Black Lightning Part 20

"What was it like having lunch with Josh Whitman?"

"He invited me to the prom," Heather replied, injecting just enough excitement into her voice so Rayette actually fell for it, at least for a split second. Then Rayette's lips stretched into a wide grin that exposed the set of braces she usually took care not to reveal to anyone.

"Get out of here, girlfriend!" she hooted. "That big football stud just wanted to know the same thing we all did! Now you just tell me everything you know about that woman who got killed. This is Rayette, honey! Come clean!"

"There isn't anything to come clean about." Heather sighed. "I mean, no one even knew Mrs. Cottrell. She was really weird. She didn't have any friends, and she hardly ever even went out of the house except to go to work. Sometimes you could see her eating all by herself, just sitting at this really huge dining room table all by herself."

Rayette shuddered. She'd always thought there was something spooky about the big house next door to the Jefferses'. Ever since she and Heather had gotten to be friends in sixth grade, she'd known the woman who lived there was kind of weird, but to think of her actually getting murdered..."What do you think happened?" she asked. "I mean, really?"

Heather shrugged. "How am I supposed to know?" she asked. "It's not like I knew her or anything."

"I didn't say you should know know what happened. I just asked what do you what happened. I just asked what do you think think happened. Like, was it someone she knew?" happened. Like, was it someone she knew?"

Heather shrugged. "She didn't know anyone."

They were walking south on Broadway now. As they came to Prospect Street, Rayette stopped. "Let's go up there and see where your mom found her," she said.

Heather's eyes widened. "They're not going to let us do that. They'll have the whole place blocked off."

"No they won't," Rayette insisted. "Some guy got shot down by my uncle's last year, and they didn't have the cops out there more than a couple hours. Come on."

Turning left on Prospect, Rayette started purposefully up the hill toward the park, and a second later Heather followed.

"Where was it?" Rayette asked as they came to the broad swath of lawn that stretched from Prospect up to the road that curved around the base of the hill containing the reservoir.

"I don't think you can see it from here," Heather said, not sure she wanted to go looking for the place where her mother had found Mrs. Cottrell. "Dad said Mom was up by the reservoir."

"Then let's go." Rayette set off once more, cutting diagonally across the lawn to the place where the road came closest to the reservoir. Crossing the road, she scrambled up a steep, well-trod path that led to the flat track around the reservoir.

"Can't we go around by the museum?" Heather complained. "This isn't even a path!"

"It is, too," Rayette retorted. "Besides, why should we go all the way around when we're already here?" Pausing at the top of the slope while Heather caught up, she surveyed the area, immediately spotting a small knot of people who seemed to be staring into a thicket. Now that her goal was within sight, Rayette began having second thoughts. "'Spose there's gonna be blood all over the ground?" she asked.

Heather grabbed her friend's arm to steady herself; the very thought of finding a pool of Joyce Cottrell's blood was enough to make her dizzy. "Can't we just go over to my house?" she asked. "I mean, if we're not going to go for lattes-" Before she could finish her sentence, she heard her brother's voice calling to her.

"Hey, Heather!" Kevin was shouting, waving frantically. "Look over here! This is where Mom found her!"

She didn't want to see the place at all, but knew that she'd better try to get Kevin home before their parents found out what he was doing. Heather followed Rayette over to where Kevin, together with Justin Reynolds, was regaling half a dozen people with the tale of the discovery of the corpse earlier that morning.

"There was blood all over the place," Kevin was saying. "And she was all torn up. Boots was chewing on her arm, and-"

"Kevin!" Heather shrieked, grabbing her brother and clamping a hand over his mouth to silence him. "Come on! We're going home right now!"

Kevin struggled to get loose from his sister's grip, finally managing to free his mouth. "Help!" he yelled. "She's trying to kidnap me!"

The group of people who had been listening raptly to Kevin only a moment before were grinning now at his attempts to free himself from his sister.

"Did your mom really find the body?" someone asked Heather.

"Oh, G.o.d," Heather groaned. "Why did Mom even have to come up here this morning?" Yet even as she uttered the words, Heather was drawn, like iron filings toward a magnet, to the spot where Joyce Cottrell's body had been found. Rayette Hoover, staying close to her best friend, felt all the bravado she had voiced only a few minutes before begin to drain from her, but like Heather, she found herself unable simply to walk away.

Both girls had to see.

Yet when they had finally threaded their way through the knot of people, to stare down at the now empty s.p.a.ce beneath the brush where only ten hours earlier Heather's mother came across a disemboweled corpse, there was little left to observe-only a few sc.r.a.ps of yellow plastic tape where the police had cordoned off the area, and an area of earth sc.r.a.ped clean of the fallen leaves and windblown detritus that was scattered through the rest of the thicket.

The very lack of anything to see gave the spot a feeling of loneliness and abandonment. With a shudder, Heather realized that her imagination had not even been close to conjuring what her mother must have seen. Even with all the evidence of Joyce Cottrell's body having been removed, she felt a coldness that penetrated far deeper than the chill of the afternoon. "Come on," she said, unconsciously reaching out and taking Rayette's hand in her own. "Let's go home."

Kevin followed her only a moment later.

Not a word was spoken until the three of them turned the corner onto Sixteenth East, and as they moved down the block toward the Jeffers house, they caught themselves gazing past Heather and Kevin's house to the one just beyond it.

Their paces slowed until at last they came to a stop, all of them staring silently at the house that seemed to loom ominously next door to the Jefferses'. It was Rayette Hoover who finally found her voice: "It...it sorta doesn't look the same, does it?"

For a long minute all three peered at the forbidding structure. Until today it had been nothing more than the home of the neighborhood eccentric who had been feared by the smaller children and mocked by the older ones. The fact that there was now a yellow tape strung across its broad porch told them all they needed to know, though they still edged close enough to be able to read the words CRIME SITE-DO NOT CROSS CRIME SITE-DO NOT CROSS, which were stenciled on the bright plastic.

"Oh, Lord," Rayette breathed. "She must have gotten killed right here." Her eyes wide, she turned to gaze at Heather. "Didn't you hear her scream or something?"

Heather shook her head, unable to tear her eyes away from the house. On the second floor was the room where she was pretty sure Mrs. Cottrell had slept. When she was at work, the lights always went on and off all over the house. Everyone on the block knew they were on a timer. But when she was home, only that one room on the second floor was ever lit.

The one right across from Heather's own bedroom.

Suddenly it became very important to her that she remember exactly what had happened the previous night. She tried to reconstruct the evening. Her parents had had a fight-well, not exactly a fight. But there had been enough tension in the house so that instead of gathering in the living room to read and watch television together the way they usually did, the family split up. She remained in her room even after she finished her homework, and Kevin had stayed in his, and she knew that their mother had gone to bed early while her father had stayed downstairs, reading by himself for a while. But he hadn't stayed up very late: even before she'd gone to bed at ten, he'd knocked at her door, then stuck his head in to say good night to her. It was only a little bit later that she'd gone to bed herself.

Gone to bed, and read for a few minutes, and then gone to sleep.

Mrs. Cottrell hadn't been home yet when she had gone to sleep-she knew that because she'd been sitting at her desk right by the window for almost an hour while she struggled through a geometry proof. The lights next door kept going on and off, practically screaming out that the place was empty.

Heather felt an odd chill as a vague memory came back to her. She hadn't really thought anything about it at the time, but now...

Someone on the sidewalk.

Not right in front of the house, but across the street. A man in a dark coat. She hadn't seen him very well. He'd just been walking along the street, but then he stopped, and for a second Heather thought he was looking at her. Then he'd continued up the street. Though she looked out the window a couple of more times, he hadn't come back.

At least she thought he hadn't.

What if she'd actually seen the man who killed Mrs. Cottrell, and hadn't done anything about it? "Oh, G.o.d," she breathed out loud. "Maybe I could have saved her."

"What?" Rayette Hoover demanded. "What are you talking about?"

Swallowing the lump that had risen in her throat, Heather told Rayette and Kevin what she'd seen. "What if it was him?" she asked. "What if it was really him? What if he came back later?"

"What if he saw saw you?" Rayette suggested, scanning the block herself, as if half expecting to see a dark-coated stranger eyeing them from somewhere down the street. "Let's go in, okay?" Taking one last glance at the house next door-which had now definitely taken on a scary look that made Rayette glad she lived six blocks away, even if her block wasn't quite as nice as this one-Rayette strode up the walk to the front porch and reached into the planter that stood in the corner farthest from the front door to fish out the key she knew the Jefferses kept there, then stiffened as she realized what she'd done. Again she scanned the block, relieved that there still seemed to be no one observing her. But as she turned back to the front door, Rayette saw Kevin glaring scornfully at her. you?" Rayette suggested, scanning the block herself, as if half expecting to see a dark-coated stranger eyeing them from somewhere down the street. "Let's go in, okay?" Taking one last glance at the house next door-which had now definitely taken on a scary look that made Rayette glad she lived six blocks away, even if her block wasn't quite as nice as this one-Rayette strode up the walk to the front porch and reached into the planter that stood in the corner farthest from the front door to fish out the key she knew the Jefferses kept there, then stiffened as she realized what she'd done. Again she scanned the block, relieved that there still seemed to be no one observing her. But as she turned back to the front door, Rayette saw Kevin glaring scornfully at her.

"Smooth move, Ex-Lax," he told her. "Why don't you just tell the whole city where we keep the key?"

Heather instantly came to Rayette's defense. "The whole city probably already knows. And we're not going to leave it out here anymore, anyway. Not after what happened to Mrs. Cottrell."

Kevin rolled his eyes. "If that guy saw you, he's gonna get you anyway," he declared, seizing on the opportunity to terrify his sister. "I bet he's been watching you all day."

"Shut up, Kevin," Heather said as she took the key from Rayette and stuck it into the lock. "Just shut up, okay?"

"Don't tell me to shut up," Kevin shot back as they entered the foyer. Heather closed the door behind them and threw the dead bolt. "Scaredy-cat, scaredy-cat," he chanted, dropping down to rub the belly of Boots, who had thrown himself on his master the instant the door had opened and was now lying on his back, his whole body trembling with joy. "Heather is a scaredy-cat!"

"Why don't you just stuff it, Kevin," Heather told her brother, then turned to Rayette as she started toward the kitchen. "Come on. You can open a couple of c.o.kes while I give k.u.mquat her food."

Kevin glared at his sister. "I'm gonna tell Dad you told me to stuff it," he threatened. "Dad?" he yelled up the stairs. "Hey, Dad!"

Their father's voice called back from the den behind the living room. "In here!" As the two girls headed through the dining room, Kevin took the opposite direction, Boots scampering after him.

"So what are you gonna do?" Rayette asked as she opened the refrigerator door and pulled two cans of c.o.ke off the bottom shelf.

"About what?" Heather asked, taking a tin of cat food out of the cupboard next to the refrigerator.

"About the man you saw." Rayette popped the tabs on both cans and poured their contents into two large gla.s.ses, then dropped into one of the chairs at the big table in the corner of the kitchen. "I mean, what if Kevin's right?"

Heather scooped a lump of Friskies into k.u.mquat's dish. "He didn't even see me," she said, giving her voice a lot more conviction than she felt.

"But what if he did?" Rayette pressed. "I mean what if-"

"I don't want to talk about it!" Heather set the dish on the floor. Then she frowned as she realized that k.u.mquat hadn't been rubbing up against her legs the way she always did while her dish was being filled.

"Come on on, girl," Rayette protested. "If he did did see you-" But her friend was no longer paying any attention to her. see you-" But her friend was no longer paying any attention to her.

"k.u.mquat?" Heather was calling. "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty."

When the cat didn't appear immediately, Heather went back to the foyer. "Dad? Is k.u.mquat back there?"

"I haven't seen her since this morning," her father called from the den.

Frowning, Heather went upstairs and checked her room. When she didn't find the cat there, she searched the rest of the house, then came back to the kitchen. "She's gone," she reported to Rayette.

"Maybe she got a look at some big tomcat and went out to get her some," Rayette suggested, leering lasciviously.

"She's spayed," Heather replied.

"So's my aunt Tanya, but that doesn't mean she doesn't still like it," Rayette retorted.

"Rayette!" Heather groaned. She opened the back door and once more called out for the missing cat. "k.u.mquat! Come on, kitty. Supper's ready."

Kevin and Boots came into the kitchen, the dog instantly spotting the open door and seizing an opportunity to make a break for freedom. Heather moved to slam it closed before the dog could dart through, but Kevin stopped her.

"It's okay. Dad told me to take him outside."

"Look around for k.u.mquat, okay?" Heather asked.

"He's your cat-you look for her," Kevin argued, but quickly changed his mind when he saw the glint in his sister's eye. "Okay, okay."

"Maybe we all ought to go hunt for her," Heather said.

"Let's just finish our c.o.kes, and if she still hasn't shown up, then then we can go look for her," Rayette countered. we can go look for her," Rayette countered.

Deciding it would be easier to go along with Rayette than try to argue with her, Heather sank onto the chair opposite her friend. Where could the cat have gone? True, she let k.u.mquat out every morning and every night, but the cat never stayed outside very long, and always spent most of the day sleeping on her bed. Then she noticed the door to the bas.e.m.e.nt wasn't shut quite tight. Abandoning her c.o.ke, she went to the door, pulled it open and looked down the stairs.

The usual darkness of the cellar was broken by a glow of white light. Her father must have gone down there sometime during the day, and if k.u.mquat found the door open, her curiosity alone would have made her go through it. "k.u.mquat?" Heather called again, starting down the stairs. "Here, kitty, kitty. Come on, k.u.mquat!" Coming to the bottom of the stairs, Heather scanned the room for the cat. Neither seeing nor hearing anything, she crossed to the workbench, reaching for the string that would shut off the glaring fluorescent light. Just as her fingers closed on the string, her eyes fell on something sitting on top of the workbench.

A large, furry bug with bright green wings.

Startled, Heather jumped back, then realized it wasn't a bug after all. But what was it? Reaching out, she gingerly picked the object up. Turning it over, she saw the needle-sharp point of the fishhook protruding from the ma.s.s of fur, and immediately felt like an idiot for being frightened by a fishing fly. On the other hand, if it had made her jump, what would happen if she tossed it at Rayette, who was terrified of bugs? Taking the fly with her, she turned the light off and went back up the stairs, closing the door behind her. Approaching the table with an exaggerated nonchalance, she grinned at Rayette. "Want to see what I found?" Without waiting for a reply, she tossed the fly onto the table, eliciting a gratifyingly loud shriek from her friend. Catching on to the joke even as her screech died away, Rayette was about to vent her outrage on Heather when Kevin called from behind the garage.

"Heather? Hey, Heather! Com'ere, quick!"

Responding to the urgency in his voice, both girls ran down the back steps and out into the yard. As they rounded the corner of the garage, they stopped short. Kevin was squatting on the ground, holding a growling Boots in his arms. Hearing them behind him, Kevin turned and looked up at his sister, his face ashen.

"Bootsie found her." He was breathing hard, fighting tears. "Just like he found Mrs. Cottrell this morning."

Her heart pounding, Heather moved closer to her brother, praying she wasn't going to see what she already knew must be there.

Lying half hidden under the wooden decking that supported the trash barrels was k.u.mquat.

Her fur was matted with blood and her chest was torn open.

Instinctively, Heather started toward her pet, but Rayette stopped her. "Don't, Heather," she whispered. "Don't even touch her. Just leave her where she is, and let's call the police."

Sobbing, unable even to speak, Heather let Rayette lead her back to the house. They came through the back door just as Heather's mother came in the front. While the two girls were still blurting out what they'd found behind the garage, Anne was dialing the police.

CHAPTER 40.

Mark Blakemoor was considering whether to knock off at five like a normal human being, or go on working until he'd caught up with the stack of files that seemed to grow on his desk at an inexorable rate. Glancing up at the clock on the wall of the tiny cubicle he and Lois Ackerly shared, he saw that he still had ten minutes before he'd actually have to make a decision. He returned his attention to the open folder in front of him. It was nothing more interesting than a copy of Joyce Cottrell's Group Health personnel record, in which he'd been hunting for something-any little sc.r.a.p of information that might indicate she'd had an enemy. The problem with Cottrell, though, was that she not only didn't appear to have any enemies, but hadn't appeared to have any friends, either. Even her employment jacket didn't have much to say about her. She'd been working at Group Health for better than twenty years, and in all that time, had acc.u.mulated neither praise nor criticism. Apparently she did her job well enough to keep it, but never showed enough initiative to be promoted, either.

Tossing the file aside, he turned his attention to Lois Ackerly, who was already clearing her desk in preparation for an on-time departure, instantly annoying him, though he couldn't have said whether it was the fact that she was leaving on time that irritated him or that she had someone to go home to.

Reflexively, he glanced at the spot where a picture of his ex-wife had once sat. Except, instead of seeing a picture of Patsy Blakemoor in his mind, it was Anne Jeffers's image that popped out of his subconscious. Got to stop that, he told himself. More to get Anne's image out of his mind than because he really wanted to talk about it, he asked Lois Ackerly if she'd had any more luck with her investigation into Joyce Cottrell's background than he'd had with his.

Lois shook her head in a combination of sympathy and disbelief. "That woman lent new meaning to the phrase 'Get a life,'" she said. "Not only can't I find anyone who will admit to being her friend, I can hardly find anyone who even knew her. All I've found out is that she went to work and she went home. At work, she did her job and kept to herself. She didn't have any friends-even took her breaks by herself. It's like she was a complete cipher."

"Same with her personnel jacket," Blakemoor agreed. "Ever seen a record with no pluses and no minuses?" He tossed it across, and Lois Ackerly flipped it open, scanning through the evaluation forms that Blakemoor had already found abnormally dull.

"No friends and no enemies." Ackerly sighed, dropping the file back onto her partner's desk. "No gossip, either. It's like she existed in a void."

"So who killed her?" Blakemoor asked. As he asked the question, another image came into his mind. Glen Jeffers. He had been thinking about Jeffers all afternoon. Though he was sure there was something Anne's husband hadn't told him, he'd finally come to the conclusion that even if he wanted Glen out of the way-and he kept insisting to himself that he didn't, not really-it still didn't add up. Whoever did the Cottrell woman would have been drenched with blood, and if she'd screamed even once, she d.a.m.ned near would have had had to awaken someone in the house next door. If your whole family was asleep in that house, would you risk that? Mark Blakemoor didn't think so. In fact, he was d.a.m.ned well sure of it. Still, he might just ask Glen Jeffers for a set of prints, if for no other reason than to eliminate him as the person who'd left a few smudged but matchable traces in Cottrell's bathroom, where he'd apparently washed his hands. "Who killed her?" he repeated, sighing in frustration. to awaken someone in the house next door. If your whole family was asleep in that house, would you risk that? Mark Blakemoor didn't think so. In fact, he was d.a.m.ned well sure of it. Still, he might just ask Glen Jeffers for a set of prints, if for no other reason than to eliminate him as the person who'd left a few smudged but matchable traces in Cottrell's bathroom, where he'd apparently washed his hands. "Who killed her?" he repeated, sighing in frustration.