and growled again. Angry. He went from the living room into the kitchen and then back out to the front entry. He would trot hard, then stop and sniff, then growl some more. I said, “I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”
I hung up and watched the cat. “You okay, buddy?”
His eyes narrowed but he didn’t come near.
I sat on the kitchen floor, held out my hand, and after a while he finally came over. His fur was warm and coarse, and he needed a bath. I stroked his back, then felt his ribs and hips and legs. I was thinking that someone had shot him again or that a coyote had gotten him, but nothing seemed broken or tender or cut. I said, “What’s wrong?”
He jumped away from me and disappeared through his door and that’s when I saw the blood.
Three drops of red were on the kitchen floor by the doorjamb, two overlapping small drops, with a third larger drop nearby. I had stepped over them when I had let myself in. I said, “Sonofagun.”
I touched the large drop and it was tacky.
I thought that maybe he’d brought in a ground squirrel or a field mouse, but there was no dirt or debris or fur. Sometimes he’ll bring a kill up to my loft, so I went upstairs to check. Nothing. I went back down and looked through the living room and the dining room and the pantry, but there were no remains there either, and my scalp began tingling. I checked the doors and the windows, then went upstairs again and once more worked my way through the house. The handguns I keep locked in my nightstand were still there, as was the ammunition. The shotgun and rifle were still secure in the closet. My watches, jewelry, cash, and credit cards were all in their places, and their places looked unchanged, yet maybe not. I was pretty sure that the clothes hanging in my closet had been pushed to the right, but now they were spread evenly across the bar, and someone or something had smudged the dust on the two top shelves of my bookcase. Yet maybe not. Nothing was missing, but I felt an acute sense of difference in the shape and way of things, and a growing suspicion that someone had been in my house, and that they hadn’t been here to steal. I went down the slope to check the alarm box on the side of my house. Fresh scratches gleamed in the metal around the screw-heads. It looked like someone had beat the alarm, then let himself in through the kitchen. The cat had probably nailed him or her going out because he’d already completed his search. I said, “Man, this really sucks.”
The cat was stalking around at the top of the slope, still growling, still pissed. He is an obsessive animal and does not let go of anger easily.
I said, “Come here, you.”
He stalked over, surly and growling and making little noises.
I picked him up and held him close. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”
He squirmed until I put him down. Pity any dog that tried to grab him now.
I went back inside, washed my hands twice, then called Joe. “Someone went through my house.”
“Have anything to do with the father?”
I thought about it. “I don’t know why it would, but I’m not sure.”
“Maybe I should watch you instead of these kids.”
“Maybe.” I told him their address. “Meet me there and I’ll introduce you. I’ll take a flight out early in the morning.”
“Whatever.”
Pike hung up, and I stood in the center of the kitchen and listened to the silence. Someone had been in my home, and it made me feel creepy and violated and angry. I pulled out the Dan Wesson, sat it on the kitchen counter, and crossed my arms. “Let’s see’m come back now.”
Acting tough will sometimes help, but not always, and the gun did not lessen the feeling that I was vulnerable and at risk. They seldom do.
I shut off the lights, locked the house, and reset the alarm. It hadn’t helped, but you do what you can.
I drove down to see Teri Haines.
6
It was just after six that evening when I rang their bell and Charles threw open the door. He threw
I hung up and watched the cat. “You okay, buddy?”
His eyes narrowed but he didn’t come near.
I sat on the kitchen floor, held out my hand, and after a while he finally came over. His fur was warm and coarse, and he needed a bath. I stroked his back, then felt his ribs and hips and legs. I was thinking that someone had shot him again or that a coyote had gotten him, but nothing seemed broken or tender or cut. I said, “What’s wrong?”
He jumped away from me and disappeared through his door and that’s when I saw the blood.
Three drops of red were on the kitchen floor by the doorjamb, two overlapping small drops, with a third larger drop nearby. I had stepped over them when I had let myself in. I said, “Sonofagun.”
I touched the large drop and it was tacky.
I thought that maybe he’d brought in a ground squirrel or a field mouse, but there was no dirt or debris or fur. Sometimes he’ll bring a kill up to my loft, so I went upstairs to check. Nothing. I went back down and looked through the living room and the dining room and the pantry, but there were no remains there either, and my scalp began tingling. I checked the doors and the windows, then went upstairs again and once more worked my way through the house. The handguns I keep locked in my nightstand were still there, as was the ammunition. The shotgun and rifle were still secure in the closet. My watches, jewelry, cash, and credit cards were all in their places, and their places looked unchanged, yet maybe not. I was pretty sure that the clothes hanging in my closet had been pushed to the right, but now they were spread evenly across the bar, and someone or something had smudged the dust on the two top shelves of my bookcase. Yet maybe not. Nothing was missing, but I felt an acute sense of difference in the shape and way of things, and a growing suspicion that someone had been in my house, and that they hadn’t been here to steal. I went down the slope to check the alarm box on the side of my house. Fresh scratches gleamed in the metal around the screw-heads. It looked like someone had beat the alarm, then let himself in through the kitchen. The cat had probably nailed him or her going out because he’d already completed his search. I said, “Man, this really sucks.”
The cat was stalking around at the top of the slope, still growling, still pissed. He is an obsessive animal and does not let go of anger easily.
I said, “Come here, you.”
He stalked over, surly and growling and making little noises.
I picked him up and held him close. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”
He squirmed until I put him down. Pity any dog that tried to grab him now.
I went back inside, washed my hands twice, then called Joe. “Someone went through my house.”
“Have anything to do with the father?”
I thought about it. “I don’t know why it would, but I’m not sure.”
“Maybe I should watch you instead of these kids.”
“Maybe.” I told him their address. “Meet me there and I’ll introduce you. I’ll take a flight out early in the morning.”
“Whatever.”
Pike hung up, and I stood in the center of the kitchen and listened to the silence. Someone had been in my home, and it made me feel creepy and violated and angry. I pulled out the Dan Wesson, sat it on the kitchen counter, and crossed my arms. “Let’s see’m come back now.”
Acting tough will sometimes help, but not always, and the gun did not lessen the feeling that I was vulnerable and at risk. They seldom do.
I shut off the lights, locked the house, and reset the alarm. It hadn’t helped, but you do what you can.
I drove down to see Teri Haines.
6
It was just after six that evening when I rang their bell and Charles threw open the door. He threw
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