Jessica let go of her hand and returned to her reclined position on the floor. “Wow, Claire. Turning this monster into a metaphor for trying to save my dad? Who needs Dr. Wyatt when I have you?”
“That’s Dr. Claire to you,” she said, the creases on her brow finally softening as she smiled. “Jessica, how in the name of God are we going to stop this thing? There’s only two of us, and one of us is all busted up already.” Claire pointed at the boot.
“That part I don’t know. But I do know that we need to hurry.”
Tofu emerged from under the bed. He took a few tentative steps forward, then stuck out his nose to smell Jessica’s hand. She let him sniff at her fingers, her hand hovering in the air. When he didn’t shy away, Jessica stroked the top of his head. Tofu made no move to run, just watched her with those brilliant green eyes.
The smile on Jessica’s face was the largest Claire had seen on her friend in well over a year.
Chapter 40
Dispatch received the call at 8:52 on the evening of August 12th. The computer traced the origin of the call to 1637 North Wasp Canyon Road. The caller was an adult male, and there was obvious agitation in his voice.
“Sir, what is the nature of your emergency?” the dispatcher asked.
“There’s someone—” the man paused, sounding distracted. “There’s someone in my backyard. They’re—they’re knocking things over.” The man spoke in a harsh whisper.
“Are you in a safe location?”
“The doors are locked if that’s what you mean,” the man said.
“Can you see who is outside your residence, sir?” asked the dispatcher.
“No, it’s too dark. Shit—” he cut off. Silence at the end of the line. And then: “They just did it again.”
“What did they do, sir? Is there more than one person outside?”
“Hell if I know. I can’t see jack shit out there. I don’t even know if it is a person. You heard about those attacks—” He stopped again. “Sorry, thought I heard something. Anyway, those animal attacks happened in my neighborhood. You need to send someone right now!”
“Yes, I will send a patrol car right away.” The sound of a keyboard as the dispatcher sent out a request for a patrol unit. “What is your name, sir?”
“Desmond Arlington. I live at 1637 North Wasp Canyon Road. Are you sending someone?”
“Yes Mr. Arlington, the police will be there shortly. Are you sure that all of the doors and windows are locked in your home?” the dispatcher asked.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I live alone. I always keep my doors locked.”
“Very good, Mr. Arlington. Can you tell where the noises are originating from?”
Silence as Arlington listened. “It was coming from the backyard, near the pool. I don’t hear anything now.”
More typing. “And what noises did you hear?”
“Some banging around. Then some clunking noises—like furniture falling over. Now there’s nothing.”
“Has anyone tried to gain access to the residence?”
“No, just banging around. Do you think it is some sort of prank?”
“I cannot determine that, Mr. Arlington. It would be best for you to remain indoors right now.” More typing. “Is there a reason you think someone would want to play a prank on you? Has that happened before?”
“Yes, by a few kids in the neighborhood. But I doubt their parents would let them out with what’s been going—shit! I heard it again. Just now. I think my whole goddamn patio table just got knocked over.”
“Are you still unable to see who’s causing it?”
“I suppose kids could be doing it,” Arlington said to himself. “They once threw rocks in my pool . . .” he trailed off.
“Mr. Arlington, I would like to advise you again to stay indoors and wait for our officers to arrive and secure the scene,” the dispatcher said.
“Damn kids, always picking on an old man like me. I bet they’re throwing more rocks in my pool right this very minute.” Arlington now sounded more irritated than afraid. “I told that McElroy to keep his children off my property.” There was the sound of footsteps as Arlington walked through the house.
“Mr. Arlington, please remain indoors.”
There was a clicking sound, and then the sound of a door sliding on its track. “Hey you! Whatever you kids are doing you better stop it right now!” Arlington shouted. His voice was further away, the phone no longer up to his ear.
“Mr. Arlington, please go back inside your—”
There was a clattering noise as something was knocked over. Arlington began to yell, “Jesu—” but the word was cut off.
“Mr. Arlington? Mr. Arlington, are you there?” Two words flashed across the dispatcher’s computer screen: Connection Lost.
Chapter 41
Taylor Kilburn heard his radio crackling inside the squad car. He took a bite of his Miguel’s burrito and reached through the open window to grab the walkie. Through mouthfuls of carne asada he said, “Kilburn here.”
“We have a possible B and E happening in Wasp Canyon Estates. A resident reported a commotion outside his home. Thought it might be some kids playing around. Connection was lost. We have not been able to reconnect.”
“Roger that,” Kilburn said, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. All that shit going on up in Wasp Canyon and he’s been pulling patrol duty day in and day out. This might be his ticket into the big time. It would at least get him into Wasp Canyon Estates. If he gets a rapport going with this rich bastard and scares away the little prank-causing kiddies, maybe they’ll let him in on the Cuthbertson case. Maybe this old geezer even knew Cuthbertson, or heard something funny that night. This could be his ticket right into the big time—damn straight.
Kilburn got into the driver’s seat of his cruiser. “Address?” He listened, then punched the address into his console screen. “I’m on it.” He tossed the walkie back on the passenger seat and finished off his burrito. A slow night had just gotten a lot more interesting. He tossed the burrito wrapper out the car window. He thought about hitting the lights—he’s got urgent business up in Wasp Canyon, after all. He decided against it as he pulled away from Miguel’s Taco Shop. The top lights would only attract attention, and he’d be damned to share this with anyone else. This was his ticket, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to share the glory with any rookies.
The cruiser pulled out onto Orion Street. And what damn good luck that was, too! He was less than ten minutes away from the old geezer’s house. The kiddies might even still be there. He could arrest them for trespassing—or at least pretend to. Make those prank-causing little shits cry.
Kilburn imagined the scene as he drove along Orion Street, watching for the turn onto Wasp Canyon Road. The old geezer would thank him over and over, maybe mention that he heard something strange coming from the Cuthbertson house the night she was killed. Kilburn would take his statement and then head straight to Detective Moser’s office after the pissed off parents picked up their little brats. Moser would just about have to let him on the case then, since he now had valuable information pertaining to the dead widow. Absolutely perfecto, he thought, making a left and heading up Wasp Canyon Road.
The cruiser’s high beams were the only source of light. There were no street lights on Wasp Canyon Road, and with the houses set so far back, no light from the homes made it to the street. Kilburn dropped his speed to twenty miles per hour—the last thing he wanted to do was smack into a deer or a coyote out here. That would only slow him down, and he had very important places to be. He had connections to make. And he had a ladder to climb. No more fucking traffic tickets, no more sitting around with a damn radar gun while he desperately needed to take a piss.
He saw a light-colored adobe wall coming up; it stood out brilliantly in the light from his high beams. Four elegant, blue tiles were inlaid into the adobe. One-six-three-seven. The Arlington residence. He had arrived. Kilburn turned into the driveway, passing adobe walls
on either side. He again debated turning on the top lights, but decided against it. He wanted to take the pranking kiddies by surprise.
The house was set about a half mile from the road. He passed by prickly pear, saguaros, and Texas-ranger bushes as he made his way along the unpaved driveway. The house finally emerged out of the darkness, a two-story adobe monstrosity that had to have cost millions. A house like that was just begging to get pranked, he thought. I wouldn’t mind throwing some spray paint on there myself.
The west-facing side of the house was one solid wall of adobe. There was one door on the far left side, which must be the entrance. Kilburn guessed all the impressive aspects of the house must be facing the other direction, toward the mountains. This guy sure didn’t seem like he wanted to cater to any visitors. This side of the house practically screamed Go away! To further emphasize this point, Kilburn saw a “No Soliciting” sign on a post near the front door.
There was a separate building just south of the main house. It was also a giant box of adobe, although this one had three garage doors facing the driveway. Three! One of the garages was all the way up to the roof of the building, which was two stories tall, just like the main house. Must be for the world’s largest RV, Kilburn thought. That or a damn airplane.
Kilburn felt for his firearm on his right hip and stepped out of the patrol car. He left the headlights shining on the front door. There were no other lights on this side of the house. Old hermit, might as well just have a sign that says “Fuck Off” instead of “No Soliciting”.
He stopped halfway to the front door and spun around to look at the cruiser. He had forgotten to radio in when he had arrived. Oh well, he thought. I’ll save the old man and then call it in.
Kilburn rapped on the front door and waited. No response. He tried again, and then a third time. “Mr. Arleton, it’s the police!” he called through the door. Wait, that ain’t it. Not Arleton—Arlington, that’s it. “Mr. Arlington! We received a call from your residence! This is the Northwest Police Department!”
Still nothing. Kilburn tried the door, and was not surprised to find that it was locked. “Well, shit,” he said to himself, stepping back and looking up at the expanse of adobe. He was going to have to go around to the back door. And it was fucking dark out here. He reached for the left side of his utility belt and grabbed a long-handled flashlight. He clicked it on and cast the beam of light up the side of the house. Who the hell would make the entire front of their house one big wall? Crazy, rich bastards—that’s who, he thought.
He started heading for the left side of the house, his hand running along the rough surface of the adobe. His boots scraped noisily on the desert floor. As he disappeared around the side of the house, he was momentarily overwhelmed by just how dark it was. Not a damn light to be seen except for his flashlight. When in the hell did he last change out the batteries in this thing? He knew he was supposed to switch ‘em out regularly, but there’s a good chance it had slipped his mind. Kilburn continued along the side of the house, cursing when the thorned branch of a mesquite tree hooked into his shirt sleeve and tore at the skin beneath. He smacked it away and continued on, making a mental note of the tree for his return trip. What return trip? he thought. The old man will let me go through the house on my way out.
Kilburn could now make out a faint glow up ahead. There was light spilling out from the back of the house. Not much, but he was thankful for any at this point. He doubted the light was enough to be coming from a porch light; it was probably coming out from the windows. Just what he had suspected, all the windows and fancy fixing’s were on the back of the house and pointed toward the mountains. He traced his hand along the adobe and continued on, wondering why he had decided to do this alone. He had good reasoning at the time, but in the dark, listening to his boots crunch on the ground and feeling his heart rate increase, he couldn’t think of what the reason was.
His flashlight picked up a low adobe wall that jutted out at a ninety-degree angle from the side of the house. It must be the wall of the backyard, he thought, quickening his pace. He was almost out of the dark. He had forgotten about the kiddies he was going to apprehend—about how he would make them piss their pants and cry to their mommies about how sorry they were. If he had remembered, he might have found it odd how quiet it was out here. No giggles, no muffled conversations, and no old man yelling at them to knock it off.
Kilburn was getting closer to the low adobe wall. He could easily hop over it and into the backyard. Why do these rich guys have such low walls if all they want is privacy? It occurred to him that tall walls would probably block the view of the mountains and the city lights—and wasn’t that why these people were out here in the first place? Plus, they probably didn’t expect anyone to go shambling around in the desert in the dark to get into their backyards anyway. Probably thought the scorpions and rattlesnakes would keep them away.
Kilburn threw the beam of his flashlight at his feet, looking for snakes or other creepy-crawlies. Nothing there, just dirt and rocks and a few branches. He didn’t see kids’ footprints, either. That didn’t surprise him much—the hard caliche didn’t hold footprints well, or even allow them to happen in the first place. Although with the amount of rain they’d been having he thought the soil might be at least a little bit softened up by now to allow for some prints. There were none here, though—no child-sized Converse prints from the kids sneaking around to do their pranks. A feeling of unease drifted over him. How else would the kids have gotten back there, other than to go this exact same route he was now taking? He pointed the flashlight back the way he had come. He could vaguely make out his own boot prints, the soil just soft enough from the afternoon’s rain to show partial impressions from his journey through the dark. No other prints though—children or otherwise.
Kilburn contemplated this for a moment, standing in the dark and staring at the traces of his own boot prints. A bit of thunder rumbled off to the east. Something tugged at the edges of his mind—two circuits that needed to be connected to make the thought a conscious one. Connect circuit A to circuit B to light up connection C. Think think think.
He had all the parts; he just needed them to connect. Being alone in the dark listening to his shallow breathing wasn’t helping. His breathing ceased entirely when connection C finally lit up in his mind. The footprints. The ground is only getting drier following the storm, so whatever came through here would have stepped on damper soil and left footprints much more noticeable than mine. He cast the beam of the flashlight back and forth on the desert floor. But there aren’t any. No footprints. Not from a kid, not from an adult, and not from an animal. Whatever knocked shit down in the guy’s backyard did not come this way. And since this is the only clear way around the house, that meant that it did not come from the driveway, the front of the house, or the road. It came from . . . his flashlight rose up in the direction of the mountains, which were shrouded in darkness. It came from out there, he thought.
Kilburn had a sudden, overwhelming urge to flee. To run blindly along the side of the house, the mesquite tree cutting into his face as he went. He would burst out into the glare of the headlights, dive into the cruiser, and slam the door shut behind him. He could then radio call in, ask for backup. No one would ever know he turned tail and ran like a little bitch.
But the footprints—oh fuck. He had already left his boot prints along the side of the house. They would be discovered by the other officers when they came out to investigate. And then he would have to tell them he made it halfway along the side of the house and then got scared shitless and ran. No—no way. His humiliation was now drying in the hard, desert soil. Those prints would be there until the next rain. He had to at least make it to the backyard, then he could radio in foul play, and return to the cruiser to wait for backup.
You don’t even have to go into the backyard, he thought. Just get up to the wall, make sure you get your prints near the wall, then you can go back. At least then they will know you didn’t turn a
nd run when you were only halfway there.
His decision made, Kilburn pressed on through the darkness. The low wall loomed up ahead. He could make out some of the backyard now. The light definitely wasn’t coming from a porch light, it was too widespread. Kilburn thought of a huge picture window, spilling light from the house onto the patio. And then the desert sucked up what light was left, stealing it off into the night.
He was a dozen feet from the low wall when he first heard the sucking noises. Or was it slurping noises? He supposed the difference was minimal. He inched closer, his breath caught in his throat. He thought of himself as a kid, greedily slurping down a slushy on a hot, summer afternoon. Same noise.
The wall was now less than a yard away. It came up to his waist. Kilburn switched the flashlight off, making sure to not let it click noisily as he did so. He reached for his right hip and undid the latch on his holster, where his standard-issue Glock was lying in wait. Whatever the fuck is making that noise, it’s going to be splattered on the pavement real quick.
Kilburn took a deep breath in preparation to look around the wall. It would be a hard angle to let off a round and expect to hit anything. Especially since he didn’t know what the yard looked like. The slow, steady, slurping noises continued. He thought of the slushy on that lazy, summer day of his youth. Cherry flavored—it had stained his mouth and tongue red.
Kilburn peeked around the side of the house. He was right about the wall of windows; the entire east-facing side of the house was nothing but windows. Bedroom, living room, kitchen—all windows. The shitter probably had a window, too. Light bled across the backyard, cast from the various windows. There was a pool in the center of the yard. The water inside was twinkling in the darkness, the light seeming to dance with it. Beyond the pool, a collection of patio furniture was scattered across the lawn. Must be pretty pricey to keep a lawn looking like that in Tucson, he thought. All the furniture was knocked over, including a sizable table that looked like it was made out of heavy stone on top.
Wasp Canyon Page 18
