Something chirped, and I looked up. Gretel sat on top of a curtain rod, looking down at me. She cocked her head for a better look and then chirped again.
"Good for you," I said thickly. I looked over at the birds' cage. It was battered and broken. The door was gone. Suddenly the hair on my arms stood straight up, my heart slammed against my throat, and I was bathed in sweat-and I realized that I was angrier than I'd ever been in my life.
The anger focused me. I got up and picked up the phone, putting the receiver back on the hook. The red light on the answering machine blinked at me steadily, and I hit the button for playback.
First I got Eleanor. For the first time since I'd known her, I fast-forwarded the machine past her message. Then I was listening to Nana and me. "Tunut," Nana said. I hit fast forward again and then pushed the play button.
"Nana," a male voice whispered coarsely. "Nana, pick up the phone. I know you're there, Nana." Then nothing, just the hum of the line. Whoever it was had disconnected with a sharp click.
I waited. "Wednesday, eight-oh-three p.m.," the machine said tonelessly. The tape continued to roll.
Then the whisper was back. "Nana," it said, "pick up the phone. Something has happened to Simeon. Pick up the phone."
"Hello?" Nana's voice said. "Hello? Who is this? What's happened? Is he all right?"
No answer. Just the wind howling through the phone lines again. "Is he all right?" Nana said insistently. There was a click.
"Wednesday, eight-oh-five p.m.," the machine said.
Then there was nothing. Nothing at all.
I sat there, feeling my blood pressure subside and listening to the silence. Crickets made cricket noises. The house creaked. There was one other sound, one I couldn't identify at first. A kind of whirring. The refrigerator? No, not the refrigerator.
It came from the computer.
I went over to it, stood over it. The screen was dark, but the machine was on. I touched a key. Screensave, Nana had called it. The message leapt into life before me on the screen.
IT'S ABOUT EIGHT, it said. SIMEON, SOMEONE CALLED HERE. SAID SOMETHING WAS WRONG WITH YOU. WHEN I ANSWERED HE HUNG UP. SIMEON, SOMEONE JUST CALLED AGAIN. IT'S A LITTLE AFTER EIGHT NOW. SIMEON, I'M SCARED.
There was a blank space on the screen, then some more words.
SOMEBODY'S HERE. I HEAR THEM OUTSIDE. I HEAR
That was the end of it.
I paced the length of the living room. The pool of blood caught my eye. Then I had an idea and went back to the computer. I pushed the key that said Page Down.
A single word appeared neatly centered in the middle of the screen. It was all in capital letters. It said:
TOBY
21
First I called the police and reported Toby's Maserati stolen. The license plate was easy, since the last time I'd seen it I'd been flat on my back and it had been two feet from my chin: TOBY 1.
I could think of only one place he might have taken her, but if I was wrong, they could still be on the road. They couldn't have been gone much more than forty minutes. Red Maseratis aren't that common, even in Los Angeles; some alert cop might get lucky and spot the car. And I might win the state lottery next month, too.
Then I ran back down the driveway, leaving the broken door sagging open behind me, to check out the only remotely likely guess I had.
I coaxed extra speed out of Alice down the winding roads of the canyon, keeping my mind blank and my breathing even. Halfway to the coast I got stuck behind a necking couple with more eyes for the moon and each other than for the road. I hit the horn twice and got an aggressive slowdown from the lovesick creep at the wheel, a display of automotive macho for the little lady. I waited for a right-hand curve, gunned Alice, and slammed into the driver's side of the creep's rear bumper. He fishtailed off to the right, and I passed him on a blind curve and left him stalled out most of the way onto the shoulder.
By the time I ran the red light on the PCH and headed north at seventy miles per hour, fourteen minutes had elapsed since I left the house.
Try as I might, I couldn't keep my mind from working. I was doing the only thing I could think to do, but there was a tickle in the back of my head that I couldn't ignore.
I knew Toby hadn't killed Saffron.
I had bet Nana's safety on the assumption that he hadn't killed, or at least intended to kill, Amber, that he wasn't a cold-blooded murderer. And, except for Nana, Toby was the only person involved who knew where I lived. Even Dixie only had my phone number.
And then, as Malibu Canyon receded behind me, that particular security blanket ripped right down the middle.
Saffron had known. She'd been there.
Whoever killed Saffron had played with her for a long time.
I tried to accelerate, but my foot was already pushed to the floor. To the left the Pacific rolled in as black as blood. Something like drowsiness kept slipping over my consciousness, and it took too long for me to identify it as defeat. The minute I'd found Saffron dead I should have known I couldn't take Nana home.
You've killed her, a voice said in my ear.
I shook my head and shoved vainly at the accelerator.
There was so much blood, the voice said. Hansel's headless body popped into my mind's eye. She's dead, the voice said.
"Fuck you," I said to the voice, and turned left into Encinal Canyon. The turn had caught me unaware, and Alice almost spun out. It had been more than thirty minutes.
I parked partway down and ran the rest of the way to the house. From the driveway the house looked dark, but there was enough moonlight to show me that Toby's car wasn't there. There was a car there, though, pulled crookedly into the drive with both its front doors open.
I knew whose car it was.
The tide was out, so I went around to the beach side of the house, climbing over slippery, still wet rocks, falling once before I got to the picture windows. The curtains were drawn, but lights burned inside. Then there was a flash, like small-scale lightning. But from inside. Then another.
He was taking pictures.
A surge of pure adrenaline joined forces with another flashbulb to carry me through knee-deep water and up onto the beach to the front door. It was open.
It would be. She couldn't walk, not after all that blood. He'd had to carry her inside. He didn't plan to stay long.
I listened: not a sound. No more flashes. Then I heard footsteps across a hardwood floor, and a door opened somewhere in the house.
Now.
My wet running shoes made squelching rubbery sounds as I moved across the dark entrance hall toward the pale rectangle of light that fell from the archway leading into the living room. The room was empty and not empty.
No one was standing there, but what looked like a heap of clothing was crumpled in the corner between the bookcases. Multiple images of Toby's face grinned down from the wall at what was left of Nana. Black hair and red blood. One slender arm was outthrown. It was broken midway between the elbow and the wrist.
The next thing I remember, I had gathered her in my arms and was picking her up. I had carried her before, but now she was horribly light. I wondered how much all that blood weighed. Her head lolled back, and a savaged face caught the light. It was impossible to tell if she was alive or dead. Her eyes were swollen and open and empty. She looked like she could see through walls. I took two steps toward the front door.
"Put her down," said a voice from behind me.
A tremor ran through me, and I turned with her dangling from my arms. The door to the beach was open, and Tiny stood in it. He bloomed there, gigantic in white, framed by the darkness. A little nickel-plated gun gleamed in his hand.