weight.
Someone’s been sleeping here.
He recognized the odor he’d noticed in this room. It was the mustiness of an unwashed body coming off the linens. Strong. The pile—the bed, Cabot thought—was large enough to encompass someone bigger than the Treasury agent. Really, he decided, someone the size of a small bull.
Someone? Some thing ?
It came to him: the floors were cleared for walking through the house. Someone had been living here since Rash Howard’s murder.
Maybe before. Maybe whoever had been staying here had been Howard’s killer.
The Breckers hadn’t been seen since a day or two before Howard’s body had been found. What if Rash Howard had discovered the murderer in the house and been killed as a result?
Cabot thought about the condition of the bodies—ripped to parts. What kind of person could do that to a human being? What kind of beast?
Something the size of whatever had been sleeping in this pile of linens.
Still kneeling, Cabot shone the lamplight onto the walls just above the nest. Twigs had been driven into the sod to act like nails, and items hung from them: a locket with the photograph of a young woman and a pocket watch on a leather fob. The arrangement on the wall was such that the two could be seen by whomever lay in the tangle of linens.
He took the watch down and looked it over. Whatever engraving had once decorated the case had been worn nearly away by carrying and handling. Cabot pressed the latch so the cover over the crystal opened. Scratched on its inside surface was a name: Tom Brecker.
He examined the locket. No name. A plain young woman, sober-faced. No name or other identifying signs. Mrs. Brecker?
Cabot stood and placed the watch and locket in his jacket pockets. As he did so, his shoe disturbed the edge of the nest, and an object rolled out, glinted in the lamplight.
A coin. Gold.
The Treasury agent held the lamp close and examined his find. As Chief Barker had said, a quick glance might fool someone into thinking it was an old double eagle. And while the surface was worn nearly smooth, Cabot’s scrutiny made clear the coin’s details weren’t quite right. If the two coins Barker had collected were in the same shape as this one, the police chief had a sharp eye to have suspected counterfeiting.
A cry shook Cabot from his reverie. The piebald. The horse had a calm nature, so anything that could frighten her was worth Cabot’s worry.
He pocketed the coin, darted to the soddy’s door. He opened it a crack and peered out.
The thickening sky had brought an early dusk. In the gathering darkness, Cabot saw the horse rear and pull against the reins, which he had hitched to a fence rail. The piebald continued to squeal in fright.
Was it a wild animal? Or something else?
The thing that had been nesting in the back room and had killed the Breckers and Rash Howard?
The thing—or something like the thing—that had ripped apart Smith and Kelly, and flung Mrs. Smith high into a tree?
Cabot was surprised by an image that flashed in his mind: that of Howard’s gutted mule. The Treasury agent hadn’t seen the beast, but he’d seen enough animals injured in accidents to imagine the scene.
Cabot flung open the door and dashed to the piebald. He dodged the rearing horse’s hooves and loosened the two half-hitches he’d used on the reins, then danced around the skittish beast as he tried to climb up.
The piebald’s screams filled Cabot’s ears as he grabbed the pommel and pulled himself up. The horse spun, and Cabot saw a hulking figure come around the back corner of the soddy, loping on four long legs, its broad back arched sharply. In the lowering light and the momentary flash from the corner of his eye as he was whipped around, Cabot couldn’t catch particular features other than the thing’s shape. Then the piebald dug in its hooves and took off.
The reins were loose and ineffective, clutched in the same hands that still clung to the pommel. Cabot had his left
Someone’s been sleeping here.
He recognized the odor he’d noticed in this room. It was the mustiness of an unwashed body coming off the linens. Strong. The pile—the bed, Cabot thought—was large enough to encompass someone bigger than the Treasury agent. Really, he decided, someone the size of a small bull.
Someone? Some thing ?
It came to him: the floors were cleared for walking through the house. Someone had been living here since Rash Howard’s murder.
Maybe before. Maybe whoever had been staying here had been Howard’s killer.
The Breckers hadn’t been seen since a day or two before Howard’s body had been found. What if Rash Howard had discovered the murderer in the house and been killed as a result?
Cabot thought about the condition of the bodies—ripped to parts. What kind of person could do that to a human being? What kind of beast?
Something the size of whatever had been sleeping in this pile of linens.
Still kneeling, Cabot shone the lamplight onto the walls just above the nest. Twigs had been driven into the sod to act like nails, and items hung from them: a locket with the photograph of a young woman and a pocket watch on a leather fob. The arrangement on the wall was such that the two could be seen by whomever lay in the tangle of linens.
He took the watch down and looked it over. Whatever engraving had once decorated the case had been worn nearly away by carrying and handling. Cabot pressed the latch so the cover over the crystal opened. Scratched on its inside surface was a name: Tom Brecker.
He examined the locket. No name. A plain young woman, sober-faced. No name or other identifying signs. Mrs. Brecker?
Cabot stood and placed the watch and locket in his jacket pockets. As he did so, his shoe disturbed the edge of the nest, and an object rolled out, glinted in the lamplight.
A coin. Gold.
The Treasury agent held the lamp close and examined his find. As Chief Barker had said, a quick glance might fool someone into thinking it was an old double eagle. And while the surface was worn nearly smooth, Cabot’s scrutiny made clear the coin’s details weren’t quite right. If the two coins Barker had collected were in the same shape as this one, the police chief had a sharp eye to have suspected counterfeiting.
A cry shook Cabot from his reverie. The piebald. The horse had a calm nature, so anything that could frighten her was worth Cabot’s worry.
He pocketed the coin, darted to the soddy’s door. He opened it a crack and peered out.
The thickening sky had brought an early dusk. In the gathering darkness, Cabot saw the horse rear and pull against the reins, which he had hitched to a fence rail. The piebald continued to squeal in fright.
Was it a wild animal? Or something else?
The thing that had been nesting in the back room and had killed the Breckers and Rash Howard?
The thing—or something like the thing—that had ripped apart Smith and Kelly, and flung Mrs. Smith high into a tree?
Cabot was surprised by an image that flashed in his mind: that of Howard’s gutted mule. The Treasury agent hadn’t seen the beast, but he’d seen enough animals injured in accidents to imagine the scene.
Cabot flung open the door and dashed to the piebald. He dodged the rearing horse’s hooves and loosened the two half-hitches he’d used on the reins, then danced around the skittish beast as he tried to climb up.
The piebald’s screams filled Cabot’s ears as he grabbed the pommel and pulled himself up. The horse spun, and Cabot saw a hulking figure come around the back corner of the soddy, loping on four long legs, its broad back arched sharply. In the lowering light and the momentary flash from the corner of his eye as he was whipped around, Cabot couldn’t catch particular features other than the thing’s shape. Then the piebald dug in its hooves and took off.
The reins were loose and ineffective, clutched in the same hands that still clung to the pommel. Cabot had his left
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