Reedy let out a garbled curse that may have been an insult to my driving ability as I negotiated the sudden turn. I wasn’t listening.
I slammed on the brakes and stared out the windshield.
“What in holy Moses are you doing?” he exclaimed, planting both hands on the dashboard to brace himself. “Why’d you stop?” When I didn’t answer, he went on, “We aren’t even close. The house is all the way down the drive.”
“Tabby.”
“What?”
I put Bluebell in park and opened the door. I stepped down onto the sandy lane and walked to the small, square clump of oyster shells. Not what I would call a ruin, but certainly not a pile of trash either.
I scanned the drive and saw that several pieces of tabby had settled into the ruts.
Squatting, I lifted a piece. The shell had the same sheen and grayish tint as the one I’d found.
I still didn’t know why Josiah would take Brooke, but I knew I was on the right track. I wanted to call Kai, or even Jake, but I’d promised Reedy I wouldn’t involve the police.
I also didn’t want to risk upsetting Josiah. I’d seen how quickly he could become agitated. Despite Reedy’s insistence he wasn’t dangerous, I didn’t believe that was entirely true.
Josiah knew Reedy. If we were going to find anything useful, trust would work better than force.
I climbed back into Bluebell and handed Reedy the piece of tabby. I explained that I’d found a similar piece on the roadside close to where Brooke had last been seen. I left out the bit about the witness being a tiger.
“I know it isn’t proof,” I said, “but you have to admit it’s possible that a chunk of this stuff got wedged into one of Josiah’s truck tires and came loose when he parked on the side of the road before he went through the woods to get Brooke.”
“But why? If Josiah’s confused into thinking Brooke is Abby, why would he sneak through the woods to get her? Wouldn’t he just go in through the front gate and say, ‘Let’s go, sis’?”
It was a good question.
“Look, I don’t have all the answers. But I can’t ignore this. If Josiah is living in some delusion where his sister is still alive, we need to find out whether or not he has Brooke. All right?”
Reedy’s lips thinned but he nodded.
“He trusts you, Reedy. If we’re going to have any hope of understanding what’s going on, we’ll need to look around. Which means you’re going to have to play along. If he jumps back and forth from now to sometime in the past, just go with it. But we need to get inside the house.”
“What if he’s not home?”
“If he’s not home we move to plan B.”
“What’s plan B?”
“I don’t know yet.”
I put Bluebell in gear and rolled along the shaded drive, parking in front of a small, tidy house painted a cheerful buttery yellow. A set of rocking chairs sat on the wide porch flanking the door. I helped Reedy out of Bluebell and up the front steps.
My heart had started running double-time when I’d caught sight of the tabby earlier. It increased to triple-speed as soon as I pressed my finger to the doorbell.
The jolly ding-dong of the chime and the sunny paint color only added to my sense of foreboding. I thought of Brooke’s mother, Anne, and her immaculate house and perfect appearance.
Things are so often not what they seem.
“I don’t think he’s here,” Reedy wheezed. “Truck’s gone, too.”
I let out the breath I’d been holding and looked over at the old man. His skin had paled and he was leaning heavily on his oxygen tank. He was more sick than I’d realized, and our outing was costing him.
“Here.” I led him to one of the rocking chairs. “Take a breather while I look around.”
He nodded and reached into his breast pocket, making a disgruntled sound when he came up empty.
“Damn. You made me forget my cigarettes.”
I rolled my eyes and stepped off the porch to make my way around the side of the house.
The air was still and quiet, except for a small flock of sparrows flitting around a birdbath with a statue of Saint Francis in the center. The birds took flight as I approached and began fluttering in the trees, trying to decide what branch would make the best roost.
Unlike Reedy’s place, which was shrouded in oaks and Spanish moss, here the trees opened up, providing a large area free of shade. Josiah, or possibly his mother, had taken advantage of the sunny spot and planted a sizable vegetable garden.
Rows of corn grew lush and tall and squash ripened on the ground in a tangled heap next to the green, feathery tops of what looked like carrots. There was a variety of large-leafed plants, of which I could only positively identify collard greens. I had to admire the bounty. I had what most would call a black thumb.
“Don’t worry,” I told the plants, “I’m not here for you.”
I started to turn to continue my exploration, when I heard . . . something.
A gasp?
I froze, straining to listen. I thought the sound might have come from the patch of corn.
“Hello?” I leaned toward the cornstalks.
After a minute I shook my head. “Talking to animals is bad enough—don’t start hearing plants, too.”
I’d only taken a few steps when something rustled in the corn. Something big.
Pausing, I focused my mind on the garden. I picked up the zinging hum of a tiny animal.
Digging-digging-digging.
A shrew.
Whatever hid in the greenery was much bigger than a shrew and it wasn’t an animal.
“Josiah?”
I inched closer to the corn, though in the back of my mind I had to wonder why he would be hiding in a vegetable patch.
Of course, I’d never studied the effects of a brain injury on a human being in veterinary school but I knew people could revert back in time. Josiah had seemed very childlike during his tantrum over the cats—maybe he was playing hide-and-seek.
“Are you playing a game?”
I turned my head to listen as I crept around the corner of the plot. I inched closer to the end of the corn row and peered around the leaves—no one was hiding between the first and second row.
I continued past the next. Empty. Then the next—
A wave of shock rooted me in place.
A dark-haired girl stood between the rows, looking at me with large blue eyes. She wore a long denim skirt and long-sleeved white blouse. I almost didn’t recognize her in the plain clothes with her hair pulled up into a modest bun, but I knew.
I’d found Brooke.
CHAPTER 21
Part of me had expected to find her, maybe locked in a closet or imprisoned in some way, but certainly not harvesting corn.
“Brooke?”
Her eyes widened as I spoke her name and she stumbled back.
“No,” she said. “My name is Abby.”
“Brooke, it’s okay.” I stepped toward her but she scrambled away, shaking her head.
“You have the wrong girl. Go away.”
She turned and fled, sprinting toward the barn.
“Brooke. Stop!” It occurred to me as I took off after her that the scenario was all wrong. She shouldn’t be running away from me—I was there to rescue her, dammit.
Had she been brainwashed? No, it hadn’t been long enough, had it?
Brooke darted through the open barn door. I followed on her heels into what turned out to be not so much a barn as a workshop. A pile of lumber was stacked chest-high in the center of the large space. Brooke ran around one side. I tried to catch her by going around the other and she reversed directions.
I mirrored her movement and we were soon eyeing each other over the wood, playing a back-and-forth game of cat and mouse.
“Why are you running from me?” I panted.
“Why are you chasing me?” she countered, not nearly as out of breath.
I was going to have to start running with Moss again if I
was going to keep doing stuff like this.
“And what the hell were you doing? Picking corn?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone all Patty Hearst.”
“Who’s Patty Hearst?”
I waved off the comment. “Never mind. Listen, I’m here to take you home.”
I knew as soon as the words left my mouth I’d made a mistake. Brooke spun around and snatched a pitchfork from where it hung on the wall behind her.
I raised my hands and stepped back when she pointed the tines at me.
“You’re not taking me anywhere.” She hissed the words like a feral cat.
“Okay. Okay.”
I was so baffled, I was having a hard time thinking straight. Obviously, Brooke was not being held prisoner. She was clearly afraid of something and it didn’t seem to be Josiah. But what?
That would be you, genius.
Did she think I was one of Frank Ferretto’s flunkies?
If so, how could I convince her otherwise?
“Brooke, I want you to listen to me. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Oh, I know what you’re after and you’re not going to get it. Keep your hands up and walk slowly to the door.”
I hesitated but the steely look in her eyes reminded me that despite the farm-girl clothes, Brooke had spent time running the streets.
Turning, I did as she asked.
As we walked out into the late afternoon sun, I tried to think of something that would get me out of the fine mess I’d stepped into. Brooke was Charles Sartori’s daughter. I wasn’t stupid enough to underestimate her.
The thought of the mob boss sparked an idea. “Your dad has been worried about you.”
She didn’t respond, so I tried again.
“He called me from prison and asked me to help look for you.” Not exactly true but close enough.
“Sure he did.”
“It’s true.”
“My father doesn’t need help finding people—that’s why I had to stay here. I knew no one would look for me here.”
“So Josiah didn’t kidnap you? Who did?”
“No one.”
Puzzled, I paused, then turned to face her. She lifted the pitchfork and held it at the ready.
“Keep moving.”
But I was too distracted to follow the order.
“That can’t be right. Someone took you. Taken. That’s what—” I caught myself before I said the words that hovered just on the tip of my tongue. She’d skewer me for sure if I tried to tell her about Boris.
Unless . . .
“I know you think I work for Ferretto but I don’t. Ozeal called me. A couple of days after you went missing Boris tried to attack Dr. Hugh Murray. You’ve met him?”
“Boris did what? No. Boris wouldn’t hurt anyone.” Though she said the words with vehemence, the look on her face told me she wasn’t sure.
“Tigers are wild animals and, like any wild animal, they can be unpredictable when they’re agitated. Boris went after Hugh—Dr. Murray—and I came to help. I’m an animal behaviorist. In my back pocket, I have one of my business cards. I’m going to take it out and show it to you, okay?”
“Slow,” she commanded.
Moving at a snail’s pace, I pulled out the card and held it up.
She extended the pitchfork forward and said. “Stick it on here.” I impaled the card on one of the tines. She stepped back and pulled the card free.
“My name is Grace. I specialize in dealing with animals who have issues. After you left, Boris began suffering from separation anxiety.”
The pitchfork lowered a fraction and her eyes widened. “Is he okay?”
“He’ll be happy to see you. He missed his catnip. But he missed you more.”
Brooke’s shoulders finally relaxed and she lowered the pitchfork.
I let out a relieved sigh when the points were no longer aimed at me.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “You were looking for me because of Boris?”
“Yes. And because of Ozeal. But none of that matters right now. We have to go.” If I could get her to the police she’d be safe. Jake would see to it.
“Wait. What about Josiah?”
“What about him?”
“I can’t just leave. He wouldn’t understand. Listen, he . . it . . . it’s complicated.”
“I understand that he has issues. He gets confused and upset.”
“He needs help,” Brooke said. “I’ve been trying to get him to take his meds but it’s hard to keep up with all of them. I’m not sure he has everything he needs.”
“We’ll get him some help, I promise.”
I remembered Reedy sitting on the front porch of the house in the rocking chair and had a flash of inspiration. I quickly explained my idea to Brooke. We could leave Reedy to wait for Josiah, and he could explain.
“Josiah trusts Reedy. He’ll listen to him.”
“I have to at least say good-bye. He won’t understand.”
I thought about what Sonja had said about the cats. Josiah had been devastated when we’d taken them. But this was different. Brooke was in real danger. I didn’t have a choice.
“Listen, if I managed to find you, Ferretto, or one of the creeps who work for him, will be able to find you, too.”
She still looked uncertain.
I hadn’t wanted to tell her in this way but I needed something to goad her into coming with me.
“Brooke, your stepfather is dead. He was murdered. The police think it was Ferretto or one of his cronies.”
She blinked at me in shock. “Dead? But . . . Oh my God! My mom?”
“She’s fine.” Not exactly true. But I wasn’t sure telling Brooke that her mom was headed to rehab would help convince her to come with me.
Brooke must have picked up on the subtle subterfuge because she frowned and asked, “What happened?”
I waved off the question. “I’ll explain later. Right now, we need to get you somewhere safe.”
Brooke shook her head. “I’m better off staying here with Josiah.”
“You being here puts Josiah in jeopardy.”
Tears welled in her eyes but she was still shaking her head. I had to get through to her.
“You know what these people are like. Mancini? They would kill him, Brooke.”
At those words Brooke finally nodded. She walked to the garden plot, stabbed the pitchfork into the ground, and said, “Let’s go.”
“Stop!”
Brooke and I turned. Josiah walked toward us from the rear of the house, glaring at me. In one hand, he held a gun, which was pointed squarely at my chest.
“You!” he said. “You devil. You will not take my sister!”
Crap!
“Josiah, it’s okay.” Brooke stepped toward him but her words only seemed to upset him.
“No! No, Abby. I won’t let this wolf take you.”
My mind whirred as I tried to reason a way out of this.
“Josiah, do you remember me?” I said with a gentle smile, hoping I could get him to recognize me. “I’m Grace—you met me yesterday. You’re confused. But it’s going to be okay.”
“Quiet! Speak not with your lying tongue.”
Okay, so I’d have to try a different tactic. I couldn’t think of Josiah as the confused, mentally challenged, softhearted boy who fed stray cats. In that moment, he was a delusional, unstable man pointing a gun at me.
Reasoning would not work. Sonja had said something to calm him down, something biblical. I tried to recall but drew a complete blank.
“Josiah,” I said as my desperate brain latched on to something Reedy had told me. “I’m here as a messenger. An angel.”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you. The angels promised not to take my sister again! You’re a false prophet! That’s what you are!” His eyes had gone wild, chest heaving. “But I know. I see you. You come in sheep’s clothing but you’re a ravening wolf!”
Not the reaction I had hoped for, but there was no turning
back now. Josiah thought he spoke to angels; I had to make him believe I was one.
I straightened and with what I hoped was angelic authority said, “Do not question me, Josiah. You would question one of God’s messengers?”
He glared at me with wide eyes for a long moment. “Prove to me you are who you say you are.”
Okay, that was bad. I had a feeling Josiah was going to shoot me if I didn’t conjure a halo.
Brooke continued to try to reason with Josiah, pleading with him to put down the gun. But I knew from the frenetic look in his eyes it was going to take more than that.
“Thou shalt not kill, Josiah,” I reminded him in what I hoped was a gentle, but firm seraphic voice.
“The wicked will be revealed. The enemy of the righteous will be slain.”
Oh shit.
Okay, even I had to admit I wouldn’t make a very good angel, but I was pretty sure I was going to get to meet some if I didn’t do something awe-inspiring.
I had to think. There had to be something . . .
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the Saint Francis birdbath.
Suddenly, I had a plan. I looked up at the flock of sparrows and cast my mind over the roosting birds, searching. I zeroed in on my target, and though I hadn’t done it in years, connected to the dominant bird.
I closed my eyes, raised my hands out to the side, and quoted the only bit of scripture I’d ever memorized.
“‘Ask now the beasts and they shall tell thee.’” I opened my eyes to meet Josiah’s and spoke with as much divine might as I could manage. “‘And the birds of the air and they shall show thee!’”
I urged the lead bird from his perch and, as he took flight, the entire flock lifted from the branches to sweep overhead in a fluttering, chirping cloud. I focused every ounce of my brainpower on guiding the bird down, down . . . calling him to me.
Come here, little one.
The bird, bless him, answered my summons, landing with a flutter in the palm of my raised hand. I lowered my hand and the rest of the birds settled around us in a noisy rush.
Brooke gasped. Josiah stared at me, slack-jawed. Then, he collapsed to his knees and began to weep.
“What the hell was that about?” Reedy shuffled toward us, wheezing. At the sound of his voice, the birds started and took flight. I had nothing to offer the little bird but my gratitude, but I sent it to him in waves.
A Tiger's Tale (A Call of the Wilde Mystery) Page 26
