slid to a stop between them. Before he could complete his turn into the lot, she was out of her car, heading to the building on the left.
His wheels barely stopped before she turned a key in the door of the second-in, ground-floor apartment. She paused and faced him, then disappeared into the building. Bright light flooded the open doorway.
Hesitation. Something seemed wrong. But the apartment was dark before she entered. At this hour, that meant she probably lived alone. His feet hit the parking lot before the next wave of caution hit. He shuffled toward the light as he tried to calm his internal objection. Ella. This was about Ella.
A tap on the door brought no response so he leaned in. “Hello?”
Movement to the left caught his attention, along with the sound of a refrigerator door closing. He stepped into the apartment in time to see her approach, a can of beer pushed in his direction with a stiff arm. He kicked the door closed and accepted the beer.
He preferred to drink from glass, not aluminum. A bottle was fine with him, but never a can. He scanned the apartment. The kitchen counter was littered with dirty glasses and dishes. A pile of rumpled clothing covered a chair and part of the couch in the living room. In his quick scan, he noticed three large stains on the beige carpet. Better to make an exception in this case.
She placed a hand-rolled cigarette in her mouth and thumbed a lighter. The scent of the first few puffs told him it wasn’t tobacco. She took a deep draw and held her breath at the same time she took the joint from her mouth and held it out to him. “'Ere,” she grunted.
He raised his hand in a stop motion and shook his head. “I want to talk to you about Ella Hahn.”
The woman blew out the lungful of smoke and raised her beer can to her lips. Three noisy swallows and she pulled the can away, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. She took another long
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