The Good House Part 38

In the foyer, where dead leaves were a foot high on the floor, the grandfather clock chimed maniacally. In the living room, the player piano's sour keys wandered up and down, playing a song with no real melody, an affront to the ear. And above them, the terrible clanging sound came every fifteen seconds now, shaking the house each time.

But there was an explanation.There always was. He wouldn't give in to fear, Myles vowed.

He didn't see Angie dart away from him. By the time he noticed that the swis.h.i.+ng sound of her feet through the leaves was going in the wrong direction-awayfrom the front door, toward the living room-only the swinging French doors remained to tell him where she'd gone. She was in the dining room. "Angie, we have toget out of here!" he shouted, going after her.

Angela stood over the dining table and its neat white tablecloth that looked freshly pressed for a dinner party, and her face seemed yellow, pallid. Her hands were raised to her mouth.

The floor was littered with the remains of a host of broken clay figurines; detached torsos, heads, and limbs. In the mess, Myles saw a picture frame he recognized-that wonderful old photo of Gramma Marie and her husband-and although the frame was cracked, Myles rescued it from the mess. Angie kneeled down, clutching a colorful scarf from the floor while she pressed the clay dish from the attic to her breast. She sobbed, an awful, keening sound, as if a horrible blow had been struck against her. He heard defeat in her cry.

"Angie, comeon. It's an earthquake," Myles said, the first outright lie he had told in many years. He knew, in fact, that this wasnot an earthquake, that earthquakes came in abrupt shudders with aftershocks. What was happening in this house felt more like dynamite blasts from somewhere deep underground. On a timer of some kind. Methodical.

But even dynamite would not explain the water running from the walls and ceiling upstairs. Nor would it explain why there were so many leaves in the foyer where none had been when he and Angie went upstairs. Nor, in fact, would it explain thecrawling pile of leaves, nor the mud he'd seen shoot out of the bathroom. But the wordearthquake fit Myles's tongue; it was something he understood, and it called for the same plan of action as whatever was really happening here, events he couldn't quite grasp. The house might topple, he realized. The ground beneath it seemed to be s.h.i.+fting.

And Angie was oblivious, mourning over trash on the dining room floor.

"That'senough," Myles said, and he hauled Angie onto his shoulder, a fireman's carry. Maybe it was the adrenaline cascading into his system, but Angie was so light, he nearly lost his balance because he'd expected her to be heavier. She didn't struggle the way he'd feared, and Myles thanked G.o.d for small blessings. Angie lay still while he carried her from her grand-mother's house.

Outside, on the porch, Myles looked in the yard for that deputy, Colin, who'd been posted at the front door when he arrived. He wasn't in sight.

"s.h.i.+t,"he said. He'd known it wouldn't be the same without Rob here.

"Put me down, Myles," Angie whispered, so he did. He was glad he didn't hear the terrible keening sound in her voice anymore. He took her hand, and together they ran from the porch into the yard. The picture frame fell from where Myles had nestled it tightly against his armpit, but neither of them turned to retrieve it. At the top of the stone steps, Myles looked down at Toussaint Lane and saw the deputy's rig still parked where he'd seen it last, near the mouth of the woods. Empty.

"Colin!" he called, cupping his hands. No movement. No answer.

Only now, outside of the house, did Myles allow himself to sink into the terror he'd felt from the time he'd seen those leaves upstairs twirl a minuet and that pile launch across the floor. Therewas a way to explain it-every extraordinary, impossible moment of it-but Myles didn't know the explanation, couldn't evenbegin to know right now, and not knowing had immobilized him. Fear bound him in place, digging his heels into the gra.s.sy soil at the edge of the ridge.

"Look," Angie said, pointing toward the ground.

On the highest of the stone steps leading to Gramma Marie's house from the road, there was a single muddy paw print in the center, identical to the ones that had crisscrossed his kitchen floor.

"He's here," Angie said, voice hushed and fearful. "We have to go to The Spot."

The only plan Myles wanted to hear was one that involved getting into his car and driving like h.e.l.l as far from here as they could go. But although Angela's plan didn't appeal to him, he was impressed that she had the presence of mind to come up with one. Myles, for the time being, had run out of plans. He stood motionless at the top of the ridge while he watched Angie flying, flying, running down the stone steps, running past the empty deputy's rig.

Running into the woods.

Thirty.

IT WAS ALMOST IMPOSSIBLEto follow the barking. Maritza Lopez had been sure the dog was dead ahead, but now he sounded north of her. Maritza hadn't planned to stray so far from her post on the backyard deck, but she'd gone so deep now that she'd lost sight of the Toussaint house on the ridge behind her. All because of the barking.

She'd been standing on the deck when she first saw the wet footprints on the wood, and the barking began as soon as she saw them. It was a n.o.brainer. Rob said Tariq Hill had a small black poodle with him. The dog barking out there behind the house could be a poodle, a s.h.i.+h tzu, or a Chihuahua, any one of the small breeds, but it seemed d.a.m.ned likely it was the right dog.

It was also likely to be a trap. She and Colin knew that. And when they'd radioed Rob to tell him about the barking, his orders had been clear: Stay at your posts. Wait for backup.

She wasn't supposed to be out here wading through the Toussaint woods with her Glock drawn for the first time in her career. With three older brothers and her father to please, Maritza Lopez had been taking orders since she was five, so she understood the consequences of ignoring them. Especially from Rob. The homegrown deputy she'd replaced two years ago had been fired for breaking Rob's rules, and far lesser rules thanMy deputies follow orders. She didn't understand why she was out here chasing this dog.

If she'd had time to think about it, if she'd been meditating instead of relying solely on her eyes and ears, she'd have recalled that this dog's bark sounded uncannily like a Chihuahua, Bebe, who'd lived with her family when she was a toddler. When Bebe died, she'd learned what death was. She waited at the door for him to come back every night for a week. She'd never stopped looking for him, never stopped waiting for him, and this dog sounded like Bebe. Even if she didn't know it.

"Come on out, you littlecomemierda," she muttered, her favorite curse in Spanish,s.h.i.+t-eater, a Cuban word she'd picked up from an old boyfriend, and one of the few words she knew in her parents' native language. She'd learned the full glossary of dirty words from her cousins, so she was content with her Spanglish even if her grandparents in Guadalajara couldn't understand what she said.

Colin's voice came into her radio earpiece. "Status," he said, annoyed.

Colin had lit into her when she radioed him and told him she'd climbed down the embankment behind the deck to look for the dog. But since she was back there, he'd decided he had to back her up. Now she'd involved him in her silliness, and she felt truly bad about that. She pressed on her tiny microphone, which hung across her shoulder for easy access. "He's moving. I'm due east now."

Colin groaned. "Rob's gonna fry both our a.s.ses," he said. "Help me find you."

Maritza studied her compa.s.s, watching the needle tremble. She was no Eagle Scout-or whatever the equivalent was for girls-but she knew how to use a compa.s.s, and this one was intent on pointing north, even when she faced the opposite way.

"Comemierda,"she said. "You're not going to believe this."

"What?"

"My compa.s.s is acting screwy. This d.a.m.n thing's no good."

"Forget it, then," Colin said. He sounded out of breath from following her. "I thought you said you wereright behind the house. I don't see you. Darlene said this suspect was last sighted on Eagles' Nest, and that's...what? Six minutes from here? We should go back to the house."

Colin was right. Tariq Hill could be ambling into the Toussaint house this very moment, although the house had been quiet as a graveyard. Not a peep. Not a whimper. Colin had made a joke about it just before she heard the first bark:You should see this guy with his bow and arrow, like he thinks he's Tarzan. Now that her man is here, I guess it won't be so quiet in there now.

The high-pitched bark came again, to Maritza's left. Twenty yards at most.Ten yards, even. If not for the ferns wrapped in spiderwebs, she would be able to see the d.a.m.n dog now. "I've got him," she said. "Give me one second."

Maritza surveyed the overgrown thicket before her, noticing a cedar tree with a huge crevice shaped like a heart, and a creek not too far down the way. She could hear the gentle water.

"Be careful, Maritza," Colin said. "Come back in."

"I'm east. Just keep straight," she said, and she waded into the ferns.

Spiders had never bothered her, so she calmly s.n.a.t.c.hed away any webs that brushed her face, unmindful. She hoped this stunt wouldn't stain the application she had sitting over at Portland P.D. She couldn't stand another year in Sacajawea. Searching for dogs in the bushes wasn't her idea of police work.

"Negative," Colin said. "We go back to the house. We stay there until Rob sends over another unit. Stop f.u.c.king around back there."

Maritza saw black fur scurry away from the creek that gurgled a few feet to her left; a fluffy ball at the end of the dog's tail vanished behind a shrub. Maritza whistled and made kissing noises, crouching. "I need thirty seconds. I justsaw him. What's this dog's name?"

"I forget. Ebony or something. Don't let him bite you."

"I willstep on that little dog before I let him bite me," Maritza said.

"You still due east?"

"Yes. Northeast."

"Make up your mind."

"East, mostly," she said. "I see a clearing now. There are three fence-posts."

Maritza was grateful for the landmark of the three old fence-posts, which had come into her sight after she rounded the last tangle of hedges. This was the only good landmark so far, and she'd needed something more concrete to give Colin. She was about to call for the dog again, but her voice trailed off in surprise. The neatly trimmed black poodle sat directly in front of her, beside one of the fence-posts. With his bright purple collar, she couldn't believe she hadn't seen him immediately. Had he been there the whole time? She'd overlooked him on first glance.

"Which way after this creek?" Colin's voice tickled her inner ear.

"I got him," she whispered."Shhhhhhh."

Maritza surveyed her surroundings to make sure Tariq Hill wasn't in sight. It would be a h.e.l.l of a trick for him to have trained the dog to lure her out here, but nothing was impossible. He might have a camp here they'd missed during the sweep.

There were too many stands of fir trees, towering wild shrubs, and high stalks of gra.s.s surrounding her to put Maritza at ease. This area would be a nightmare to cover. But she didn't see anyone, and that was good news for now. Kissing and cooing, trying to sound nonthreatening, Maritza crouched, duckwalking closer to the dog. His gaze was questioning, inasmuch as a dog's face could be.

"Come to Mama, little pooch," Maritza said. "That's right, Ebony. I won't hurt you."

This was the dog. Ithad to be the one. How many black poodles were roaming around Sacajawea? If she helped capture Tariq Hill, she thought, her application in Portland would shoot straight through the bureaucracy. In fact, screw Portland. She'd apply to the FBI and go back home to Fort Worth, where she could get a tan, good barbecue, and real tacos again.

"Tell me which way after the creek," Colin's voice said.

"Left. North. But only slightly. Hence,northeast," she whispered. She kept a big smile on her face for the dog, who had stood up on all fours, as if to run from her. She hoped dogs weren't like porpoises, where grinning teeth were considered a threat. What was the rule for dogs, anyway? No prolonged eye contact. Maritza purposely s.h.i.+fted her eyes away from him, toward a clump of some kind of flowering bushes to her right.

"Dos mio,"she said, falling to one knee.

She thought she'd seen him. Would havesworn to it. She was looking for a six-foot-three black man, and he'd seemed to be standing ten yards to the side of her. Her finger was so tight against her warm trigger, she almost thought she'd pulled it.

Yet, it wasn't Tariq Hill. Instead, Maritza stared into the face of a wispily built teenage girl in a beautiful white dress, much like the traditional dresses her mother made her wear on the Day of the Dead as a child. The girl was pretty, as blond and sweet-faced as the girls she'd known in high school whose hips didn't bulge and who always had boyfriends hypnotized by their flaxen hair.

"Miss, you have to leave this property," Maritza told the girl. She stood up, embarra.s.sed to be pointing a gun at her. Maritza dropped her hand, slipping the gun back into its holster.

"Who's there?" Colin's voice crackled in her ear, excited.

"A kid," Maritza told him, then turned her attention back to the girl.

"There's a manhunt under way, miss, and this is private property."

The girl's face was blank, expectant. Standing closer to her, Maritza marveled at her gray eyes, round and almost fawnlike. She was pretty enough to be a model, except healthier, fuller. Maritza couldn't remember seeing anyone prettier, except in a magazine.

"Did you hear me, miss?"

"I'm sorry," the girl said. A single tear streamed down her face.

"Where are you, Maritza?" Colin's voice said, frustrated. But Maritza barely heard him, because the girl's melancholy had moved her. The girl's apology carried the weight of sins too great for someone so young.

"What's wrong?" Maritza asked her.

"I'm sorry," the girl said again in that world-weary voice, and her jaw began quivering, making her look ten years younger. The sight of this girl was making her heart ache in places she didn't know it had. "What,linda?" Maritza said, in her own mother's voice. "What happened?"

The girl's eyes brightened, her jaw went still, and her lips lost their sorrow. The transformation happened so quickly, Maritza doubted her eyes.

"This happened," the girl said. She pointed lazily over Maritza's shoulder. Behind her.

After turning halfway around, Martiza saw the motion of someonebig about to come into her vision, and her hand flew back to her gun.

But not quickly enough. Maritza felt a shove and sharp pressure against her side, at her waistline. The push was hard, because she was no longer on her feet. She saw blood spouting above her holster, b.l.o.o.d.ying her hand. Maritza had never seen herself bleed this way before, in a fountain. The sight of her blood made her lose the idea she'd had about reaching for her gun, which didn't matter because a stronger hand was already tugging her department-issue Glock away from her.

Examining herself, Maritza saw something that needed her undivided attention: The black, grooved handle of some kind of tool the size of a large ice pick or a screwdriver was affixed to her waist, protruding fromunderneath her bullet-proof vest. When she touched the handle, her body contorted in pain, as if she'd shocked herself. This was the source of the blood, she realized. Something was buried to the hilt inside her. It had punctured her kidney for sure.

People died like this.

Maritza grabbed the handle to try to pull it free, but somewhere in her haze of panic, she stopped herself. No, she realized. If she pulled it out, she might bleed to death more quickly.Maybe it's the only thing keeping me alive. She saw how awkwardly her legs had splayed beneath her, devoid of feeling. Movement was out of the question, and shock would be here soon.

Tariq Hill stood above her, impa.s.sive. She'd forgotten all about him, just as she'd forgotten about the girl in the white dress, who was nowhere in her sight. When Tariq stood above her, Maritza's brain chronicled everything she could about her killer: black male, age thirty-five to forty-five. Six-three or six-four. Short-cropped hair. Black s.h.i.+rt and black slacks. If she had a chance to speak to anyone again, those would be her last words.

Tariq leaned over, his palm reaching toward her. Maritza turned her face away from him, thinking he might hit her. But he didn't. He wrapped his hand around the charm hanging from her neck and yanked, hard. She felt the leather string cut into her neck before it broke away.

"You won't be needing this," Tariq said. His voice seemed to shake the ground.

Tariq tossed the charm over his shoulder, then scooped the whimpering dog under his arm. With neither pity nor boasting in his eyes, Tariq turned and made long strides toward a stand of fir trees. Maritza watched him retreat, gulping at the air. Her lungs couldn't have been penetrated-she was certain of that-but she had to labor to breathe anyway. Her system was shutting down.

But he hadn't killed her yet. Any chance at all was a big chance.

The pain roiled, making everything in Maritza's sight seem to turn a bright shade of red. Even as her nerves awakened, screaming, she felt more determined to survive. She fumbled to press her radio's microphone. Colin's voice had been in her ear for some time, yelling her name.

"Officer down," Maritza said, hoping she was yelling, too, although she suspected her voice was a squeak by now. "Colin, I'm down. Tariq Hill is here. I'm down."

"Come again?" Colin's voice responded, panicked. "Maritza, come again?"

Maritza's mouth moved in response, but her throat only bubbled beneath a moaning sound she hadn't noticed until she could no longer speak. She hoped the bubbling in her throat wasn't blood. Her mouth tasted terrible-like panic, like death-and if any blood came up, she'd know for certain she was about to die here. Until that happened, she had a chance. A small one.

Maritza thought G.o.d was talking to her personally, but it was Colin in her ear. "Hang on, hang on. I'm almost there! I see a post."

The red sky twirled above her. Maritza closed her eyes.

She thought she had died, until she heard the gunshot. Her first sight was Colin running toward her in a full sprint, his gun aimed. Her mind celebrated. Colin nailed thatputa, she thought.

But Colin's stride turned ungainly, and his midsection twisted as if the top half of his body had decided to run in another direction. While Maritza watched, Colin's legs buckled beneath him and he fell in a tangle of his own limbs, not five yards from her. She saw a large bloodstain soaking his crotch. Colin was wearing his vest to protect his chest, back, and side-Rob had insisted on it-but Colin had been shot in the groin. Almost like an afterthought, Colin began screaming.

Maritza saw Tariq stand over her friend, aim, and fire once at his head. The dog under Tariq's arm barked, frightened at the sound. Tariq turned to Maritza next, his expression determined but washed of malice. He aimed his weapon like a man with a job to do. A man on his task.

Maritza felt sorrowed. She and Colinboth down on the same day, she thought.

She didn't dwell on it long.

There is no place like home, Tariq thought as he appraised the uniformed man and woman dead at his feet, not unlike lovers at arm's length from each other. His gun's last report rang around him, a powerful sound. Birds were taking wing from the treetops, afraid his bullets might be meant for them. But soon, silence. At least to the untrained ear.

But Tariq could hear things and feel things others could not. Tariq felt the earth vibrating beneath his feet, the stirring of the house. The reclamation.

All of this land, now, belonged to thebaka, and thebaka' s plans had not included these two police officers, unfortunately for them. Thebaka had made their ears deaf to the sounds of its reclamation inside the house. If they had heard, perhaps they would have realized they had more pressing problems than a barking dog. They would have heard Death coming for them.

Flesh was so easy to fool. At times, the match didn't seem fair.