But now… now the incident loomed large and dark in his brain.
He rounded a corner. The cabinet was in sight. The lock… he allowed himself a thin smile… the lock, the dear, dear brass padlock was still in place and snapped closed, just like always.
And the key ring, that cartoon rabbit key ring was—
Gone!
Eli sagged against the cabinet, gripping the oak frame, sweat from his palm smearing the glass as he stared at the empty spot on the second shelf.
No! He had to be dreaming! This had to be a mistake!
He grabbed the padlock and yanked on it, but it held firm.
The air seemed full of shattered glass, every breath shredding his lungs.
How? How could this be? He had the only key. Objects don't move through solid glass. So how—?
"Mr. Bellitto!" Gert's voice behind him.
"Eli!" Adrian. "What's wrong?"
And then they had him surrounded, Gert, Adrian, and the silent Kevin. Yes… Kevin, the weasely, sniveling little shit.
Eli glared at him. "You sold something out of this cabinet, didn't you?"
"What?" Kevin paled and shook his head. "No, I—"
"You did! A key ring with a rabbit! Admit it!"
"Oh, that. Yes. But it couldn't have come from here. I don't have the key."
"It did!" Eli shouted. "You know damn well it came from here! Tell me how you got it out!"
"I didn't!" He looked ready to cry. "The man brought it up to the counter. When I saw that it didn't have a price tag—"
"There!" He raised his cane and shook it in Kevin's face. He wanted to beat his head to a spongy pulp. "Right there that should have told you something! How do you sell something without a price tag? Tell me!"
"I-I-I called you at the hospital about it."
"That's a lie!" He raised the cane higher. He'd do it. He'd kill him, right here and now.
"It's true!" Kevin had tears in his eyes now. "I tried to ask you about it but you said to figure it out for myself and hung up on me."
Eli lowered the cane. Now he remembered.
"That was why you called?"
"Yes!"
Eli cursed himself for not listening.
"What did this man look like? Reddish hair, long in the back?"
Kevin shook his head. "No. He had brown hair. Brown eyes, I think. Very average looking. But he called you by your first name and said you were friends. He even left his name."
Yes, Eli thought sourly. Jack. Useless. He knew no one named Jack.
Whoever it was must have picked the lock on the cabinet. But then… why pay for it? Why not just walk out with it in his pocket?
Unless he wanted to make sure I knew.
He's taunting me.
Just as his attacker had taunted him before stabbing him.
One man tries to buy the key ring Sunday night, another man attacks me and frees the lamb Monday night, a third man virtually steals the key ring the following morning.
Could they all be the same man?
Eli felt a sheet of ice begin to form along the back of his neck. Just as he stalked the lambs, was someone stalking him?
"Get me upstairs," he said to Adrian. "Immediately."
He had to get to his phone. He had a number he needed to call.
11
Jack approached the Menelaus house warily, the Roger Rabbit key chain tight in his fist. He stepped past the dead bushes onto the front porch and stopped, waiting for something to happen.
After half a minute or so of nothing happening except his feeling a little foolish, he rang the doorbell. When no one answered, he rang it again. Through the screen he heard the faint clank and clatter of banging wood and steel on stone. Sounded like Lyle and Charlie had started without him.
He pulled open the screen door and hesitated, remembering the first time he'd crossed this threshold—the unearthly scream, the earthly tremor. What would happen this time, now that he was holding something that might have belonged to whatever had invaded this house?
Better play it safe, he thought.
He tossed the key chain into the waiting room and stepped back.
No scream, no tremor. Nothing.
Jack stood and watched Roger lie spread-eagle on the floor, grinning and staring at the ceiling.
A little more waiting, accompanied by a lot more nothing.
Disappointment veered toward anger as Jack stepped through the door and snatched the key chain from the floor. He suppressed the urge to turn and drop kick it onto the front lawn. He'd been so damn sure.
Ah, well. It was a good try. And he had to admit he was somewhat relieved not to have to face proof that Bellitto was connected to Tara Portman. He'd come to fear coincidences.
He stuffed Roger into a pocket and followed the work noises into the kitchen and down the cellar stairs. Along the way he heard another sound. Music. Jazz. Miles. Something from Bitches Brew.
Jack reached the bottom of the steps and stopped to watch the brothers Kenton at work. They'd ditched their shirts and looked surprisingly muscular for a couple of guys in the spook trade. Their black skins glistened from the effort as they pried at the sheets of paneling and hacked at the studs behind them. A ten- or twelve-foot span had been stripped away, exposing dull gray rows of granite block. Neither had any idea he'd arrived.
"Started without me, I see," Jack said.
Lyle jumped and turned, raising his pry bar. He huffed out a breath and lowered it when he recognized Jack.
"Don't do that!" he said. "Not in this house."
"Yo, Jack," Charlie said, waving. "S'up?"
"Lots. Gia paid a visit to Tara Portman's father."
"By herself?" Lyle asked.
"Without telling me."
"That girl got game," Charlie said. "She learn anything?"
Jack gave them a brief rundown of what Joe Portman had told Gia.
"So," Lyle said slowly, "the riding clothes she was wearing when Gia saw her match the clothes she was wearing when she was snatched."
"Don't be fooled," Charlie said. "It's not Tara Portman."
Lyle rolled his eyes. "Not this again."
"You won't listen, maybe Jack will. You had your doubts too, right, Jack?"
"Yeah, but…" What was he stepping into here?
"I spoke to my minister and he says there are no ghosts, only demons pretending to be ghosts to lure the faithful away from God."
"No worry in my case," Lyle said. "I'm not among the faithful."
"That's because you don't believe in anything," Charlie said with some heat. "Only thing you believe in is your disbelief. Disbelief is your religion."
"Maybe it is. I can't help it. I was born with a skeptical mind." He turned to his brother. "Now I ask you, is that fair? If God gives me a skeptical nature and you an accepting one, then you're going to be a believer and I'm not. If belief is a ticket to eternal happiness, I'm definitely handicapped. God gives me a mind capable of asking questions and what?—I'm damned if I use it?"
Charlie's dark eyes were sad. "You just gotta give your heart to Jesus, bro. 'Whosoever believeth in him shall not perish but have everlasting life.'"
"But I can't. That's my point. I'm the type who needs to know. I didn't ask to be this way, but that's how it is. I am simply not capable of adjusting my whole existence to accommodate something that must be accepted on faith, on the word of people I've never met, people who've been dead for thousands of years. I can't live like that. It's not me." He shrugged. "Hell, I'm still not sure I believe in this ghost."