The digital readout on the bedside clock showed 2:26. The red numbers lit the gun and gave it an eerie glow. I thought of Stevie Ferrelli sleeping for the first time without her husband, probably having her own dreams of loss. I thought of the killer who might believe I’d recognized him. I thought of all the places where I would be vulnerable: the early morning streets when I walked dogs, the houses where cats or gerbils or birds waited alone.
I turned over and tried to go back to sleep. I had to get up in an hour and a half, and I would need to be alert.
The killer could be anywhere, he could attack me at any time. Stevie had mentioned a bullet hole in Conrad, but she had also said that Guidry hadn’t told her how he died. Had she been assuming a gunshot, or did she know? If Guidry hadn’t told her, how did she know?
I sat up and looked at the clock. It was three o’clock, and I was wide awake. I got up and turned on lights, stuffed dirty clothes and Keds in the washer, shook in detergent, and turned it on. The homely sound of water gushing on my laundry at 3 A.M. was oddly comforting. Naked, I padded to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. While it gurgled and spat and hissed, I turned on Roy Orbison, cranked the sound up, and to the tune of “Pretty Woman” pushed the vacuum cleaner around with a lot of balletic bending and swooping. There’s nothing so empowering as running around vacuuming while Roy Orbison is singing and you’re buck naked.
As small as my place is, the floors were dust-free by the time the coffee machine made its final sputter. I stored the vacuum away and went in the kitchen and looked out the window while I drank a cup of coffee. Roy Orbison had finished “Pretty Woman” and moved on to “Mean Woman Blues.” I was alert. I was composed. I was a normal woman drinking a normal cup of coffee on a normal morning. I was so normal, if I’d had a donut I would have eaten it.
I rinsed my coffee cup, turned the pot off, and ambled down the hall. I tossed wet laundry in the dryer. I went to the bathroom and brushed my teeth and flossed them. I took a shower and slathered moisturizer and sunscreen all over myself. I pulled my hair into a ponytail and put on rosy lip gloss, being careful not to meet my own eyes in the mirror. In my office-closet, I stepped into lacy bikinis and new khaki cargo shorts. I put on a black satin racerback bra. I pulled on a stretchy black sleeveless top. I put on clean white Keds and laced them up. I dressed as carefully as if I were getting ready for an important date.
I might end up on a metal autopsy table that morning.
Or I might shoot somebody and he would end up on the table.
Either way, I wanted to look nice.
6
Before I raised the metal shutters, I dropped the spare magazines in my shorts pocket and got my backpack on. I held my car keys in one hand and my .38 in the other, and I stood to the side while the shutters folded into themselves and disappeared inside a cornice above the French doors. Nobody was on the porch, and I didn’t see anybody when I went to the railing and looked over.
That predawn hour is my favorite time of day, a sensual time that always makes me pause to breathe in life. The sky was oyster-hued, the air silky smooth and tasting of salt and new beginnings. Mourning doves were waking in the trees lining the drive, calling to one another and making yearning answer. On the shore, wavelets kissed the beach and sighed like a passionate woman. In the distance, I could see dark humps of dolphins at play.
Holding my gun close to my thigh with my trigger finger pointed down the barrel, I walked down the stairs and scanned the darkness under the carport. A great blue heron lifted from the hood of the Bronco and sailed away making an irritated gargling sound. I got in the car and put the gun on the floor beside me, then sat with the motor running for a minute. This was nuts. I couldn’t live like this. I couldn’t go creeping around looking behind every door and examining every shadow. If the killer was out there waiting for me, he would find me. I wasn’t going to be any safer for trying to see him before he got to me.
With that settled, I headed for the Sea Breeze to run with Billy Elliot. I parked in a visitor’s spot by the front door, and put the gun in my pocket before I got out of the car. I wasn’t going to go around scared, but I wasn’t going to be unarmed either. The lobby was deserted that early in the morning, and the muted whine of the stainless-steel and mirrored elevator taking me to the second floor was the only sound. Tom was still asleep when I got to his condo, but I could hear Billy Elliot’s nervous toenails on the tiled foyer. I unlocked the door and knelt to hug him and whisper good morning. Then I clipped on his leash and we took the elevator downstairs. Like thieves leaving a heist, we skittered silently across the shiny tile of the lobby to the glassed front door.
Billy Elliot needs a hard morning run the way some people need caffeine before they can think, and the Sea Breeze parking lot is a perfect substitute for his old racetrack. Cars park in the middle and around the perimeter of the asphalt, leaving a wide oval where we can run. I always try not to hamper his style with my inferior two-legged sprint, but no matter how hard I run, he still strains against the leash. In his dreams, he probably streaks around a track shouting hosannas because he doesn’t have to drag along a poky blond woman.
As we came out of the condo and trotted into the parking lot, I noticed a dark wannabe monster truck—a small pickup raised on ridiculously huge tires—idling with its lights off at the edge of the lot. I gave it a second glance because it was the kind of show-off vehicle that flaunts Confederate flags and semiliterate bumper stickers, not the sort of vehicle that people living at the Sea Breeze drive. Then Billy Elliot pulled me in the other direction, and I turned away from the truck and followed him, not hitting my full stride yet because it takes a minute or two for my muscles to get the message that it’s not a bad dream, they really do have to run like hell that early in the morning.
Billy Elliot strained at the taut leash until we got to the end of the line of cars parked in the middle of the lot. As we turned into the open area, I let the leash play out to its full extent and began running in earnest. Behind me, the pickup pulled out of its spot, drove to the exit into the street, and sped away, its indistinct form looking like a prehistoric monster in the darkness. It was still without lights, which meant the driver was either extremely unaware or had been in the parking lot for some illicit purpose. Neither is unusual in Florida.
It was around 6 A.M. when I worked my way to Secret Cove and Mame’s house. Everything about her was listless, including the way her tail drooped. I knelt beside her and inspected her ears and felt her nose. She wasn’t feverish, and she didn’t have any sign of infection in her eyes or ears. No limping and no sore spots. But she wasn’t feeling well, and most of the food I’d given her the day before was still in her bowl.
I considered calling her vet and asking if holding a dead man’s finger in her mouth yesterday could have given Mame indigestion, but I didn’t want that piece of gossip to fly all over the key. Besides, I knew what the real problem was. Mame was almost at the stage when she would want to crawl off to hide and face her death alone. It’s the way animals handle the end of life. Perhaps humans should do the same.
I led her out the side door of the lanai and let her squat in a circle of Asiatic jasmine in the backyard. We played fetch-the-ball for a few minutes, but she walked stiffly after it, and I got the feeling she was indulging me. I lifted her to the table on the lanai and brushed her auburn coat until it gleamed. Long-haired dachshunds don’t really need to be brushed every day unless they’re shedding, but I do it anyway because they like it. Besides, I like it for myself. There’s nothing like grooming a pet to get you calm and centered. Mame raised her nose and closed her eyes, with a dreamy look that caught at my heart. Her world was closing in, moments of satisfaction coming in smaller and smaller bits.