While Others Sleep. Helen Myers R.
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“I tried to find out how well Debra knew the Holms girl after questioning her parents about Maida, but Patsy turned alpha female. Sorry. It would have been helpful for us to have something to offer the authorities if we need to ask them to bump up a search for Maida.”
Yancy signaled his agreement of that with a slight shift of his thick eyebrows. “What did her loving son have to say about his mother’s whereabouts?”
“He doesn’t have a clue. That is, he says he hasn’t a clue. The commotion with Debra prevented me from probing his memory a little further.”
“So, for the moment, Maida has been forgotten? Maybe conveniently?”
The VCR tape momentarily captured her attention. Campbell knew what was coming. Even so, she experienced a pang at the sight of the crime scene, the white Grand Am behind the news anchor. “That’s it. That’s the 911 I heard on the scanner last night. Look at the car—see what I mean? That’s why I let you and Ike talk me into going to the hospital. When I heard that the victim was being rushed to Emergency, I wanted to check on her myself. Don’t ask me why I didn’t listen for a better ID to make sure it was Maida.”
“It’s definitely one of those freak situations. Sorry as I am for the kid, I can’t help feeling this is buying us time.”
Campbell understood. This brought them back to Dwayne. But before she could say anything, the intercom buzzed.
Yancy stopped the VCR and hit the TV’s mute button before reaching across his desk. “Yes, Beth?” he said into the machine.
“State police on line one, sir.”
Yancy grabbed the receiver. “Dolan—good of you to get back to me so fast.”
Exhausted in too many ways to count, Campbell was slow to figure out who Yancy was talking to. Wondering what he was up to, she watched his narrow-eyed stare as he looked beyond the miniblinds out to the street. As a state trooper, Yancy had cut a distinguished figure in his uniform, intimidating enough for most of her friends to give their old home a wide berth—a reaction he encouraged, since there were a number of pranksters in her circle.
“Okay, thanks. I’d appreciate that, Dolan. We’ll get it faxed to you as soon as I get the additional information confirmed.”
The moment he hung up, Campbell was already leaning across the desk. “You called Captain Wheat?”
“Didn’t think it could do us any harm. He always said he owed me for finding his boy’s Harley before that chop shop spread the parts across the country. He checked on overnight activity in our area. Says so far there are no reports of anyone matching Maida’s description, and no one’s called in to check on anything bearing her car’s plates. I guess you could call that good news.”
To a point. They could be reasonably sure she hadn’t had an accident or been stopped for reckless driving or speeding. But that left plenty of other possibilities.
“At least we can delay talking to Tyndell.”
Campbell couldn’t believe Yancy was suggesting that. “How do you figure? Patsy may stay preoccupied with their daughter’s emotional state, but I’d be surprised if Dwayne hasn’t already gone back to wondering about my visit. I’ll bet there’s already a call from him on Maida’s answering machine, and another on the main office’s switchboard.”
“He’ll wait, thinking she might be in the shower, and try again.”
“Listen to me. He may not be the son Maida hoped for, but he knows what she expects from her chief beneficiary. I’m the one who’s going to shower and change. Then I’m going back to the Trails and track down Bryce. I’d rather suffer his company than watch him in a TV press conference with Dwayne.”
“Well, while you’re burning all cylinders, start making a list of Maida’s friends and the places you know she frequented when she did leave Maple Trails. If it turns out that we do have to make this an all-out search, that will save us some time.”
“Good point. By the way, I’ll get cleaned up here so you don’t have to nag me about doing more driving.”
“I’m overwhelmed.”
Less than an hour later Campbell found Yancy sitting on the edge of Beth’s desk. Between his guilty look and her big calf eyes, Campbell suspected she’d been their prime topic of conversation.
“You have a big mouth,” she said, certain Yancy was the guiltier of the two.
“I was only telling Beth a little about Maida. Remember the time she was baby-sitting for her grand-son—oh, heck, it was three years ago—and she intentionally ran over that rattlesnake?”
Campbell didn’t believe his story for a second—she knew he’d told Beth about her latest lightning experience—but the snake story was an amusing one. Maida’s aim was way off and she’d only broken off the snake’s rattles. Her grandson had been so upset that Maida asked one of the security guards to take the creature to the vet to see if they could reattach them.
Shaking her head, Campbell headed toward the door.
“Hey—if you’re going back to Maple Trails, why aren’t you in uniform?” Yancy called after her.
She simply lifted a hand in farewell, not yet ready to explain.
7
Northwest of town
8:03 a.m.
Certain the ceiling would rot and collapse on him before he would sleep, Blade kicked free of the tangled sheet and blanket, and swung his legs to the floor. The room spun before him in a dusky blur thanks to the combination of fatigue and the bourbon he’d downed to block out what he’d seen last night. Beyond the closed drapes the birds outside sounded as if they were in serious competition for screen time in a Hitchock remake.
Food. Slowly, it registered that they must be impatient for their day’s ration of seeds, especially since the storm had returned winter to Texas. On the heels of that realization came a taste of February chill against his bare skin and he glanced around, wondering what new damage the storm had caused on the roof or a window. Nothing would surprise him, since he’d made no improvements and only the most mandatory repairs to this three-room shack since taking on the lease almost a year ago.
Blade had decided on this remote eyesore for a reason other than economics; it also ensured protection and relief from all but the most determined solicitors. The place was a far cry from his roots, but then that was what set black sheep apart from others. He owned few creature comforts—a king-size bed obtained at a furniture closeout sale, and a thirteen-inch TV found in a closet that he’d pounded and shaken until it gave him enough picture to check on the news and the weather. His existence made Thoreau appear like the Hugh Hefner of his day.
Before he turned into something from the Ice Age, Blade directed his weary self into the pea-green bathroom in search of a revitalizing hot shower.
Minutes later, in the fifties-style white-and-black-tiled kitchen, he put on water for coffee. Dressed in worn jeans and a black sweatshirt, he dragged on boots, preparing to feed his raucous wake-up service. But as he approached the door, he locked gazes with the four-legged squatter who’d arrived between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Blade suspected people who expected Santa to bring them a cute, cuddly puppy had dumped the beast in the country.
The brindled behemoth was neither cute nor cuddly, and when it growled, it sounded like gargling. Glaring at him out of one topaz eye, it peered through the window of the kitchen door, then launched itself into the air, leaping onto the picnic table, causing the dilapidated remains of rotting redwood to groan as it teetered.
Issuing his own throaty response, Blade back-tracked and hoisted the fifty-pound sack of dog food from the pantry. “Shit,” he muttered at its depleted weight. It was only Wednesday and it was already half empty. He’d bought the stuff over the weekend.
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