TWENTY-TWO
I glanced at my watch. 5:36. 1 walked back to the kitchen prepared to dial 9-1-1. I hesitated, my hand on the receiver. Who was I going to call? Rafer? Brant? Tom’s brother, Macon? I wasn’t sure I trusted any one of them. I stood there, trying to determine whom I could confide in at this point. A chill went through me. Surely, there wasn’t anybody in the house with me. I hadn’t gone to the guest room since I’d returned to the house early in the afternoon so the intruder had probably been here and departed long before I showed up. Ordinarily, I’d have gone to my room to drop my jacket. After the day I’d had, I might have showered or napped-anything to perk myself up and restore my confidence-but I’d been intent on Tom’s notes and I’d gone directly to his den. I felt disembodied, my mind having been separated from my flesh by the harrowing sensation of fear.
The phone shrilled with extraordinary loudness, setting off a surge of nausea. I jumped, nerves raw, my reflexes responding sharply, almost to the point of pain. I snatched up the receiver before it had ceased to ring. “Hello?”
“Hey, Kinsey. Brant here. Is my mom home yet?” He sounded young and carefree, relaxed, unconcerned.
My stomach churned in response. “You need to come home,” I said. My voice seemed to be coming from a curious distance.
He must have been alerted by my tone because his shifted. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Someone’s broken in. There’s glass on the bedroom floor and my gun is gone.”
“Where’s Mom?”
“I don’t know. Yes. Wait. At your cousin’s in Big Pine. I’m here alone,” I said.
“Stay where you are. I’ll be right there.”
He hung up.
I replaced the receiver. I turned and leaned my back up against the wall, making little mewling sounds. A town full of cowboys and someone was coming after me. I held my hands out in front of me. I could see my fingers tremble, the recently dislocated digits looking all puffy and useless. My gun had been stolen. I had to have a weapon, some way to defend myself against the coming onslaught. I started opening the kitchen drawers, one after the other, in search of a knife. One drawer flew off its rails and banged against my thigh, spilling out its contents. Utensils jangled together, tumbling to the floor at my feet. I could feel the tears stinging my lids. I gathered a fistful of items and tossed them back in the drawer, but I couldn’t seem to get it mounted on its track again. I banged it on the counter top so hard a metal spatula bounced and flew out. I left the drawer where it was. I found a steak knife, some generic brand that looked like a giveaway in a box of detergent. The overhead light glinted off its surface. I could see the bevel on the blade. What good would a serrated steak knife do against a speeding bullet?
Hours seemed to go by.
I could hear the second hand on the kitchen clock tick each passing second in turn.
Outside, I heard the squeal of brakes, and then a car door slammed shut. I turned and stared at the front door. What if it was someone else? What if it was them? The door flew open and I could see Brant in his civilian clothes. He moved toward me with all the comforting bulk of a battleship. I put a hand out and he took it.
“Jesus, you look awful. How’d the guy get in?”
I pointed to my room and then found myself following as he moved purposefully down the hall in that direction. His assessment was brief, the most cursory of glances. He turned away from the guest room and toured the rest of the house methodically, looking in every closet, every nook and cranny. He went down to the basement. I waited at the top of the stairs, one hand plucking at the other. My injured fingers held a particular fascination for me-clumsy and swollen. Where was my gun? How could I defend myself when I’d left the knife on the counter?
Brant returned to the kitchen. I followed him like a duckling. I could tell by his tone he was trying to control himself. Something in his manner conveyed the seriousness of the situation. “Did he get the notebook?”
I found myself grinding my teeth. “Who?”
“The guy who broke in,” he said sharply.
“It was in my bag,” I said. “Is that what he was after?”
“Of course,” Brant said. “I can’t think why else he’d risk it. Tell me exactly what you did today. What time did you leave and how long were you gone?”
I felt burbling and incoherent, spilling out the story of my rebuff, the refusal of the gas station attendants to do business with me, my subsequent stop at the Rainbow to talk to Nancy. I told him I’d run into Rafer and Vick, that I’d talked to Cecilia and Barrett. My brain was moving at twice the speed of my lips, making me feel sluggish and stupid. Brant, god bless him, seemed to follow the staccato pace of the narrative, filling in the blanks when an occasional word came up missing. What was wrong with me? I knew I’d felt like this before-this scared-this powerless-this out of it…
Brant was staring at me. “You actually talked to him?”
What was he talking about? “Who?” I sounded like an owl.
“Rafer.”
What had I asked? What had he said before this? What did Rafer have to do with anything? “What?”
“Rafer. At the Rainbow.”
“Yes. I ran into him at the Rainbow.”
“I know that. You told me. I’m asking you if you talked to him,” he said, with exaggerated patience.
“Sure.”
“You talked to him?!” His voice had risen with alarm. I could see the question mark and the exclamation point hurtling through the air at me. “I brought him up to date,” I said. My voice was delayed, like something in an echo chamber. Words in balloons bumped together above my head, images like projectiles flying off in all directions.
“I told you to wait ’til I could check it out. Who do you think started all the rumors?”
“Who?”
Brant took me by the shoulders and gave me a little shake. He seemed angry, his fingers biting into my shoulders. “Kinsey, wake up and pay attention. This is serious,” he said.
“You’re not saying it was him?”
“Of course, it was him. Who else could it be? Think about it, dummy.”
“Think about what?” I asked, confused. The immediacy of his discomposure was contagious. I was relying on him for help, but his anxiety was pushing mine into the danger zone.
His voice pounded on, pleading and cajoling, wheedling. “You told Mom it was someone in law enforcement. Do you honestly think my father would have lost even one night’s sleep if it was anyone but Rafer? Rafer was his best friend. The two of them had worked together for years and years. Dad thought Rafer was one of the finest cops who ever lived. Now he finds out he killed two guys? Jeez. He must have shit himself when he understood what was going on. Didn’t he write this down? Isn’t this in his notes?”
His words were like streamers, blowing above his head.
I heard snapping, like flags. “The notes are in code. I can’t read them.”
“Where? Can you show me? Maybe I can crack it.”
“In there. You think he was on the verge of talking to Internal Affairs?”
“Of course! The decision couldn’t have been easy, but even as loyal as he was to Rafer, the department came first. He must have been praying for a way out, hoping he was wrong.”
My brain worked lickety-cut. It was my mouth that fumbled, thoughts crashing against my teeth like rocks. I had to clamp my jaw shut, barely moving my lips. “I talked to Barrett. She was with Tom in the truck just before he died,” I said.
“What did they talk about? Why did he do that?”
“Something. I can’t remember.”
“Didn’t you press her for answers? You had the girl right there in the palm of your hand,” he said. His words appeared in the air, written in big capital letters.
“Quit yelling.”
“I’m not yelling. What’s the matter with you?”
“Barrett never said a word about Rafer.” I remembered then. She did say Tom had asked about her father.
“Why would she? She doesn’t know you from Adam. She’s not going to confide. She wouldn’t tell you something like that. Her own father? For god’s sake, she’d have to be nuts,” he shrilled.
“But why give me the notes? Wouldn’t she assume they’d be incriminating?”
“Barrett doesn’t have a clue. She has no idea.”
“How do you know what he did?”