Shiver on the Sky

by David Haywood Young

Chapter Ten

  (Monday Afternoon—Owen)

  “Hello?” Martina demanded.

  Owen was willing to bet she didn’t normally answer the phone that way. “I suppose this means there’s no news.”

  “What? Oh! Owen. No, I’ve been calling people but so far nobody seems to know anything. I’m talking to them about scheduling a meeting with Shawna to see how they react, and so far nobody’s twitched.”

  “Won’t that cause a problem when she doesn’t show up?”

  “So far I’ve managed to get out of the conversations without actually scheduling anything. What’s up? Did you find anything interesting?”

  “I’m at a Laundromat near Andrea’s apartment. I had a little unplanned meeting with Viktor Bentley Senior—at least I didn’t plan it—but I can tell you about that later. Then it took me a while to get all the way to Rockport and find the place. Anyway, I was wondering if Andrea ever showed up, or if I could get you to call her again to verify she isn’t home.”

  “Oh. Sorry, Owen, I’m such an idiot today. I should have expected you to call when you got there. No, she hasn’t shown up here. And I just tried to call her at home not five minutes ago. Is that good enough?”

  Owen grinned. Martina’s self-proclaimed idiocy didn’t seem to be much of a handicap. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect. I’ll come by later, I have things to tell you.” He hesitated. “Assuming you’re still planning to be involved in this? It might be dangerous. I can—”

  “Of course I am! Shawna’s my partner, you know, and Bogart said something or other about how you’re supposed to do something about it when bad things happen to your partner. I’m not going to argue with Bogart on this, he’s the expert.”

  Bogart had been playing Sam Spade, and his partner had been killed. Owen hoped Shawna hadn’t. “Yeah. Okay. You know, she may be fine.”

  Martina sobbed, once. “I keep telling myself that, and now I’m telling you. She’s fine. She’s fine, because I need her to be fine, and so do you. So I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up.

  Owen stood staring at the phone in his hand until it beeped loudly. Just as well she’d hung up. He had no idea what to say to her. Giving himself a mental shake, he checked on Shadow, who waited in the car, and went back to the apartment building.

  It somehow squatted in spite of its three stories. U-shaped, rectangular; all the apartments faced a central courtyard. There had obviously once been a swimming pool in the middle of it, but the hole had been filled in. The area was covered with now-cracked concrete. Brownish-yellow grass poked through the gaps. Two shades of blue tiles surrounding the pool had mostly come up, but there were enough left to see the pattern.

  It reminded Owen of the building he and his father had lived in while Owen had been in high school, except that this place didn’t have either the piles of trash or the derelicts burrowing in them. Too bad. One old guy (probably in his thirties) had been pretty helpful with Owen’s math homework. Owen would like to find him now, if he was still alive, but had never been sure of the guy’s real name. And he wouldn’t be in the phone book anyway.

  Owen checked the address again. Apartment 213. Okay, up one flight.

  On his way up the wet steps, he narrowly avoided a collision with a dark-haired teenage boy carrying two boxes of what looked like groceries, piled high enough that the kid had to peer sideways around the edges.

  “Whoa!” Owen sidestepped and flattened himself against the wall. The teenager, maybe seventeen or so, gave him a wide-eyed stare and scampered down the rest of the steps. Owen puffed out a surprised laugh and continued, smiling a little. Good thing there hadn’t been a little old grandmother behind him. Oh well. Kids.

  When he got to 213 he stood in front of the door, wondering if there was something clever he should be doing. He could go around to the back of the building, but chances were there wasn’t any access to the second floor.

  And anyway it would be stupid to try breaking into the apartment without first ringing the bell. If nobody answered, and the door was locked, he could check out the rear of the building.

  Or not. The tough-guy act was maybe something he didn’t have to maintain all day long, even if Martina had mentioned Bogart.

  So he tried the bell. No response.

  On the other hand, he hadn’t heard anything when he’d pushed the button. He knocked on the door.

  “Just a minute!” he heard a voice call from inside. A few seconds later the door opened to reveal a dark-haired woman, probably two or three years younger than Owen.

  “Back already?” she asked. Then, recovering quickly, “Oh! I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else. My, uh, friend just left. I thought maybe she forgot something.” She bit her lip. “Anyway, can I help you?”

  “I hope so.” He’d been a little taken aback himself. She was only a few inches under his own height. He’d seen other women over six feet tall, but he’d also had more time to get used to their presence.

  He smiled at her. “I’m Owen Tremaine,” he began, “and I was wondering . . .” he trailed off as he saw her nodding forcefully.

  “You’re Owen, Shawna’s friend Owen. Come on in. I should have recognized you from her description. Don’t mind the dog, he won’t bother you.”

  Dog? “Thanks.” He entered, nodding as he stepped around a sleeping creature that might have been partly dog. It looked to Owen as if coyote or even wolf made up a large portion of its ancestry. It snored. She waved for him to sit on an ancient couch that had been covered with what looked like a Navajo blanket.

  “Can I get you something? Tea, coffee, a Coke, something stronger?”

  Owen started to refuse, but changed his mind. “A Coke would be great. With a glass of ice, if that’s okay.”

  “Sure, we buy the three-liter bottles anyway, so you pretty much have to use a glass. We practically live on the stuff.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

  We? Owen took advantage of her absence to look around more carefully. It was a small one-bedroom unit. The Navajo blanket on the couch was joined by a dreamcatcher in the window. A set of shelves next to the bathroom door held books on the Tarot and other New Age topics. Incense burners and variously-shaped crystals were scattered about. On the dining-room table, which looked as if it had come from a thrift shop, were empty grocery bags. Above the table a picture of the teenager he’d seen on the stairs, showing him shirtless and laughing on the beach, hung on the wall.

  A small stack of mail sat on a coffee table with a translucent plastic top. He riffled through the stack quickly. Bills, solicitations, something from a “Save the Whales” group, a personal letter from somebody named Alan Fist, possibly a boyfriend?

  He heard her returning and stood to examine the shelves more closely. He recognized several Wiccan titles he’d seen in Shawna’s collection. She’d talked him into reading some of them. He found the idea of worshiping a mother-goddess interesting, and most of their beliefs had struck him as surprisingly reasonable. But the same could be said of Christianity, and look what people got up to because of that. The only conclusion he’d come to was that Wicca looked like it might be fun to practice—if you could manage to take it seriously.

  Andrea smiled at him as she came out of the kitchen with his Coke. “I guess you can see why Shawna and I get along so well,” she said.

  “At least you have some interests in common.” Owen accepted the drink. “Listen, Andrea, I don’t know if you’ve heard . . .”

  She nodded quickly. “Sure. I know. I watch a lot of TV. Last night they said on the six o’clock news that Shawna was missing and wanted for questioning. Somebody was dead, too, but I didn’t hear who.” She wiped her hands on her pants. “I didn’t know what to do. I haven’t even gone to work today. It might cost me my job, but I don’t want to be involved in any of it.” She met Owen’s gaze squarely. “I don’t have all my papers. I can’t talk to the police.”

  “You’re from Mexico?”

  She hesitated, then nodded. �
��Please, you must understand.”

  “I understand. I don’t want to cause you any trouble. I just came here because Shawna’s missing, and you were missing from your job. And you’re her friend. I hoped you would know something.”

  Andrea bit her lip. “I wish I could help you. But…you should know, Shawna is not without resources.”

  “Resources?”

  She waved a hand toward her bookshelves. “Yes, resources. Not everything in the world is visible in our daily lives. I cannot tell you where to find Shawna. I wish I could. But she is a good person, and she has strength. You should,” she said, smiling at him, “simply have faith. She will come to you again.”

  He looked at her quizzically. She just smiled, apparently under the impression she’d been making sense. She hadn’t been kidding.

  Wow. Suddenly Owen couldn’t think of anything else to ask her. He figured there was a good chance of a communication breakdown even if he did. He wasn’t sure they lived in the same world, though maybe hers was a little nicer than the one he was saddled with.

  “Thanks for your time, Andrea,” he said finally. “For what it’s worth, I think you should probably go to work. Martina will forgive you for not showing up earlier. And when the police check the shop, finding you gone is more likely to make them wonder about you than if you’re simply there, nothing more interesting than a receptionist.”

  She tilted her head to the left. “Thank you, Owen. I will consider it.” She reached out and surprised him with a hug. “And you, have faith.”

  Owen nodded. He picked up a pen from the coffee table and wrote his address, room number and phone number at the Wave Inn on an envelope. He tried not to think about the flaky air conditioner, to which he was now committing himself. “If anything comes up,” he said, “or if you hear anything…please call me.”

  She agreed.

  He had further business with her, but it could wait.

  ***