She was an almost-cop, as David Wharton had dubbed her. She still had her gun in her shoulder bag.
Before trying the key, she rang the bell, banged on the knocker and called Karen’s name. There was no reply. At last, she got out her key and twisted it in the lock. Opening the door, she called out for Karen again. Still no reply.
She went in, deactivated the alarm, then locked the door. Even that act made her a little nervous. What if someone had attacked Karen? What if that someone was still in the house? She might have locked herself in with a predator.
She gave herself a serious mental shake. She and Jan were overreacting to a situation that probably didn’t even exist.
“Karen!” she said.
The living room was as charming as ever. She could see both the kitchen area and the little tiled family room behind the dining room. She walked through the living room, noticing that the living room was as organized as Karen always kept it. Neat as a pin. Nothing was disheveled or out of place. On top of a bookcase there were several pictures. Karen with her mom and dad, with her sister and brother. Karen with the large family hound, Otter, taken when the beloved pet had still been alive. Karen, herself and Jan, strapped into bungee cords at the Dade County Youth Fair, several years before.
“Karen!” she called out again, and moved into the kitchen. Nothing out of order. Dishes done, put away. She was definitely the neatest and most organized of the three of them.
Ashley ducked her head into the small hallway bath. Empty. She forced herself at last into the guest bedroom, which Karen used as a computer room. Clean and neat, every paper in its place, her incoming and outgoing boxes filled, but even the envelopes in them aligned.
Ashley’s feet were dragging as she headed for Karen’s bedroom door.
It was shut.
“Karen?” she called out softly. Still no reply. She put her hand on the knob. But before she could twist it, she was startled by a loud and violent pounding on the front door. She jumped. As she pulled back, the knob twisted in her hand. The door squealed on its hinges and inched ajar.
The room was dark.
The pounding came again….
Ashley ignored the noise, and turned on the light.
Sunsets on the road were often glorious. The sky turned to incredible pastel shades, with streaks of gold flashing through them as the last rays of day disappeared. When darkness came, though, it felt infinite, especially out in the Everglades.
Night had long fallen. The world had boiled down to nothing but the lights of approaching cars and those of the vehicles that followed behind Jake.
Then, ahead of him, the world became bathed in the glow of the city again as he neared the Miccosukee casino and crossed back over to an area that was increasingly more inhabited. If he kept going long enough, he would reach the strip where too many prostitutes had once plied their trade. Many of them had wound up strangled, their mangled bodies usually discovered within days. They had been killed by a man who had made mistakes, not as clever, as he’d thought he was. He had given himself away and been caught. Farther down, closing in on downtown, the street would lose its English orientation and become known as Calle Ocho. Crimes closer to downtown often had to do with passion or with deals gone sour. There were often witnesses to street violence, and clues aplenty.
There were always clues. No crime was perfect. Even so, despite the best efforts of law enforcement and modern forensics, some crimes went unsolved.
Not this one. He felt he had something. All the pieces to a jigsaw puzzle. They just had to be put together.
Tomorrow he would be taking a long drive. The call might have been a hoax, but thanks to caller identification, he knew that at least it had come from the prison.
His instinct told him that the call had indeed been made at Bordon’s request. Bordon had always had the answers. Until now, he hadn’t been willing to give them, to admit to anything.
Had he changed his mind? If so, why?
Fear? Of someone on the outside? Or the inside?
Then again, Bordon was a master manipulator. There were no guarantees. The man might enjoy the prospect of having the power to bring him north time and again, working him like a yo-yo.
There was no sense of going insane now. He would make a call to the prison later, and head up first thing in the morning. Waiting would be a bitch.