Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [79]
A tree branch, I told myself, when I heard it again. Or the security guard making his rounds. I moved away from the window, trying to decide if it would be better to attempt a dash across the courtyard and around the museum to the parking lot or creep over to my office and call the police. I hugged the quilt to my chest, my mind racing, wondering how solid the studio door’s lock was and whether I was overreacting. If it was a tree branch or the security guard, I’d look like a fool calling the police. That was another irritating thing about being the police chief’s wife—if I reported it, everyone and his brother would hear about it immediately and it would be the talk of the station. You’re imagining things, I thought when everything became quiet again. I calmly folded the quilt and started for the door. When I passed the dark window, like a shotgun blast it shattered.
I screamed and instinctively hit the floor, the quilt cushioning my fall. I lay there for a moment, dazed. Then, crouching low, I scrambled toward the light switch next to the front door and flipped it off. I wouldn’t be such an obvious target now. I sat with my back against the door, staring out at the broken window. I’d have to go past it to get to my office. Faint moonlight glinted off the broken glass covering the floor. Behind me, a fist pounded hard on the door.
“Mrs. Ortiz!” the security guard yelled. “Are you okay?”
I jumped up and unlocked the door. The guard stood there, his hand holding his cellular phone as if it were a gun he was going to draw.
“Are you okay?” he repeated. “I heard you scream and then I saw someone hop the fence and I couldn’t decide if I should run after him or come see about you and I called my dispatcher and he said to go see if you were okay to let the guy go and I called the police and are you okay? This is my first assignment . . . and you the police chief’s wife . . . oh, shit . . . I really screwed up—” I held up my hand for him to stop talking. He obeyed instantly, like a well-trained hunting dog. He hooked his thumbs in his thick black police issue utility belt in an attempt to hide their trembling. I flipped on the light and surveyed the damage.
I turned to the security guard. “What did he look like?” I asked.
His round blue eyes widened, making him appear about sixteen. He reached up and started picking nervously at a pimple on his cheek. “He was dressed in black. I was at the back of the pasture, checking the perimeter. I couldn’t see his face. He took off over the back fence and ran through the field and toward the feed store.” Next door to the museum was an acre of open pasture, then the parking lot of the San Celina Feed and Grain Co-op.
“He probably had a car waiting,” I said, more to myself than the guard, who was now shaking like a scared puppy. I looked back to the broken glass on the floor. A large rock sat in the middle of it, a piece of paper wrapped around it with a rubber band just like in an old “Spin & Marty” episode from the Disney channel.
I picked up the rock and read the message.
Cruel death is always near; so frail a thing a woman.
“What does it say?” the guard asked, his voice a close imitation of Barney Fife. Before I could answer, a deep voice called out, “Police.” I stuffed the note in my back pocket and whispered, “Forget this.” I scowled to make my point. He nodded dumbly.
Two officers stepped through the doorway. Neither of them looked familiar to me. Gabe had just hired five new officers in the last few months, and these were obviously two of them.