Copycat Killing

2

I made it out to Wisteria Hill before Marcus did. I drank the last of my coffee, got out of the truck and stretched, bracing my hands against the left front fender.

I had felt kind of strange about accepting the truck from Old Harry just for saving a few papers. Then a couple of weeks ago his son, Harry Junior, aka Young Harry, had come into the library to tell me they’d found the old man’s daughter. I think I’d been almost as happy as he was.

I heard Marcus before I saw his SUV. The runoff from all the rain had left the driveway looking more like two trenches in the gravel and mud, and he eased his way slowly around the last curve. I patted the side of the old, brown Ford, grateful for its big, thick-treaded tires and good springs.

Marcus had brought two jugs of clean water and I had the food for the cats. “Hi,” he said with a smile as he got out of the car. “Can I really see a tiny bit of blue sky or is that just an optical illusion?”

I smiled back at him. “I’m not sure about the blue sky, but my wrist feels pretty good so it’s a possibility. I should tell you, though, the forecast I saw this morning was for more rain.”

“I have more faith in your wrist’s forecasting ability than I do in any weather report,” he said. We started up the path to the old carriage house where Wisteria Hill’s feral cat colony slept and ate. “Have you been downtown this morning?” he asked.

I nodded. “There’s still a lot of water everywhere. We did get everything moved up out of the store into the tai chi studio, but there’s at least four feet of water in the co-op basement, and I sort of threw a rat at Maggie.”

“You were aiming at somebody else?” he asked, completely straight-faced.

“No,” I said. “It was floating in the basement. I thought it was dead.”

Marcus stopped and looked over his shoulder at me. “You thought it was dead? So you picked up a live rat and threw it at Maggie?”

“No…well…sort of.” I could feel my face getting red. “It was more like I dropped it on her.”

He was looking at me with what I thought of as his policeman look, basically no expression at all, barely even a blink. Then a lock of his dark, wavy hair fell into his eyes and broke his concentration.

“There was more to it than that.”

He turned and started up the path again. “I’m listening.”

I explained about scooping up the rat with the snow shovel, how it accidentally landed on Maggie’s foot and then came to life when I flung it out onto the sidewalk. I left out the part about it whizzing by Ruby’s head.

Marcus stopped in front of the side door to the old building. “That was littering,” he said, pulling the wooden door open. The wood had swollen with all the rain and it would come open only about halfway.

“I wasn’t going to leave it on the sidewalk,” I said, starting to feel defensive. “I just wanted to get the thing out of the building. If it hadn’t walked away, I would have done…something.”

Then he laughed. “It’s okay, Kathleen. I’m kidding,” he said, reaching out to touch my shoulder.

How did I miss that? Maybe because I was tired. Maybe because he made me crazy.

I pictured a red balloon coming out of the top of my head—an acting exercise my mother liked to use. Then I imagined it getting bigger and bigger, inflating with all my frustration and exhaustion. Marcus squeezed through the doorway and I followed him, sliding a hand over the top of my head and sending that imaginary balloon up into the cloudy, gray sky. It was better than whacking him with a bag of cat food.

We set out the food and water and retreated back to the door again. The cats made their way out to eat, one by one, led by Lucy, the little calico cat who was the matriarch of the group. Both Marcus and I looked them over for any signs of illness or injury.

“They all look okay,” Marcus said quietly by my ear. He was close behind me, warm and smelling like soap and coffee.

I tipped my head back, studying the weathered boards over my head. “I don’t see any leaks anywhere in here,” I said, “except for that one in the corner we already knew about.” I pointed to the front left corner of the old building where the boards were watermarked.

“I’ll take a look outside when we’re done,” he said. “If there’s no more rain, we should be okay.”

Big if.

When the cats had finished eating and moved away, we gathered the dishes and cleaned up the feeding station. Marcus refilled the water bowls and then took a look at the leak in the corner. There was no water coming in now and the wet areas on the floor and wall were actually starting to dry out.

Once we were outside he handed me the empty jugs. “I just want to walk around and see how the roof looks from the outside,” he said. “Wait for me?”

“Sure,” I said. He started around the back of the carriage house and I went to the truck and stowed everything on the floor on the passenger side.

I could hear the sound of rushing water. There was a stream back behind the carriage house, skirting a rise where the trees began. With all this rain it had to be swollen with water. If it overflowed, it could flood the carriage house, I realized.

I looked around for Marcus, but he still must have been on the other side of the building. I locked the truck again and started across the grass toward the trees. The ground was so soaked with water I left a small puddle with each step I took and I was glad I’d worn my rubber boots.

Climbing up the bank my feet slid, trying to get a grip on the wet ground. The water sounded even louder at the top of the bank. I eased my way through the dripping trees, trying not to skid on the leaves and mud under my boots.

The stream cut through a gully on the far side of the woods. The water was several feet higher than usual, maybe halfway up the side of the gully, splashing up onto the bank on either side. It looked cold and angry. The carriage house wasn’t in any danger for now. But if we got more rain…

I headed back, sliding from one tree to the next. The mix of leaves, pine needles and mud underfoot was as slick as ice and I wasn’t very good on ice. At the base of an old oak tree, near the edge of the embankment, I caught sight of a bit of purple, out of place in the old leaves and needles. I worked my way over, hooked one arm around the tree trunk and bent down to pick the thing up.

It looked like a tiny purple Afro wig, maybe an inch across, with a metal centerpiece. I exhaled in frustration. It wasn’t the first time I’d found someone’s trash thrown out here.

I could hear Marcus calling me. I stuffed the purple puff in the front pocket of my sweatshirt and took a step closer to the edge of the terraced hill. He was by the back of the carriage house.

I waved an arm. “I’m here,” I yelled. At the same moment I felt something shift under my feet. It was as though a giant hand had grabbed the ground and was trying to pull it out from beneath me.

I put out a hand and then the entire slope dropped out from underneath me. One moment I was on the slick, grass-covered hill and the next there was nothing. I reached out, but all I caught was handfuls of air.

The momentum threw me forward. I went down, down, down, thrown forward and sideways at the same time so I couldn’t get a sense of which way was up. There was a shower of earth and rocks around me and I folded my arms over my head on instinct.

My left foot twisted underneath me and caught on something—a tree root maybe—and for a second it felt as though my whole leg would come out of its socket. Then whatever part of the ground that had grabbed me let go. I pitched forward, or maybe it was backward, I don’t know, ending up finally against solid ground, on my right side in the wet earth, under the sheared side of the embankment.

I couldn’t breathe. Gasping and wheezing, I struggled to sit up. I could see Marcus running toward me even as my vision began to go dark from the edges in.

I.

Couldn’t.

Breathe.

My chest felt like an elephant was sitting on it. I pulled at the front of my sweatshirt, desperate to suck in air.

Marcus dropped to his knees beside me in the mud. His arm went around my shoulder, his hand against the side of my face as he pushed me forward, stopping me from getting up. “Easy, easy,” he said over and over.

I slumped against him, eyes closed, concentrating only on not passing out. I caught a breath. And then another one. Then I started to cough. There was dirt in the back of my throat and in my mouth, gritty on my teeth and tongue. I hacked and wheezed, my chest burning.

Marcus moved his hand to my shoulder, keeping me tight against him, not that my shaking body could have moved if I’d tried. “It’s okay, just breathe,” he said, his face gray with concern. “I’ve got you.”

I coughed until my throat was raw and finally I could breathe more or less okay. I leaned against Marcus, his arm still tight around my shoulders, and swiped the dirt away from my mouth with one hand.

“Don’t move,” he said, shifting sideways to reach for his cell phone.

“I’m all right,” I rasped.

“No you’re not.”

I tried to shift myself upright and sucked in a sharp breath against the stab of pain in my left hand as it pushed against a large rock, half exposed in the dirt.

I held up my hand, rolling it over to see Maggie’s bandage had come off.

My breath caught in my chest again. I could hear Marcus talking to me but his voice sounded very far away and I couldn’t make sense of the words.

The cut on my thumb had opened up again. Blood was dripping off the tip…down onto the top of a dirt-streaked skull, lying on the ground.