“Bridget!” Marnie exploded.
“Sorry,” her cousin said. “Really, sorry. I’m trying very hard to face the facts here. I don’t want you to die. I don’t want to die!”
Bryan pulled in front of Marnie and Bridget’s duplex.
“George, this is it. We’re home, your new home,” Bridget said.
The dog barked, as if he completely understood. He bounded out of the car. He waited while they opened the gate, then rushed in and began sniffing around the yard. Then George started to act funny. He began barking excitedly, running back and forth through the yard to the rear gate—as if he would jump it or ram it.
“Watch it,” Bryan said. “Get behind me!”
They fell in place, Marnie thrusting Bridget between herself and Bryan, but both of them staying close as they followed the baying George around back.
When they reached the backyard, George was standing by the swimming pool.
Barking.
There was someone in the water, floating facedown.
The body was surrounded by a fading cloud of red.
7
Marnie realized that, in her head, she was trying to live in a world where it would all just go away.
No more dead people talking to her. No friends murdered in front of her.
No dead man in her pool.
She sat on a chair in her living room, trying to stay with it, trying very hard to not just slip into a place of absolute oblivion.
George was at her feet, ever vigilant. Bridget was in a chair near her, but the dog had apparently decided that Marnie needed watching more than Bridget. He’d also taken easily to Bryan McFadden—almost as if he recognized the man as being a part of the household. The very thought made her shake, and she wasn’t sure if it was with anger—or with something else she didn’t even want to recognize.
The police had come; Sophie Manning was back and Detective Vining was there, as well. A half-dozen officers in uniform moved about, inside and out, and Marnie wasn’t even sure what they were all doing.
The house was swarming with crime scene people, and she’d met a woman she might have hoped never to meet—one of LA County’s finest medical examiners. Her name was Dr. Priscilla Escobar; Sophie called her Doc Priss, which allowed Marnie to realize she and Detective Vining had worked with her many times.
It was just the same way it had been at the convention center when Cara had been killed. Except, of course, the woman had died in her arms.
She’d been drenched in Cara’s blood.
And Cara had been her friend.
And, of course, it had been a convention center.
This was her home. The dead man was a total stranger. All this was going on in her home.
She’d had to look at the dead man; of course, she’d had to look at him. Bridget, naturally, had been asked to look at the dead man, too. Did either of them know him? No. Marnie was certain she’d never seen him before in her life.
And he was recognizable. Not too bloated, as one cop muttered to another. “Floaters” could be extremely bad. But this guy looked...not bad but still dead. That was because, according to Doc Priss—a slender, dark woman with deep flashing eyes and a rich and compelling voice—he hadn’t been in the water that long. He’d been in the pool no more than a few hours. He had not drowned. He had been shot and had died, she was pretty sure, before he’d hit the water.
She could verify those findings at autopsy.
For the time being, he appeared to be a healthy Caucasian male, thirty-five to forty years of age. Well, healthy, other than being dead. He had been healthy—before he’d been shot. He’d stood at six-one and weighed in at just under two hundred pounds.
There was no ID whatsoever to be found on him. No wallet.
Detective Vining had pressed: Were they sure they’d never seen him before? Had he ever come to clean the pool, do lawn work—maybe he’d come as a representative from the cable or electric company?
Marnie was absolutely certain that she’d never seen him before.
So was Bridget.
It appeared that no one had entered the house; there had been no breakin. The man had simply been in the backyard. He’d been shot, and then he’d fallen or been pushed into the pool. The body wasn’t brought through the house. Marnie was grateful for that small fact, at least. He was brought around the side and into a waiting conveyance.
Doc Priss was nice. She was pleased to meet Bryan and assured him that he was welcome to observe the autopsy; she was very kind to Marnie, sympathetic. She complimented her on the work she’d seen her do on Dark Harbor, and she spoke to Bridget very nicely, too—complimenting a number of the sci-fi shows that Bridget had written or for which she’d been part of a writing team.
A very nice woman, really. Marnie was somewhat surprised, although she didn’t know why she should think a medical examiner wouldn’t be the same as any other human being.
Maybe because she just didn’t normally have any interaction with people who dealt with dead bodies regularly. And as she was discovering, speaking with the dead wasn’t easy, so working on them had to be very difficult, as well.
“I don’t think we should stay here anymore, even with George,” Bridget murmured suddenly. She was looking at Bryan McFadden, Sophie Manning and Grant Vining. The three were standing together by the door; they had just seen the medical examiner out.
Marnie was suddenly angry. This was her home. It was simply a nice home. A despicable human being had sullied it with murder, yes. But it was still her home. She kept it painted, she designed her own little space—she loved her bed and her pillows and so many things. Of course, they could be moved, but that wasn’t the point.
“I’m staying here,” she said firmly.
As if in agreement, George woofed.
“But,” she added quickly, “Bridget, you have to do as you feel is right. I mean, I won’t be offended or mind at all if you choose to stay in a hotel until...until they catch this killer. Or rent a different place for a month or something—whatever will make you feel safe.”
“Oh, no—I won’t leave you, Marnie. I wouldn’t do that.”
“But you should,” Marnie said emphatically. “I would seriously want to die myself if anything happened to you.”
Bridget made a face and shook her head. “If something happened to me here, it would probably happen to you, too, so that point would be moot. But you’re right. This sicko isn’t going to put us out of our home. We do have George. And tomorrow we’ll have an alarm system. I swear it. I have a meeting tomorrow morning with the writing staff for Aliens vs Super Crocodilian, but when it’s over, I can just wait right here until the alarm company arrives.”
Marnie didn’t get to answer.
Bryan McFadden walked over to them.
“Do you want to stay somewhere else until...this is sorted out?”
“No,” Marnie said determinedly. Then she wondered if she was an idiot. She didn’t want to die. She should be throwing herself at the feet of the police, begging them for twenty-four-hour protection.
“I thought you might say that,” he told her. He hunkered down by her, petting George.
“I’m going to call an alarm company right away,” Bridget said. “Or,” she added, “first thing in the morning. As to tonight...”
McFadden smiled. He obviously liked Bridget. What wasn’t to like? Her cousin was bubbly and sweet at all times. It often seemed quite odd that she worked on scripts about weird creatures battling other weird creatures—and munching on human flesh. Bridget had a great smile; she was sincere. She wanted to like people and always looked for the best in them.
“All right, then, what about tonight?”
Marnie realized it had turned into night.