Dark Moon. Lindsay Longford

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СКАЧАТЬ voice, though? Really? Had she actually seen a small form in that chilled, silent hallway?

      Yes?

      No?

      But something had happened.

      Cooling her feverish skin, Josie slicked water down her arms. She couldn’t begin doubting her own perceptions. She was a trained observer in the operating room, competent in emergencies. Grounded. As she’d told Hayes, she wasn’t a woman given to hysterical imaginings.

      Before he’d strolled out of her life and Mellie’s with a charmingly regretful smile on his face, Bart had always mockingly teased her about her sense of responsibility, but she’d sensed the knife-edge of truth in his teasing, the stab of hostility behind the charm.

      “No imagination, no sense of fun, Josie,” he’d said, shrugging. “How can I be tied down to a woman who lives by schedules and lists all the time? I’m a restless kind of guy, Josie,” he’d said, throwing his duffel bag over one very broad, very restless shoulder, “and you’re, well, doll, you’re so predictable. And I like spontaneity, know what I mean, sugarbabe?”

      Oh, yes, she knew. But someone had to worry about schedules and bills, and babies needed order, routine, and—

      Josie breathed deeply, stopping the bitterness welling inside. No, she wasn’t a woman given to fancies.

      She could’ve been mistaken about—

      Flipping water at her throat, she paused and considered possibilities. It made more sense to her that thrown off-balance by the power of Ryder’s presence, she probably had seen nothing more than the flutter of a curtain in the shutter-induced twilight of that house, the yowl of a cat becoming a childish cry, the product of her own need.

      But with one more child missing, she had to tell Jeb Stoner what she’d seen, no matter how flimsy the evidence. He was the detective investigating the disappearance and deaths of the children. He was the one who’d taken all the information about Mellie. He should know. It was his call.

      The police could add Ryder Hayes to their list of suspects. They could search his house. If they found nothing…

      She let her face dry in the air, welcoming the illusion of coolness as she scooped out the water from the sink into a can. She would pour the water on her garden tomorrow at daybreak.

      Sooner or later, someone would slip up. She would find out what had happened to Mellie.

      That was the day she lived for now. That fierce determination to look into the face of the person—

      Josie smacked her hand against the sink.

      No, she hadn’t seen her daughter in that long, shadowy hallway. She’d given up hope that Mellie was out there, somewhere, desperate and frightened.

      Now, all she hoped for was that someday she would know.

      The drought would end.

      The killings would end.

      She would find out what had happened to Mellie.

      In the meantime, she put out raisins for the mockingbirds that sang at night and pans of water for the drought-stricken animals that staggered and crawled to her yard.

      While she endured the slow passage of heat-heavy days, she planted seeds in her scrap of garden, saving water to dribble on the parched earth that rolled up around the drops of water and coated them with dust.

      And, always, she waited.

      But a child was missing again.

      The shrill ringing of the phone shattered her thoughts.

      She went into her kitchen. “Hello?”

      Humming silence. “Who is it? Hello? Who’s there?” she repeated, her heart speeding up a little. A click. Static. Josie replaced the mouthpiece of her squatty black rotary phone, the old-fashioned relic of a phone Bart had hated, gently onto the base. A bad connection. A storm somewhere buzzing along the electrical wires.

      She always hoped, somehow, though, that the phone would ring and it would be Mellie.

      Facing the woods in back of her house, Josie lifted the phone again and dialed the number of the police station. The line was clear.

      Five years he’d been gone, and she hadn’t missed him, not after the first year, anyway, and then only because she wanted him there for Mellie, for Mellie to have a father’s hand to cling to as she took her first step. Josie couldn’t help the sliver of resentment over the intrusion of those old memories into her chaotic thoughts today. One more thing that made no sense, she thought as she waited for someone to pick up the receiver at the other end.

      Something moved in the woods.

      Holding the phone, Josie leaned forward, straining. Only a wisp of cloud passing over the sun.

      No one there.

      Ryder Hayes. That was why she was remembering Bart. Two very different men, but in those few moments with Ryder, she had been edgily aware of him. Uncomfortable, but caught in the spell of that disturbing, heated awareness, she’d been at a pitch of awareness she’d never experienced.

      She bent down to pick up a white dust ball.

      The voice rasped in her ear. “Stoner here. Whaddaya want?”

      “Josie Conrad here, Detective,” she mocked. “And what I want is to see you. Today, please.”

      Listening to the faint drone that translated into words, into meaning, she waited. “I know, but—It’s about my neighbor, Ryder Hayes. Please,” she said, her voice rising and sinking in the late-afternoon quiet. She twined the cord in large loops around her elbow and hand as she listened. “All right. If you can’t, you can’t. Tomorrow afternoon will have to do.” Carefully she placed the dumbbell-shaped receiver back on its hooks.

      Tomorrow.

      But there was another night to endure.

      Just before supper, the phone rang.

      Again the click and then staticky squawks.

      “Hello?” Josie said irritably, thinking she heard someone say her name. “Hello? I can’t hear you. Can you speak louder, please. We have a bad connection.”

      The static grew louder, hurting her ears until she dropped the phone. She’d been getting a lot of interference on her phone line lately.

      Maybe she needed a new phone.

      When the long summer twilight ended, plunging the earth into dark, she lit the candles and opened a can of tuna, breaking it up into chunks with her fork as she chopped up celery and stirred in yogurt. Sitting down at her empty kitchen table, she made herself eat, but she turned on the television.

      Under the intensity of the surge-dimming studio lights, the weatherman wore rolled-up sleeves, a gleam of sweat and an apologetic smile as he slogged manfully through the news that one more hundred-degree day had made it into the record books.

      “Sorry, СКАЧАТЬ