"What's wrong?" I asked as my nerves tightened more.
"You remember those footprints out by the wall last night?" His face was boiled red.
"Of course."
"Well, now we've got more of them." He set down his coffee mug. "Only this time they're out by our cars and were left by regular boots with a Vibram tread. And guess what, Doc?" he asked as I already feared what he was about to say. "The three of us ain't going anywhere today until a tow truck gets here first."
I remained silent.
"Someone punctured our tires." Lucy's face was stone.
"Every goddamn one of them. With some kind of wide blade, it looks to me. Maybe a big knife or machete."
"The moral of the story is that it sure as hell wasn't some misguided neighbor or night diver on your property," he went on. "I think we're talking about someone who had a mission. And when he got scared off, he came back or somebody else did."
I got up for coffee. "How long will it take to get our cars fixed?"
"Today?" he said. "I don't think it's possible for you or Lucy to get your rides fixed today."
"It's got to be possible," I matter-of-factly stated. "We have to get out of here, Marino. We need to see Eddings' house. And right now it doesn't seem all too safe in this one."
"I'd say that's a fair assessment," Lucy said.
I moved close to the window over the sink and could plainly see our vehicles with tires that looked like black rubber puddles in the snow.
"They're punctured on the sides versus the tread, and can't be plugged," Marino said.
"Then what are we going to do?" I asked.
"Richmond's got reciprocal agreements with other police departments, and I've already talked to Virginia Beach.
They're on their way."
His car needed police tires and rims, while Lucy's and mine needed Goodyears and Michelins because, unlike Marino, we were here in our personal vehicles. I pointed all this out to him.
"We got a flatbed truck on the way for you," he said as I sat back down. "Sometime during the next few hours they'll load up your Benz and Lucy's piece of shit and haul them into Bell Tire Service on Virginia Beach Boulevard."
"It's not a piece of shit," Lucy said.
"Why the hell did you buy anything the color of parrot shit? That your Miami roots coming out, or what?"
"No, it's my budget coming out. I got it for nine hundred dollars."
"What about in the meantime?" I asked. "You know they won't take care of this speedily. It's New Year's Day."
"You got that right," he said. "And it's pretty simple, Doc. If you're going to Richmond, you're riding with me."
"Fine." I wasn't going to argue. "Then let's get as much done now as we can so we can leave."
"Starting with your getting packed," he said to me. "in my opinion, you should boogie right on out of here for good."
"I have no choice but to stay here until Dr. Mant returns from London."
Yet I packed as if I might not be coming back to his cottage during this life. Then we conducted the best forensic investigation we could on our own, for slashing tires was a misdemeanor, and we knew the local police would not be especially enthused about our case. III-equipped to make tread-pattern casts, we simply took photographs to scale of the footprints around our cars, although I suspected the most we would ever be able to tell from them was that the suspect was large and wore a generic-type boot or shoe with a Vibram seal on the arch of the rugged tread.
When a youthful policeman named Sanders and a red tow truck arrived late morning, I took two ruined radials and locked them inside the trunk of Marino's car. For a while I watched men in jumpsuits and insulated jackets twirl handjacks with amazing speed as a winch held the Ford's front end rampant in the air, as if Marino's car were about to fly. Virginia Beach officer Sanders asked if my being the chief medical examiner might possibly be related to what had been done to our vehicles. I told him I did not think so.
"It's my deputy chief who lives at this address," I went on to explain. "Dr. Philip Mant. He's in London for a month or so. I'm simply covering for him."
"And no one knows you're staying here?" asked Sanders, who was no fool.
"Certainly, some people know. I've been taking his calls."
"So you don't see that this might be related to who you are and what you do, ma'am." He was taking notes.
"At this time I have no evidence that there is a relationship," I replied. "in fact, we really can't say that the culprit wasn't some kid blowing off steam on New Year's Eve."
Sanders kept looking at Lucy, who was talking to Marino by our cars. "Who is that?" he asked.
"My niece. She's with the FBI,- I answered, and I spelled her name.
While he went to speak to her, I made one last trip inside the cottage, entering through the plain front door. The air was warmed by sunlight that blazed through glass, bleaching furniture of color, and I could still smell garlic from last night's meal. In my bedroom I looked around once more, opening drawers and riffling through clothes hanging in the closet while I was saddened by my disenchantment.
In the beginning, I had thought I would like it here.
Down the hall I checked where Lucy had slept, then moved into the living room where we had sat until early morning reading the Book of Hand. The memory of that unsettled me like my dream, and my arms turned to gooseflesh. My blood was thrilled by fear, and suddenly I could not stay inside my colleague's simple home a moment longer. I dashed to the screened-in porch, and out the door into the backyard. In sunlight I felt reassured, and as I gazed out at the ocean, I got interested in the wall again.
Snow was to the top of my boots as I drew close to it, footprints from the night before gone. The intruder, whose flashlight Lucy had seen, had climbed over the wall and then quickly left. But he must have showed up later, or someone else must have, because the footprints around our cars clearly had been made after snow had quit falling, and they hadn't been made by dive boots or surf shoes. I looked over the wall and beyond the dune to the wide beach below.
Snow was spun-sugar heaped in drifts with sea oats protruding like ragged feathers. The water was a ruffled dark blue and I saw no sign of anyone as my eyes followed the shore as far as they could.
I looked out for a long time, completely absorbed in speculations and worries. When I turned around to walk back, I was shocked to find Detective Roche standing so close he could have grabbed me.
"My God," I gasped. "Don't ever sneak up on me like that."
"I walked in your tracks. That's why you didn't hear
" He was chewing gum and had his hands in the pock meets of a leather coat. "Being quiet's one thing I'm good at when I want to be."
I stared at him, my dislike of him finding new depths.
He wore dark trousers and boots, and I could not see his eyes behind the aviator's glasses. But it did not matter. I knew what Detective Roche was about. I knew his type well.
"I heard about your vandalism and came to see if I could be of assistance," he said.
"I wasn't aware we called the Chesapeake police," I replied.
"Virginia Beach and Chesapeake have a mutual aid channel, so I heard about your problem on that," he said.
"I have to confess that the first thing to go through my mind was there might be a connection."
"A connection to what?"
"To our case." He stepped closer. "Looks like someone really did a number on your cars. Sounds like a warning.
You know, like just maybe you're poking your nose where someone doesn't think it belongs."
My eyes wandered to his feet, to his lace-up Gore-Tex boots made of leather the color of liver, and I saw the tread pattern they had left in the snow. Roche had big feet and hands, and was wearing Vibram soles. I looked back at a face that would have been handsome were the spirit behind it not so petty and mean. I did not say a word for a while, but when I did I was very direct.
"You sound a lot like Captain Green. So tell me. Are you threatening me, too?"