She pulled the sedan into the parking space next to her truck and sat there with her head resting on the wheel, debating whether to go inside and see if they'd cleaned up, to get her purse. To face the people there, and answer all their questions about Elizabeth.
But the walk suddenly seemed too long. And if anyone wanted to steal a purse with an old brush and a for-emergency-use tampon, they could have it. She climbed out of the car and hesitated over the unfamiliar electronic locks, finally settling for shoving down the physical locks and leaving it at that. Then she turned to her truck.
That was when she saw the tires were slashed.
She stared for a stupefied moment, taking in all the implications of it. Not just flat, slashed. Not just one tire, which she could change and be on her way, but two.
She'd have to go into the store after all. Call Triple A, hang around the parking lot for an hour or so until they showed up.
Masera's shadow preceded him, driven by the lights inside the store. "Well, hell," he said, when he realized what she was looking at.
"Are you everywhere?" she asked wearily. At her house after Sunny disappeared. At the store when the cat attacked. Sitting on her porch in the dark. His arm—it had been his arm—around her in the grooming room.
"I try to be," he said, humor in his voice, in the easy stance of his shadow next to hers.
"I can't decide if this makes you good luck or bad," Brenna muttered. And she couldn't. Every time she thought she knew or understood him, he did something that changed her mind. When he acted from his heart, it spoke to her in some way she couldn't understand. And when he shuttered his eyes and put evasions between them, it made her more wary than she'd ever felt about anyone else.
As if everything he said or did mattered more than it ought to, for good or for bad—and that made her wary, too.
"Let me drop you off at home," he said, and nodded at the auto club sticker in her back cab window. "You can call Triple A tomorrow once you get to work."
Brenna didn't respond right away. And when she did, she found herself saying not, okay, thanks or that makes sense, but, "That wasn't right. Nothing about that was right."
"No," he said.
"A cat wants to get away, it nails you and runs." Brenna hid her hands in her sleeves, and covered her eyes with them. "It might bite, it might claw, but it runs. This cat... This cat wanted to maul her."
"I saw," he said, and there was agreement in the way his shadow inclined its head toward her, a gesture she barely caught as she pulled her hands down just enough to look over them. "And," he added, more sharply, looking at her, "I felt it."
She sighed, and eventually said, "So did I. But I don't know what it means or what to do about it."
"For starters," Masera said, and his voice had turned grim, "I don't think it's a coincidence that the cat's owner is Rob Parker's girlfriend."
"Oh," Brenna said, and groaned. "Oh, shit."
"Looks like you got his attention."
One more thing connecting Parker to the darkness. Not that Brenna had been left with much doubt. Although ordinary human hands wielding an ordinary knife had done the tire-slashing. Mickey, she thought suddenly, and then winced at the assumption. Just because he'd been standing by the woman, by Parker's girlfriend, like he knew her and felt some need to protect her.
No, not just because. Mickey, who'd argued with Masera and who'd sold him two pit bulls. And now he was connected somehow to Parker, who had a barn with dogs in it, plenty of supplements and medical supplies, a weird contraption out in the back—
The question popped out of her mouth before she even realized she'd formulated it. "Are you going to fight those pit bulls you bought?"
A blunt question in a quiet moment. He might refuse to answer it, but he couldn't misdirect or evade her.
He didn't do any of those. Without hesitation, he said, "No, I'm not."
She quit watching his parking light shadow and looked directly at him, searching his face to confirm the directness of his response. The realness of it. If he'd tried to convince her, if he'd piled words on top of that simple statement, she'd have lost the wire-thin connection he'd made with his answer.
But he didn't do that, either. He gave her the slightest of shrugs and the suggestion of a smile. An understanding smile, one that said I know you're having a hard time believing in me but leaving her to make up her own mind.
"Parker is, I think," she said. "I ought to call animal control, tip them off—"
"Animal control knows about the situation," he said, cutting her off short and hard, and his easiness from the moment before vanished. Brenna felt that wire of trust break and backlash as he turned to face her with a real anger. "You went there," he said. "After we got chased off by one of Parker's boys, you went back there."
"Didn't you?" she said, lashing back at him and taking a stab at more truth while she was at it.
"That's not the—" and he stopped short, and Brenna realized with astonishment that they were words he hadn't meant to happen, that he'd slipped and given her a real answer when he'd meant to be evasive.
It was a lot more revealing than he'd ever meant it to be, and he knew it, standing there with his eyebrows crowding the bridge of his nose. That's not the point. He had gone back, that's what it meant. And she'd gotten through to him at last, that's also what it meant. But he had himself back, now, and he said, "Let me drive you home; I'll bring you back in the morning. You don't really want to hang around here waiting for Triple A, not alone. Parker isn't one to take lightly."
Why? she wanted to ask him. What do you know? But she didn't push him any more. Enough for one night, and she was suddenly so tired she could hardly see straight. So she said, "Do you have any idea what time I have to be at work?"
He gave her a cocky grin. "I had to sneak to find the file, and I managed that. Your schedule's right there on the wall." Fishing his keys from his pocket, he jiggled them in his hand and nodded toward the SUV. "It doesn't matter. I've cancelled a lot of work in the past few days, and starting the day early will give me a chance to catch up. Eztebe is taking the flack, answering the phone at home—I think he's about to walk out on me. Which reminds me—do you still have my business card?"
Brenna hunted her wallet out of her pocket and pulled out the card, not caring what he might think about the fact that she not only had the card, she had it on her; her mind lingered on the way he said his brother's name, the way his tongue handled the unusual phonetics and then jumped right back to plain old boring English with only that hint of foreignness about it. Two different worlds, one man. Somehow it summed him up quite neatly.
"Here," he was saying, as he scribbled on the back of the card. "This is the home phone. Call it if you need anything and you can't get me on the cell."
Brenna gave it a glance as he returned the card. "Does it come with a secret code word, too?"
He snorted. "I'll make one up for you if you want it. Just don't hesitate to call. You ready?"
Home. Brenna did a quick mental inventory of her freezer, pessimistic about her chances of finding a frozen dinner there. If she'd eaten with her mother at the retirement community as was her habit a couple of times a month, it would have been Chicken Kiev and cheesecake for dessert.
Ah, well.
She followed Masera to his vehicle and climbed in, managing to avoid any expression of outright envy at the nifty interior features—lights here, cup holders there, and a CD player that he thumbed off as she entered so she didn't have a chance to catch anything but a few notes of something that sounded classical. He waited for her to buckle up and pulled smoothly out of the parking lot—and straight into the Burger King across the four-lane road.
"I haven't eaten," he said, when she looked at him. "And I don't imagine you have, either. Unless you got something seriously nasty from the hospital vending machine."
She shook her head, sinking into a sudden deep fatigue, and numbly offered up a food order when they reached the buzzy and incomp
rehensible speaker. She didn't argue when he paid for it, and she sat with their dinners warming her lap until he pulled up the long hill of her driveway fifteen minutes later. Emily had left the porch light on for her, bless her.
He pulled his burgers—two of them, and large fries to boot—from the bag and looked at where she sat gazing stupidly out the window. "Brenna," he said, "I'm not everywhere. Just where I want to be."
And that, she knew, should probably have some significance to her, something more than just the words themselves. But she clutched the bag and slid down to the ground from the high vehicle, muttering her thanks.
He smiled a crooked smile at her, suddenly looking just as tired as she felt. "Get some sleep. I'll pick you up tomorrow morning."
~~~
She woke up late the next day, alarm unset. She had just enough time to brush her hair out and rebraid it, using a surfeit of hair bands to double it up where she'd gotten sloppy, and to slap a toothbrush around in her mouth. She threw an apple and some crackers into a old lunch tote, spilled food into Druid's dish, and leashed him up to come along even as he ate—he wouldn't have enough outside time to follow it up with an entire day in the crate. She then made the mistake of donning her vest with the tote handles clenched in her teeth and the leash in one hand, and managed to get her hair caught in both the leash and the vest. As Masera's SUV pulled up the driveway, she hopped out to meet it on one foot, still pulling her sneaker on the other and leaving Druid in a quandary over how to heel to such a gait.
Masera was still not a morning person.
That was fine; she didn't feel much like talking, either. She ate her apple and gave Druid the core, which he seemed to find a novel experience and worth much extra drooling and excessive chewing. The Pets! parking lot was empty aside from her truck—not unusual for the managers to push the opening to the limit, never seeming to understand that she needed time to prep for the day's work before the first customer got there—but she thanked Masera and bailed out anyway, glad enough for the time to walk Druid along the grassy fringes of the parking lot. He didn't show any signs of flipping out against the lead; he'd been unconcerned about the parking lot since that first day.
Soon enough she was wishing she'd grabbed her sweatshirt, too, for the clear day wasn't nearly as warm as it looked. And looking at the truck, canted sideways with both driver's side tires slashed, she felt less and less confident about being here alone. So she jogged up and down the edge of the building until Roger finally pulled into the lot, and fell in behind him as he fumbled with his impressive set of keys and eventually got the door open, saying nothing much to her at all.
Roger was not a morning person, either.
Then, suddenly wary of what she might find, Brenna hesitated before the grooming room. The glass was clean; not even a smear where yesterday it had been splattered and dripping. But then, all the managers had always insisted on impeccable glass at the store front. Brenna had spent many a slow winter day cleaning the double set of airlocked doors.
She pushed her way inside, and had to concede that at first glance, someone had tried, truly tried, to clean and neaten. Nothing to be done about the mess of a schedule book; she grabbed a sheet of notepaper, also stained but serviceable, and started the list of clean-up chores. New schedual—darn, and cross-out—new schedule book. When she looked up, her first customer was on his way in. Chubby little Bichon Frise—Bitchin' Frizzy she and Elizabeth called the crabby members of the breed, of which there fortunately weren't many—and Brenna could tell at a glance that no matter what the owner wanted, there were too many mats in that soft coat to do anything but a cut down.
Well, he'd dry fast.
DaNise came in an hour after Brenna arrived, looking tired, glancing as carefully around as Brenna herself had done. "Not too bad," she said, although Brenna was already discovering sneaky stray blots and spatters—on the phone, along the edge of the counter. Inevitable, she supposed; they'd probably be discovering the widely strewn blood evidence of the attack for weeks.
"Glad you think so," Brenna said. "Two baths waiting for you, and the Bichon should be about dry."
DaNise took a deep breath. "Here goes," she said, and disappeared into the tub room.
Here goes just about set the tone for the day. Non-stop. Barely enough time for Brenna to call Elizabeth's cohabitating boyfriend and learn that Elizabeth was sleeping off painkillers but that the doctors were worried only about her thumb, which had been bitten into the joint, and that while she'd be off grooming for several weeks, she could come man the counter a week or so earlier. After that it seemed like just about everyone in the store had time to drift through the grooming room and ask about the incident. Roger stopped by to ask a few pertinent questions, but Brenna gathered that he'd shown up the day before while the police were there, and pretty much knew the details.
If he called to ask about Elizabeth, she didn't know about it. He didn't ask her, that's all she knew.
Near the end of her shift, she remembered what else she'd meant to do the day before, which was to call Emily and sic her and the girls on Mars Nodens through the Internet.
Which is what she was doing when Sammi came into the store, her face grim for the second time Brenna had ever seen; Brenna put the phone to her shoulder and said a wary "What?" by way of greeting.
"It's not on the news yet," Sammi said. "They're keeping it out until they can learn more."
"What?" Brenna said, not willing to wait even the moment it took Sammi to frame her next words.
"Rabies." Breathing even more heavily than normal in her upset, she repeated, "Rabies. The man who took one of the dogs Janean rescued. He's dead."
Brenna didn't even ask. Of course the dog had been through quarantine or had its shots on record. Of course this shouldn't have happened.
And then, with Sammi waiting on the other side of the counter and Emily tucked away on her shoulder, her phone-remote voice saying what do you mean, rabies?, Brenna knelt to where Druid sat at her feet and ran her finger around his collar until she found the tag she'd cleaned what seemed like ages ago. Rabies I/II, it said.
Druid whined uneasily, looking at her with earnest love-me eyes, his speckle-backed ears dropped back against his head in worry and in acceptance of her hands. A second whine, a thinking-too-hard whine, and Brenna's world whirled slightly, with someone else's words in her head.
Shedding rabies.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
CHAPTER 13
THURISAZ
Foreseeing
If Roger had had his way, Brenna wouldn't have gotten days off at all. But for now, she had considerable power with Pets!—if she walked, the store would be without a groomer. If she left on bad terms, she could worsen Pets!' already tenuous reputation in the grooming community. So today she was out and about, decompressing. Not working.
Most groomers preferred the uncertain hours and higher wages per hour than the Pets! unusual retail schedule structure. Most preferred having more control over how they charged for their extra work, or for hazard duty with rough animals. Brenna had once opted for the health insurance that a Pets! position provided, and now found herself staying through inertia.
Or misguided loyalty.
Be loyal to Brenna, she thought, jamming her backpack full of books outside the Parma Hill library. Paperbacks, mostly, because she could fit in more of them in one trip, except for one hardcover thriller she'd snatched from the new rack and couldn't resist. As if she needed any more thrills in her life right now.
The day—not her usual day off but nothing was usual of late—had been too gorgeous to waste. After an early trip to the spring with Druid, some target practice and a little much needed, old-fashioned rug beating, Brenna had pulled her bike out of the barn, topped off the air in the tires, and headed the handful of miles into town. She'd had books to return, but mostly it was just for the ride. The sun on her shoulders, the breeze in her face, the pleasant burn of active muscles in her legs. Of course, with her ha
ir bundled up to avoid the bicycle spokes, her jeans taped with duct tape to stay out of the chain, her vented helmet, and the dorky sunglasses that fit her and the helmet both, she was also the ultimate in biking geekery.
As a glance at her ghostly reflection in the slightly smoked library glass door panels confirmed. You've definitely got it, she told herself in mock solemnity, but refrained from giving herself a thumbs up. That would be too weird.
And there were already enough weird things going on in her life.
She swung a leg over the bike and wove her way through small town traffic, flipping to a higher gear once she reached the shoulder of a more open road. The later part of the afternoon was ahead of her...maybe she'd get to some of those cleaning chores yet. Or maybe she'd finally put that new dryer vent hose in place. Or what the heck, maybe she'd sit down in the hammock with a good heavy quilt and read a book.
A crossroad presented itself; a different way home, but not much longer. On an impulse, she cruised around the corner.
Or maybe not much of an impulse after all. For there, bright white in the sunshine, the church cried out for her attention. And she thought of what Masera had once said, that the Christian philosophy wasn't contradictory to the idea that Mars Nodens lived in her back yard. Well, maybe that's not exactly what he'd said. Something about them not being mutually exclusive. Brenna stopped pedaling, straightening, leaving the bike to follow the road on its own.
Reverend Dayne's car sat in the incomplete spring shade of the single mature tree at the edge of the parking lot. Brenna's bike seemed to make the decision for her, wobbling slightly in its trajectory. She leaned over the handlebars and swooped into the parking lot, leaving the bike unlocked and the backpack leaning by the front wheel with her helmet propped against it.
She found Dayne in his office, absorbed in notations. Writing his sermon, she thought with guilt, knowing she was interrupting, suddenly not so sure this was a good idea anyway. And then he flipped a page and she realized he was looking at a television guide. Perversely, the discovery took away her nerves; she stifled a grin and cleared her throat, leaning in the doorway. Abruptly aware that her dorky sunglasses hung from her fingers, she jammed the earpiece into her back pocket.
A Feral Darkness Page 19