When the Wind Blows - James Patterson [24]
A touching keepsake. A model boat her husband had constructed, signed, and dated. “David’s ship—March 22, 1969.”
A child’s drawing of a girl and a happy dog stuck up on the fridge: “To Dr. Frannie. We love you. Your friends, Emily and Buster.”
He finally stuck his notebook into his back pocket, took one last look around, then got out of there before Frannie O’Neill returned. In a way, the search had turned out badly for him. He didn’t believe she was involved.
Anyway, he felt he was getting closer to something. He knew it in his gut and had from the beginning.
Why hadn’t anyone believed him?
Chapter 23
IT WAS A LITTLE PAST TEN and the woods and mountains appeared to be closed for the night, but I knew better. I was thinking about the winged girl again.
For the umpteenth time, I seriously considered calling the sheriff in Clayton, or even the Colorado State Police, but how could I? What would I say to them? “Hi. Lately I live alone up in Bear Bluff. I’m mostly of sound mind and body. But here’s the thing, I’m pretty sure I saw a little girl with wings. I was drinking a bit that night, upset over the death of a friend. C’mon up here and see for yourself. Better bring a nice big net—for me!”
I was up working late at the Inn-Patient, thinking through what I ought to do—all the possible options. I’d already talked on my cell phone to both Barb McDonough and Gillian. I had just knocked down a wild kittycat I’d brought home from one of my mercy missions in Clayton.
I was carefully shaving the wild cat’s belly before spaying her. I was concentrating on the electric clippers when I heard someone behind me say, “Hello? Hi in there?”
I jumped about ten feet in the air. I was feeling extra spooky, anyway. Birds in my belfry and that sort of thing.
“Hello? Dr. O’Neill?”
I turned toward the screen door and saw none other than Kit Harrison standing there. I gave him a look to kill, or at least badly wound and maim. “See what you made me do? Please leave now.”
He came in. He walked closer, peered down at my patient. “No. What?” he asked.
“You made me shave her nipple off.”
He winced and said he was really sorry, which was better, halfway considerate. I almost believed that he meant it because of those damn blue eyes of his. He quickly explained that the door was open, that he’d called out and I hadn’t answered.
“How serious is it?” he asked, peering at the cat.
“Well,” I said, not looking at him, “her career as a topless dancer is pretty much over.”
In fact, the injury was minor. She wasn’t going to be needing nipples anymore, anyway. I tightened kitty’s restraints, vigorously swabbed her with Betadine. Then I covered her midsection with a sterile drape with a slit for where the action was going to be happening.
“Swing that light over here,” I said to him. “Please.” Surprisingly, he did what he was told. Maybe he thought he was going to get laid. He looked like the type that often got what he wanted.
I opened the cat’s lineum alba with my scalpel, then sliced into the pelvic cavity. I took a sideways glance to see how Mr. Kit Harrison was taking the operation. He seemed okay, which disappointed me. I had hoped he would faint.
His blond hair was damp, as if it had a recent wash, and he smelled like what a good, old-fashioned all-American hunk smells like—Ivory soap. No Hermès Equipage for this boy.
“So, what is it?” I asked him as I worked. “Got enough towels? Hot water? Room service okay?”
“The cabin’s fine,” he said. “I like it very much. I give it four stars, five diamonds, the highest rating.”
Pity.
He continued. “I heard there’s a good place to eat over in Clayton. Two stars at the very least.”
“Yes, there is. Probably about half the houses, if you’re ever invited for supper, which is unlikely. People around here don’t much trust city folks. And then there’s Danny’s Grill. And