The Sanctity of Sloth

by Greta Boris

  He turned, planning to walk to the edge of the lawn and yell to Sylla, tell her he was going to head over to Abby's. But he stopped mid-stride. If she was okay, why wasn't she answering her damn phone? She had a phone charger in her car. He'd bought it for her so she'd never be out of power on the road.

  He returned to the street and to his pacing. The third or fourth time he passed his truck, he stopped, one hand in his hair. There was a black tire track on the curb next to his front bumper. Someone had pulled up or taken off in a hurry.

  That was no surprise. There was a dead body in the living room. But that black mark made him think different kinds of thoughts. Hints about things that happened earlier were everywhere if he only knew how to recognize them. It wasn't a brilliant thought; he recognized that. It's what the police were doing right now. Looking for clues. He'd seen CSI. But clues had always seemed to be for trained professionals, or the actors who played them on television.

  His gaze traveled to the street, searching. If it was Abby who'd left in a hurry, maybe she'd left some other sign behind. There was a brown spot on the asphalt. Near it was another spot, and a foot away another. At first, he didn't connect the dots, either literally, or figuratively. But a moment later, his brain woke up to the message his eyes were sending him. Blood. It was blood.

  He followed the splashes like a breadcrumb trail across the street and up the walkway of the house facing the Basara home. Maybe Abby was there. Holed up, injured, and afraid. He pounded on the door. When no one answered, he pounded again.

  The door opened and yanked to a stop at the end of a chain. One washed out blue eye stared through the opening. "Yes," the woman said.

  "I'm looking for someone. Maybe you've seen her."

  The woman wrinkled her forehead.

  "She's got light brown hair, thin, thirty-ish, and she may be hurt."

  "Are you with the police?" The woman sounded suspicious. "I called them, but they never came."

  "No. I'm a friend."

  "Call the police then. See if they'll listen to you." She began to close the door.

  Carlos stuck the toe of his work boot in the crack. Her eyes jerked to his face. They were wide and afraid. "I'll call the police on you, young man."

  "Please. I'm not trying to scare you, but I need to find my friend."

  "How do I know you're not the man who was after her?"

  "She said that? She said there was a man after her?"

  The woman shook her head. "I'm not saying anymore."

  He couldn't keep the anger and frustration out of his voice. "Listen. I'm trying to help her. She could be in danger."

  "Could be in danger from you for all I know." The woman threw her shoulder against the door and his foot was shoved out of the opening. She slammed the door in his face.

  He rushed across the street calling Sylla's name. If the woman wanted to talk to a cop, he'd get her a cop.

  Sylla was huddled with a group of plainclothes and uniforms. She looked up when she heard her name. Carlos crossed the crime scene tape. He told her about the conversation he'd just had with the neighbor.

  "Did she say Abby came to her house?" Sylla asked.

  "Not exactly. But she said maybe I was the one after Abby. How else would she know someone was after her if Abby hadn't been there? Besides, you can follow the blood right to her front door." He pointed to the street.

  "Parker," Sylla said to the blond cop who'd been with her at the office. "Do you mind?" He jogged across the cul-de-sac.

  "If Abby ran, and she was on foot, she can't be far. I'm going to look for her," Carlos said.

  "Keep in touch," Sylla said. "We still need to talk."

  He drove slowly, scanning the street, trying to imagine where Abby would have gone. When he got to the end of the block, he stopped. Right or left? He had no idea. He closed his eyes and tried to put himself in her head. He knew she'd run across the street, fleeing a man. Skandalis probably. Which meant he was still alive when she'd left. She'd have asked the woman to let her in, to call the police. The old woman must have refused.

  Where would Abby go next? She'd be desperate to get away from Skandalis. She'd have come here, to the end of the block. Then where? There were exits out of the neighborhood in both directions.

  To the left was a street with homes on both sides, like the one he was on. To the right was a single loaded street—homes on one side, equestrian trail on the other. Within a block, the trail dropped out of sight behind some eucalyptus trees.

  That way.

  Abby would have been scared. She'd have wanted to stay out of sight. The trail would let her keep moving, while hiding her from searching eyes. Carlos made a right, drove as far as the trailhead, pulled up to the curb, and parked. This could be a wild goose chase, but he didn't think so. He knew Abby. When she was afraid, she ran for shelter. He left the truck and jogged toward the horse path.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  TUESDAY, MARCH 27, 3:28

  ABBY ROLLED UNDER the split rail fence and into the trees. Everything in her screamed HIDE. She crawled through the underbrush. The rattle of leaves only partially drowning out the screech of tires behind her.

  Placing a hand on peeling bark, she stood. The new wave of adrenaline coursing through her acted like an analgesic. Her back was on fire, but the pain no longer seemed to belong to her. She limped through the small wooded area, aiming for the horse trail. And the shed. It couldn't be more than a third of a mile behind her.

  Maintenance sheds were usually locked. It was a liability to leave them open. Children could get stuck inside, be hurt by tools, or poisons. She told herself all this as she hurried toward it. She was drawn to that slender crack she'd seen between the door and the doorframe like a parched man to water.

  Her breath and the crush of leaves under her feet were all she heard for a long time, but then another sound registered. A steady thump, growing louder. Someone was running behind her.

  The shed came into view. Abby picked up her pace. Every muscle surrounding her lower spine protested. The gap between the door and the building was there, it hadn't been her imagination. And she could see a metal hasp hanging loose. When she got closer, she noted a padlock was threaded through its loop but wasn't clicked shut. The door had opened as far as the loose lock allowed. Abby said a prayer of thanks.

  She removed the padlock and pushed the door open. The interior of the shed was crowded with tools, buckets, and bags. It smelled of mildew and chemical fertilizer.

  She wedged herself inside and pulled the door shut behind her. As the light from the doorway faded, horizontal stripes of sunshine became visible on her right. There was no window in the shed, but there was an air vent near the floor.

  Abby dropped to her knees and lowered her face. The view between the metal slats was minimal, a small section of dirt and the base of a large eucalyptus. She sat up on her haunches and surveyed her cell. If the runner she'd heard was Leena, Abby needed to be careful. She should wedge something against the door to keep it closed. Shovels of different sizes and shapes, a rake, pitchfork, and long shears—the kind used for tree branches—were attached to the left wall. Burlap bags and buckets spilled from the back wall into the center of the five by five room. On her right were stacks of plastic pots, the kind new plants come in.

  She rose to her feet, grabbed the shortest shovel and wedged it between the door and a pile of fertilizer bags. She gave the door a gentle pull. It didn't open. She braced herself to pull harder, but stopped. Footfalls. They'd been muted by the closed door, but were now loud enough to be heard through it.

  She fell to the ground and peered through her tiny squint. Within seconds a pair of tennis shoes came into her circle of vision. A woman's feet, small and narrow in dirty white canvas. They were Leena's feet. Abby had noticed her bright, white shoes a million years ago, when they'd stood together by the ruins of her father's house. Leena had been busy since then. Flecks of red, like mismatched polka dots, were splattered on the now brown shoes
.

  Leena stepped toward the shed door, out of Abby's view. Abby wiggled left until she could see the shoes again. She caught her breath. The padlock glinted on the ground near the door. Damn. Damn. She should have taken it inside with her.

  For a moment she was back in the anchorhold. A different white sneaker lay exposed in the sunlight. The fear that Leena Basara's searching gaze would spot her carelessness had paralyzed her then. She almost laughed out loud at the memory. At the time, she'd thought the worst thing in the world was public humiliation.

  A tan hand reached down and picked up the lock. Abby's heart skittered inside her ribs like a caged animal. A knock. Her eyes jerked to the door. It came again. Wood on wood. The door rattled against the handle of the shovel.

  Then it stopped. Everything was still. Was she giving up? Did she think the door was secured some other way? Abby's gaze leaped to the vent again. Leena's feet were still at the door. One foot shifted back, like she was bracing herself.

  There was one loud thump this time, as the door slammed against the shovel. This was followed by the hiss of shifting sand. Leena was using her body weight against the door.

  Would it hold?

  The answer came a second later. The tip of the shovel blade disappeared under a bag of fertilizer. The door popped open. A thread of daylight shone on the concrete floor.

  Abby thrust both hands around the shovel's handle, anchored her feet against the vent, and shoved back. The door's progress halted.

  A moment later, the shovel jolted in her grip. A lightning bolt of pain shot through her. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. Leena had thrown herself against the door. Abby wrapped her hands more tightly around the wood pole and waited. Leena flung her weight at the door three more times. Each jarring movement more excruciating than the last. Abby tasted blood.

  Finally, it stopped, and there was silence. Abby, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, held tight until she heard Leena move away from the door. When she released the shovel handle, she collapsed, exhausted.

  The concrete felt cool and solid under her sweaty back. She would wait here, hidden in this hole. She'd stay put until Leena gave up the search. She'd rest until darkness fell, then she'd creep out under cover of night and find help.

  Abby turned her face to the air vent. Leena's feet were nowhere to be seen. Was she gone? Abby closed her eyes, straining to hear. A shuffling sound came from several directions at once. She couldn't tell if it was growing louder, or fainter. A voice broke through the confusion of noise. "Leena." Abby tensed. Carlos was loud and clear.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  TUESDAY, MARCH 27, 3:41

  CARLOS SLOWED TO a walk when he spotted the shed. It was the kind of place Abby would hole up in if she were hurt or afraid. If she could get in. He examined the door from a distance. Was it open? Just a crack?

  He was so focused on the shed door, he didn't see Leena until he was almost on top of her. She stood in the center of the trail in a patch of sunlight. Her normally smooth hair had escaped its bun and wild tendrils waved around her head like Medusa's snakes. Her gray slacks, multicolored sweater, even her sneakers, were dappled with blood. Only the strap of her shoulder bag was clean. But the most startling thing about Leena was the gun.

  "Leena." Her name escaped his lips in a gasp of air. She raised the gun to his chest. "What are you doing here?" The question was inane. He knew why she was here.

  "The same thing you are, I imagine," she said.

  "Abby isn't. . ." His words petered off. He was about to say she wasn't there, or she wasn't a threat, but none of that was true. Abby most probably was here somewhere, and she was very definitely a threat. She was the only eyewitness to Tarik and Michael's crime.

  "This is unfortunate." Leena's tone was apologetic. "I hold no ill will toward you or your girlfriend."

  "That's a comfort." Sarcasm put an edge to his words.

  "I'm sorry about what I have to do."

  "You don't have to shoot me, Leena. You could leave. Take your kids. Run," Carlos said.

  "I've learned it's better to be the pursuer than the pursued."

  "Detective Sylla is at your house now. She knows you killed Skandalis. Abby and me, we're the least of your problems."

  "Really?" She smiled and cocked her head to one side. "And how does she know that?"

  When her head tilted, Carlos saw movement behind her. The door to the shed was inching open. A white hand gripped the wood. He dragged his eyes back to Leena. "He's, ah, he's in your house, on your couch."

  "When the police look into Seb Skandalis's affairs, which doubtless they've already begun doing, they'll find he wasn't a nice man."

  Abby came out of the shed. She looked like a wild thing. She held a long pair of gardening shears with two hands.

  Leena kept talking. "His business associates are the kind of people who kill others like you or I would swat an annoying fly. In fact, I'm fairly certain it was one of them who murdered my lover."

  Leaves shuffled under Abby's feet. Carlos raised his voice to cover the noise. "How are you going to explain Abby's death?"

  "I don't have to. I can guess, though. She saw something she shouldn't have, we all know that. Those same associates wanted all the loose ends cleaned up. I'm sure they were the ones who set fire to Paul Travers's house."

  Carlos tried to keep the conversation going until Abby was close enough to strike. "You might have some trouble selling that."

  Leena's smile faded. "Why is that?"

  "Abby called me when she was on the way to your house. She told me you asked her to come, that you had evidence to clear her father. I have the voicemail. And the cops have heard it."

  Anger made Leena's features hard. "I'm done talking about this." She put her other hand on the gun, and braced herself.

  CHAPTER FOURTY-SEVEN

  TUESDAY, MARCH 27, 3:46 PM

  WHEN SHE HEARD Carlos's voice, tears sprang into Abby's eyes. He was here. He would rescue her.

  She rolled onto her knees and began to rise. Her only thought to run from the shed, and into his arms. But then she heard it.

  The subtle nuance in his voice, the cautious note. During her time in the anchorhold she'd learned to read body language, but she'd also learned to interpret tone of voice. She'd found when words and tone didn't match, tone was more reliable.

  "This is unfortunate," Leena's said. "I hold no ill will toward you or your girlfriend." Funny, Abby would have thought trying to run someone over with an SUV was the definition of ill will. She crept toward the door, wondering when she should make her presence known.

  Carlos said, "You don't have to shoot me, Leena."

  Shoot him. Leena had a gun? The immediacy of the situation hit Abby like a slap. White hot rage flared behind her eyes. That was it. She was done.

  Done running. Done hiding. Done. She grabbed the closest tool—the long, pointed shears—and placed a hand on the door.

  Carlos's eyes met hers when she emerged into the dappled sunlight. She shook her head to warn him to keep silent, but she hadn't needed to. He'd already returned his gaze to Leena.

  "His business associates are the kind of people who kill others like you or I would swat an annoying fly. In fact, I'm fairly certain it was one of them who murdered my lover." Lies slipped over Leena's lips like silk, so easy, so smooth.

  Abby didn't see the pile of dead leaves in front of her. A crunch split the air, and seemed to reverberate through the trees. She stood motionless, terrified Leena would turn and discover her.

  Carlos spoke up, too loudly. "How are you going to explain Abby's death?"

  Leena continued talking, her voice unconcerned. Abby's shoulders relaxed. She side-stepped the leaves and continued forward. "I'm sure they were the ones who set fire to Paul Travers's house."

  Carlos paused, a thoughtful look on his face. "You might have some trouble selling that."

  Abby was only feet away now. So close she could smell Leena's perfume. It was the same scent she s
melled in the market. The same one she'd worn the day she came snooping around the anchorhold, but now it was fouled with blood and sweat.

  "Abby called me when she was on the way to your house." Carlos kept talking, keeping Leena's attention on him.

  "I'm done talking about this." Leena adjusted her stance as if preparing to shoot.

  Abby held the shears like a sword and swung. They bounced off Leena's arm with a crack of bone. The gun skittered away into the leaves.

  Carlos leaped forward, and grabbed Leena's right arm, flipped her around and pulled it behind her back. She yelped in pain.

  "You should have run while you had the chance." His voice was soft, but Abby could feel the rage coming off him in ripples. "Abby, my phone, in my pocket."

  Abby reached into his back pocket and took hold of his cell. Before she could withdraw it, Carlos roared and exploded backward knocking her to the ground. A split second later, he landed on top of her.

  The breath ejected from her lungs. She lay beneath him stunned. Then the need for air became desperate. She tried to shift him, pushing with one arm, but he was dead weight. If she could get her other hand out of his back pocket, maybe she could move him.

  She needed oxygen more than she needed answers. But as she pulled her hand from Carlos's pocket, she felt the warm, wetness of his shirt. Whatever happened, it was bad. She pushed him off and, sucking in deep draughts of air, raised onto her elbows. A shuddering pain shot through her back. She collapsed onto the ground again.

  In the short moment she'd been up, she'd seen Carlos's anguished face. One hand was pressed to his stomach and blood seeped between his fingers. Leena must have stabbed him, but with what? How many weapons did she have?

  Abby lay panting, waiting for the muscle spasms to pass, trying to think. She saw movement in her peripheral vision, and turned her head. Leena, a lethal-looking butcher knife dangling from her left hand, searched the ground. She must be looking for the gun.