Every Move She Makes (31 page)

I stepped back into the bedroom, closing the door before Mathis noticed.

So Torrance was skipping out. No big deal. My list could wait until
morning. But as I stripped to a T-shirt and slipped between the sheets,
I realized I was curiously disappointed. I wasn't sure how long I
remained awake thinking about it, hours it seemed. Although rain was
predicted for the night, moonlight angled in through the bedroom window,
and the last thing I remembered before drifting off was turning on my
side, catching a glimpse of the bathroom sink, and recalling in minute
detail the feel of cool porcelain against my skin.

A creak in the floor woke me.

My eyes flew open to stygian black. My heart thudded against my sternum.

Pulse pounded in my ears. Outside, a gale whipped the trees, rain
slashed against the windows. The wind. Imagination. Then I saw my
bedroom door.

Ajar.

Darkness moved at my side. Large, male. A hand clamped over my mouth.

Every muscle in my body tensed. I twisted away, clawed at my captor. He
pulled me against him. His whiskers scraped my cheek as he spoke. "Not a
sound." Then I felt the cold steel of a gun against my bare thigh.

I froze. My thoughts and the world went spinning.

In the millisecond it took to right itself, I realized the gun wasn't
pointed at me but at my bedroom door. And it wasn't only my heart
thudding out of control, but also that of the bare-chested man holding
me. Torrance. When he apparently assured himself that I was calm, fully
awake, and in charge of my faculties, he lowered his hand. "Someone's
in," he whispered. The wind whistled beneath the eaves, branches banged
on the side of the house.

"Where's Mathis?"

"Should be on his way back to the city, left about an hour ago. Where's
your weapon?"

"Kitchen."

"So's the intruder. You got a way out?" I pointed to the bathroom
window. Torrance rose from the bed, his departure leaving me cold. I
watched as he edged toward the door, his gun held close. Combat ready.

He covered the portal, ready to shoot. I untangled my bare legs from the
sheets and got out of bed. On afterthought, I stuffed my pillows beneath
the blankets, then hurried into the bathroom to open the window.

Torrance backed his way after me. Seconds ticked by. Winter dampness had
taken its toll on the peeling paint and wood frame window. Leaning into
it, I shoved harder. Open. I climbed through, stepped onto the two
foot-wide ledge of slippery terra-cotta tiled roof.

Torrance followed.

Rain pelted me, soaked my T-shirt through. To our right the roof
continued toward the front of the house. To our left, just past the
window, the roofline ended abruptly.

Below us was the brick pathway that ran alongside the house.

Two muffled gunshots sent me scrambling from the ledge. Torrance as
well. He dropped to the ground and reached up. I hung for a moment,
feeling his arms come around my legs. I landed on cold, wet bricks.

Another gunshot. The fence board splintered beside us. Torrance grabbed
my hand and pulled me to the front of the house. We flew up the
driveway. Lights around us came on. My neighbors would undoubtedly call
911. In minutes, the cops would be here. I didn't know if we had
minutes. I glanced over my shoulder. I doubted we'd be able to get into
Torrance's car, even start it in time. "This way," I said, tugging him
toward a neighbor's yard about three houses up. Art never locked his
garage door, no matter how often I lectured him on it. I only prayed he
hadn't changed his habits. Our best chance lay in keeping out of sight
until the cops got there. The suspects wouldn't risk getting caught. I
hoped. The garage door was open. We rushed in. Torrance pushed it
closed, locked it. We sank to the floor. Footfall pounding. A shout. Car
doors slamming. A moment later, the rev of an engine, tires squealing.

Finally all was quiet.

Our labored breathing was the only sound. I leaned my head back and
closed my eyes. The rush of adrenaline finally caught up to me. I
started shivering. Torrance drew me to his side, wrapping his arm around
me. It did little to dispel the cold. At last, the blessed sound of a
siren in the distance. We didn't move until the flashing red and blue of
the patrol car briefly lit the garage through the window as it passed.

Torrance ran his hand up the wall near the door, found the light switch,
turned it on, eyed my wet T-shirt.

"I'd offer you my coat, if I had one."

"And deprive the patrol officers of something to talk about at
briefing?" His glance strayed down, lingering about the edge of the
shirt, which hit the top of my thighs.." They'll be discussing this in
the locker room, if you step out like that."

"Suggestions?"

"You know your neighbor very well?" "Well enough." Art Harrelson had one
of the few garages in the area that wasn't detached from the house. One
wall was covered with hand tools, neatly arranged on Peg-Board, along
with a good amount of fishing equipment, poles, and the like at one end.

No jacket. Not even a towel.

"I'm gossip fodder," I said.

Suddenly the door to the house flew open. Torrance and I whirled about
to see my white-haired, walrus-mustachioed neighbor pointing a shotgun
at us.

"Hi, Art."

"Kate?" he asked, his craggy face a mixture of relief and confusion.

"What the dag-nabbit are you doin' here? And who is he?" he asked,
swinging the shotgun at Torrance now that he'd apparently assured
himself I was not the threat.

"This is Lieutenant Torrance. He, um, works with me."

"You're not in any danger?" he asked, never removing his gaze from
Torrance. "Not now. The lieutenant saved me," I said, thinking how
ridiculous it must sound, considering the way we were dressed. Or
undressed. "Someone broke into my apartment. We had to climb out the
window." Harrelson lowered the shotgun. "Heard the commotion. Then when
I heard you two in here, I figured someone was breaking in, and I wasn't
about to wait for them damned cops to find 'em. Well, you better come
in, put something on before you go out and get wet again." We followed
him into his kitchen. He put away the shotgun, put on some water, then
set out a couple of mugs and tea bags. He handed me the phone. "You
better call the police department, or you'll have them boys wondering
what the heck's going' on out there. I'll get you some dry clothes." I
called, explained to the dispatcher what happened, and within two
minutes there was a knock at Harrelson's front door. "Hold on,"

Harrelson called out. "Here you go, Kate. Brought you a flannel shirt 'n
some socks. You go on into the bathroom and change. There's clean towels
hanging on the wall. I'll get the door." He handed the items to me,
ushering me off to the bathroom. "Got one for you, too, lieutenant," I
heard him say. There was another knock, then, "Hold on." Had someone not
taken a couple potshots at me, I might have been more embarrassed at the
view I must have presented. I pulled off my wet T-shirt, toweled down,
then slipped on the warm, soft red flannel shirt, which hit me midthigh,
and then the socks. I quickly ran my fingers through my hair, trying to
improve the drowned rat appearance-strictly for the Berkeley police, I
told myself. There was little else I could do without a shower and a
blow dryer, so I stepped out to face the cops. Torrance sat at the
kitchen table wearing a similar blue flannel shirt, unbuttoned. He
looked up at me, his expression cold, forbidding. Two uniformed officers
sat across from him, while Harrelson offered tea. The officers saw me,
and rose. "You're Kate Gillespie?" one asked. "Yes. "You know anything
about the man we found lying at the bottom of your stairs?"

"What man?" I asked, my gaze locking with Torwrance's.

"Mathis," he said quietly.

I sank into a chair, glancing at the officer. "Is he okay?"

"We've called an ambulance, ma'am. My partner's with him now. And the
sergeant. He was breathing when we got there."

"Was he shot?" Seconds ticked by.

"We're not sure. A neighbor reported hearing a shot. We got a 911 call.

When we found him, there was a pair of black leather gloves lying next
to him. Men's gloves.

Figured they might have been his."

"I don't think he had any gloves on," Torrance replied. "At least not
when he left." I closed my eyes, replaying the events, trying to recount
the shots I'd heard. Three. Two in my house, one as we fled. Was Mathis
shot in the house? The officer's radio crackled, but I didn't hear what
was said. Someone grasped my hand. Warmth suffused my cold skin. I
opened my eyes to see Torrance watching me closely. "They've finished
checking your apartment.

It's clear." I said nothing.

"Let's go see Mathis." I nodded, and he drew me to my feet.

Harrelson threw a raincoat over my shoulders, told me not to worry about
his things. No rush. Somehow I thanked him, as did Torrance, and we
followed the officer out the door. Three patrol cars as well as an
ambulance were parked out front between my house and Harrelson's,
turning the quiet, tree-lined street into a spectacle of red and blue
lights. Despite the rain sluicing down, neighbors stood on their porches
or on the sidewalk, watching the, activity as though it were a sideshow
at the circus. I wanted to scream at everyone to go back inside. Give us
some privacy. I didn't. Merely allowed Torrance to draw me by my hand
down the street to the ambulance. Mathis was on the gurney, covered by a
yellow waterproof, disposable tarp. His face was pale, his eyes closed.

The EMTS were wheeling him to the back of the ambulance. Together they
lifted and swung the gurney in, the wheels collapsing.

"How is he?" Torrance asked one of the attendants.

He still held my hand, his grip tightening while he waited for the
immediate prognosis.

"Stable. You know what happened? Did he fall?"

"He wasn't shot?" Torrance asked. "Not that we can tell. At the moment,
he's unconscious. Possibly a blow to the head, judging by the lump on
the back of his skull. Small cut. Heads bleed a lot. Thought he might
have taken a tumble down those wet steps in the back." in relief.

Mathis groaned.

Torrance asked if he could speak to him. The attendant said yes, and
Torrance climbed into the back. "Hey, buddy. You playing slip 'n' slide
on the steps?" Whatever Mathis said, I couldn't hear. Torrance had to
lean closer, his ear next to the sergeant's mouth. Torrance patted him
on the shoulder. "We'll follow you in a flash." When he hopped down, he
drew me away. "Hit from behind. Never saw him." I knew he was thinking
Scolari did it. The ambulance left without lights or siren, which was
another sign that Mathis would be fine. I told myself to relax. I
couldn't. Someone had invaded my most private space. Once again,
officers plied me with questions while I stood in the rain dressed in a
coat and wet socks. "I've asked them to send evidence techs out here to
dust the apartment," Torrance told me after the last question was asked
and answered. "You can take the place apart board by board. I don't
care, as long as I get a hot shower, some clothes, and a place to sleep.

Just let me get some things, and I'll turn the place over to whoever you
want." He hesitated. "For Christ's sake," I said, my anger surfacing.