At the wheel, minutes after leaving the apartment on Dotger, I winged onto a narrow street shooting behind Sharon Hall. At ten P.M. the block was still as a tomb.
I killed the engine and flew from the car. Rain stung my face as I pounded up a driveway, through a backyard, and onto the grounds.
At the point where I pushed through the hedge, the townhouses were freestanding brick structures in rows of three. The structures formed two sides of a square. Inside the square was a patch of concrete for parking.
I stopped to catch my breath and do a quick scan. Five cars. Among them a 2001 Chevy Impala. Tan.
She was here!
But where?
The main house was off to my left. Straight ahead, beyond its two wings and back courtyard, was the coach house. Beside it, the annex.
Would she dare bring her malignancy right to my doorstep?
My eyes probed the shadows among the trees and shrubs.
Rain soaked my hair, my jeans. My jacket clung to my shirt like an outer layer of skin.
Circle to the front? Take the brick walk along the back of the property?
Wait for backup? How long?
Fearing a male presence might trigger a full psychotic break in Tawny McGee, I hadn’t phoned 911. Had I erred in relying on Hull? Had she gotten my second text giving this address? Was she already here? Could she even take action in this county?
My scalp felt tight and cold, my skin clammy inside my shirt. Not from rain. From adrenaline jolting every system into high.
Screw it.
I was off the block and sprinting. Around the back, down the walk, to a live oak directly opposite the annex.
There was no one in the patio, the side yard, the area where I parked. No one at the coach house.
Flashback.
Movement below a giant magnolia.
Heart banging, I raced to the front lawn.
And saw her beside the tree, brick boundary beyond her.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the knife.
Go! screamed every cell in my brain stem.
Wait! urged a reasoning part of my cortex.
Panting and sweating, I allowed my higher centers to process. To convert my animal instincts into rational thought.
My breathing slowed. My heart eased its hammering against my ribs. My dilated pupils took in detail.
Her back was to me, so I couldn’t see her face. But I could tell she was tall and broad-shouldered. Long neck. Slender legs. High boots.
She held an object in one hand. A larger one lay at her feet.
Above and around her, a tower of leaves gleamed slick as black ice. Here and there, a dull underside looked darkly opaque.
One deep breath. I began zigzagging from tree to tree, placing my feet soundlessly on the wet lawn. Jealously guarding the element of surprise.
When only one live oak stood between us, I tightened my fingers into a death-grip on the knife. Checked my hand.
No trembling. Good.
As my mind tore through options, she squatted and leaned over the thing on the ground. Head movements suggested speech, but no words made it to where I stood.
The thing on the ground changed shape.
She reached out.
The thing twisted, rounded like a sprout in time-lapse video.
Sat up.
White-hot fury sent wasps whining in my brain.
Blowing off caution, I strode forward.
“Alice.” Loud. “Or should I say Kim?”
Both heads swiveled at the sound of my voice. One fast, one slow, as though dazed. Or drugged. Two pale ovals pointed my way in the darkness.
“Which is it, Tawny?” Coming in hot on adrenaline. “Did you kill her to steal the name?”
Tawny McGee rose to her full height and regarded me mutely.
“Or did you just like the ring of it? Alice Kimberly Hamilton.” The steadiness of my voice surprised me.
“Go away.”
“Not a chance.”
I took another step. The oval topping the stalk neck took on detail. Eyes. Nose. Mouth. The same face I’d seen framed in motherof-pearl.
I couldn’t read her expression. It might have been surprise. Or fear. Or anger. Or nothing.
“Kim’s name was in a journal left at de Sébastopol. It survived the fire that Pomerleau set.”
No response.
“Was Kim a fellow captive in the basement? Did Pomerleau or her sidekick murder her?”