The raccoon moved closer, its large dark eyes unwavering. It was moving strangely, and he wondered if it was rabid. “Is that it?” he asked aloud, knowing instinctively that the animal would understand him. “Are you rabid?”
The raccoon did not respond. It just continued to stare, and pad steadily closer.
As Aaron gazed into its eyes, an overwhelming sense of euphoria washed over him. It was all he could do to keep from bursting out in laughter and then breaking down in tears of sheer joy. He closed his eyes and swayed with the waves of emotion.
Stevie. His little brother was here—in Blithe, he was sure of it. Aaron could feel him, waiting to be picked up—embraced, played with. Stevie was unharmed, and that brought Aaron the greatest pleasure he had ever felt. Nothing would ever come between them again.
“Excuse me,” a voice suddenly interrupted his reverie.
Aaron opened his eyes and saw that the odd raccoon was gone, replaced by a police officer who was eyeing him strangely. “Is there a problem, sir?” the policeman asked him, moving closer, his hand clutching his gun belt.
Aaron swayed, feeling as though he’d been on a roller coaster. “I’m fine,” he managed. What just happened?
“You don’t seem fine,” the officer barked. “You been drinking?” he asked, stepping closer to sniff Aaron’s breath.
Aaron shook his head, feeling his strength and wits slowly returning. “No sir, I’m fine. I think I might have sunstroke or something.”
“Can I ask you what you’re doing here?”
“Actually I’m looking for a friend of mine,” Aaron said, bringing a hand up to his brow to wipe away beads of sweat. “Tall, silvery white hair and goatee, dressed in a dark suit?”
The policeman continued to watch him through his mirrored glasses. “I’d like to see some identification,” he finally said, holding out his hand.
Aaron was getting nervous. First Camael disappears, then the strange raccoon—and now an evil sheriff. As he handed the police officer his license, he couldn’t help but wonder what other surprises the town of Blithe had in store for him.
“Just passing through Blithe, Mr. Corbet?” the policeman asked, handing back his identification.
Aaron returned the license to his wallet. “I’ll probably be here for a couple of days,” he said, sliding his wallet into his back pocket. Suddenly Aaron couldn’t help himself; the attitude he had worked so hard to keep in check was rearing its ugly head. It had been the bane of his existence—he just couldn’t learn to keep his mouth shut. “Is there a problem, Officer …?” he asked, an edge to his tone.
“Dexter,” the policeman said, touching the rim of his hat. “Chief of Police Dexter. And no, there isn’t any problem—now.” He smiled, but Aaron saw little emotion in it. If anything, it appeared more like a snarl than a smile. “Blithe is a quiet town, Mr. Corbet, and it’s my job to make sure it stays that way, if you catch my meaning.”
Aaron nodded, biting his tongue. After all, he was a stranger, and evidently that made him immediately suspect.
Chief Dexter began to walk toward a cruiser parked by the side of the road nearby. Aaron had been so caught up in the bizarre spell of raw emotion that he hadn’t even heard the policeman pull up. He looked back to the wooded area. “Chief Dexter?” he called.
The policeman stopped, his hand on the door handle of his cruiser.
“You didn’t happen to see a raccoon when you pulled up here, did you?” Aaron asked.
Dexter pulled open the door, and the squawk from his radio drifted out to fill the still air of the neighborhood. He smiled that nasty snarling smile again before easing himself into the driver’s seat. “No raccoons around this time of day, Mr. Corbet. They’re nocturnal.”
“Thought so.” Aaron nodded. He stared at the police officer. There was something about him …
“Enjoy your visit, Mr. Corbet,” Chief Dexter said. “Hope you find your friend,” he added, before slamming closed the door of his car, banging a U-turn, and driving away
From a woman who brought her dog in for its annual heartworm check, Katie McGovern learned that her former fiancé had been missing for at least four days. Apparently, the dog—an eight-year-old poodle named Taffy—had had an appointment for Monday morning, but no one had been in the office until Katie arrived that Wednesday afternoon. It’s very unlike Dr. Wessell to miss an appointment. I hope everything is all right, the dog’s middle-aged owner had said, her voice touched with concern.
Katie had made up a story about a family emergency that Kevin would have to deal with when he finally got back—if he does, said a nasty little voice at the back of her mind. She had tried to ignore the voice by cleaning up the office and catching up with Kevin’s appointments. From organization comes order, her mother had always said. And from order comes answers. But the creeping unease she’d been feeling in the pit of her stomach since receiving that first e-mail from her former lover a little over two weeks ago continued to grow.
Think I’ve found something here that might interest you—care for a visit? Katie had thought it nothing more than another attempt by Kevin to get her back into his life, and she’d ignored the message—until she received another a few days later.
Not sure if I can handle this. Really need to see you. Please come.
There was a certain urgency in the communication that had piqued her curiosity. She had called him the next day, but there was no answer at the clinic. And when Kevin had failed to return the multiple messages she’d left on his home phone over several days, she’d decided to take some vacation time and head to Maine. They may have broken up nearly two years earlier, but it didn’t mean they weren’t still friends.
The office had been in complete disarray—Kevin did have a tendency to become easily distracted. In fact it was a distraction with another woman that had brought an end to their relationship. But this was different.
Katie glanced at her watch; it was nearly six, and she felt as though she hadn’t stopped to breathe all afternoon—between appointments, trying to bring order to the place, and figure out where Kevin had gone. She thought of Aaron Corbet. He seemed just the person to help her keep the practice afloat during Kevin’s absence.
She snatched up his dog’s file from the corner of the desk and casually began to review it. The words “raccoon bite” stuck out like a sore thumb. Katie had seen many bites in her years as a vet—and Gabriel’s hadn’t been caused by any raccoon. She wasn’t even sure if the bite had come from anything that walked on four legs. In fact, the wound looked as though it might have been made by a small child. Something else to add to the strangeness of Blithe, she thought.
The veterinarian sighed and closed the folder. She moved to the file cabinet next to the desk and pulled open the drawer. Katie added Gabriel’s file to the others she had organized and tried to slide it closed. But something was blocking it. She reached in and felt behind the drawer. Sometimes a file slipped out of place and became wedged in the sliding track. Her hand closed on what felt like a book. She tugged it free and slammed the drawer shut.
Probably some veterinary journal, she mused, bringing it to the desk to take a look. It was journal, all right, but one of a far more personal nature: Kevin’s journal. She remembered him writing in it each night before bed. It was something he had started in college. Helps me get my thoughts in order, he had told her one night when she’d asked him about the habit.
She flipped through the entries and stopped at the one dated June 1:
Saw another one today on my hike. I’d swear they were watching me. Gives me the creeps. Wonder what Katie would think.