Lost Cargo by Hollister Ann Grant, Gene Thomson Page B

vengeance.
    “Great, look at this stuff,” she said and stepped outside.
    The trees beyond the lawn vanished in the cloudbank that had settled over Macomb Street. He knew parked cars lined the road, but he couldn’t see more than twenty feet in front of his face. As soon as they took a few steps past the grass to the sidewalk, wide wisps of fog rolled back to reveal the cars by the curb.
    They left the house behind and headed downhill in the muffled quiet. Luminous streetlights lit up phantom shrubbery and trees.
    “Burke must be exhausted,” she said.
    “Why was he going to the Adirondacks?”
    “A spa, I think, then to Montreal to buy antiques. I don’t know where exactly.”
    “We’ll get him back tonight,” he told her, thinking they would be lucky to even find Spa-Boy in the dark woods. “So he was going to a spa.”
    “He does that. You know, massage, manicure, a businessman thing. When we find the wreck, I want to try to short-circuit the floor. It has to be some kind of security system.”
    “There’s the library. I didn’t even recognize it.” He pointed to the darkened windows of the Cleveland Park branch library at the bottom of the hill where Macomb Street ran into Connecticut Avenue. Fog drifted in ragged streamers across the deserted intersection. They headed across the well-lit avenue, relieved to be on one sure path in the murky landscape. Stores and restaurants loomed up, first the rain-drenched flag and green awnings of the Irish pub, followed by a deli that disappeared as more stores appeared out of the mist.
    A realistic mannequin in a store window made them jump. As they moved past the theater with its dark marquee and empty ticket booth, the fog rolled away under the glow of red taillights. A city patrol car was idling outside the 7-Eleven on the corner.
    “Cops.” Travis touched her shoulder. The fog was so thick he couldn’t tell if the cops were inside the store or still in the car. The 7-Eleven was the only place open on the street. Hazy yellow light from the windows stretched across the sidewalk.
    Lexie wiped her damp hair from her face. “Maybe they’ll help us.”
    “They might figure out you called them before.”
    The door of the 7-Eleven opened and a cop stepped outside with a cup of coffee in his hands. He took a few steps and then with perfect cop instinct stared right at them.
    “I’m going to ask them anyway,” she said.
    Travis fell in with her, almost feeling like her boyfriend. The cop got behind the wheel and said something to a second cop in the passenger seat. When the traffic signal changed, they pulled away from the curb and disappeared in the fog up Porter Street.
    Lexie threw up her hands. “I can’t believe it. Look at that.”
    “You know we’re never going to find Burke in this fog,” he told her.
    “I guess we should wait for it to burn off.”
    “Let’s get my cell phone,” he said. “We can make coffee and wait a couple of hours and look for him when we can see. Come on.”
    “Okay, you’re right,” she sighed.
    They left Connecticut Avenue and went up Porter. The fog grew thicker, drifted over the black road, and parted in streamers to reveal the inky windows of darkened houses. Gloomy lawns appeared and disappeared, bordered by trees that vanished behind them.
    “Do you hear something?” he asked.
    She froze. “Where?”
    “Behind us. Listen!”
    Footfalls came through the fog up Porter Street. The slow footfalls made a sound like claws on the sidewalk, faint at first and then distinct, until the walker paused as if to listen.
    “The cops?” Lexie whispered.
    Travis peered into the fog, but couldn’t see anything. The footfalls started again. “It sounds like claws, some kind of an animal.”
    “Maybe it’s a dog,” she said.
    He took her arm. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
    They hurried along until they came to a brick retaining wall with ivy trailing over the top, and beyond it reached a familiar landmark. The