Devil's Food Cake (20 page)

Pounding footsteps approached from the direction of the sidewalk, causing Sadie to open her eyes in panic. In her oxygen-deprived state she had no means to defend herself. However, she’d apparently landed on some kind of shrubbery—an evergreen by the looks of it since it was still green and blessedly thick in February. Though it was mangled by her fall, the bush might hide her from Donna Hender’s view.

Sadie rolled onto her right side and the movement jarred her left shoulder. She had to bite her lip to keep from screaming out in pain despite the fact that she could still hardly breathe.

Moisture from the wet ground began seeping into her clothes fast, and it seemed she’d lost a shoe. She laid her head on the dirt in resignation as her body began shivering from the cold. There was nothing like pain and cold to overwhelm all her high ideals of justice. She’d pushed too hard and made a mess of everything. Some people might even say that being ground into the dirt like this was exactly what she deserved. She took as deep a breath as she felt she could, grateful for the oxygen and hoping it would clear her mind sooner rather than later. She felt on the verge of passing out, but worried if she did, she’d never wake up.

The hinges of a door creaked open above her and light spilled out of the doorway of the home she’d thought would be her refuge. In a sense it still was, but not like she’d hoped.

“Hello?” a male voice called out into the night.

Sadie wanted so badly to yell out that she was down here, beside his porch, and that she was in serious need of medical attention and a hot bath. But she didn’t dare. Donna Hender had to be close by.

“Can I help you?” the man continued.

Sadie looked up to see if the man was talking to her, but she couldn’t even see him. She put her head back on the ground and closed her eyes. She felt like she’d been hit by a truck.

“I was . . . looking . . . for . . . someone,” Mrs. Hender said and her ragged breaths made Sadie feel a little better about her own physical condition.

“No one’s here but me. Uh, are you all right?”

His voice sounded closer, and Sadie dared open her eyes. She couldn’t see much except the side of the cement porch and the metal railing she had flipped over. Then he took a step forward and put his hands on the rail, affording her a look at the man who would have been her rescuer if not for the paranoia that had led him to lock his door.

He looked to be in his forties or so—a good ten years younger than Sadie—and had long, brown hair pulled into a ponytail at the base of his neck. A scruffy-looking beard covered the lower half of his face. He was wearing a black, long-sleeved T-shirt with what looked like the Ford logo on the front. Sadie would bet dollars to donuts he had a motorcycle in the garage.

“It was . . . a woman,” Donna continued between gasps.

“Which I am not,” the man continued, sounding more humored than annoyed.

Sadie’s pain threshold was being seriously challenged so she closed her eyes again and relaxed her neck, hoping the man and Donna would finish their conversation so she could crawl home in shameful surrender. What she would do once she got there was a mystery. She needed to call the police . . . She hoped Shawn was okay.

“But . . . she was . . . right here,” Donna said.

“Well, she ain’t here now,” the homeowner said. “Can I help you with anything else?”

Donna muttered something Sadie couldn’t understand, her voice sounding further away. Sadie was relieved, but felt little victory. She hoped she wasn’t going to go into shock, but her right side was numb with cold and her left shoulder was burning with pain. After waiting several seconds for the door of the house to shut so she could attempt to stand, she opened her eyes to see the man of the house looking down at her with dark blue eyes and a curious expression wrinkling his forehead. He was holding her missing shoe in his right hand, his forearms resting on the railing. His hair and beard had just enough flecks of gray to prove he might be closer to fifty than she’d previously thought. She’d been right about the Ford logo on his shirt though. If only getting those details right were enough to wash away some of her embarrassment.

He cleared his throat as though he didn’t already have her full attention. “I don’t know how you got down there, but I’m thinking you could use a little help getting out.”

Chapter 24

The man’s name was Eric. Sadie didn’t catch his last name.

Five minutes after he’d discovered her in the bushes, Sadie was wrapping her hands around a hot mug of lemon water. He’d offered coffee, which she’d refused. Sadly, Eric had no cocoa or chamomile tea; in fact, he had never heard of chamomile. Finally, Sadie asked if he could simply heat up some water for her in the microwave. She needed warmth. Adding lemon was his idea; apparently hot lemon water was a liver detoxifier. Sadie did not ask why he knew this or why he thought she might need to detoxify her liver. It didn’t seem pertinent and her head was throbbing and overcrowded with enough thoughts already.

After being unsuccessful in remembering Pete’s cell phone number, Sadie had simply called 911 and explained that she needed to get a message to Detective Cunningham. Now all she had to do was wait for Pete to call her back. Without her cell phone, though, she’d been forced to leave the number to Eric’s house, which meant she couldn’t leave until Pete called back.

Sadie took a sip of her liver detoxifier and relished the heat coursing through her body while wincing at the pain that shot down her arm when she moved her shoulder. She put her left arm on the table in hopes to stabilize it and took another sip, using only her right hand. The feeling in her toes was returning, and she rehearsed what she would say when Pete called. She wanted to tell him what had happened in as straightforward a way as possible.

Eric pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table from Sadie and sat down. She tried not to be bothered by his amusement. Although she was grateful for all his help, it was a bit unnerving how casual he was about the whole thing. It was almost as though finding wounded women in his bushes was not an uncommon event. Sadie hoped that wasn’t true because that would be very, very weird indeed.

“He should be calling me back any time,” Sadie offered with a polite smile as she took another sip.

“No worries,” Eric said, smiling at her across the table that was covered with newspapers, bills, and a dish full of loose change and metal parts she didn’t recognize. It was a perfect match for the rest of his house which was also in a state of comfortable disarray. Sadie surmised with little doubt that Eric was a bachelor.

“You ready to tell me what had you in my shrubbery tonight?” Eric asked, leaning back in his chair and lacing his hands behind his head so that his elbows stuck out.

She’d been wondering at what point he’d ask her what was going on. “Well,” Sadie said, setting down her mug, “I wish I could tell you, but I’m afraid it’s confidential.”

Eric’s eyebrows went up. “Really? Sounds intriguing.”

Sadie nodded. It
was
intriguing, but she felt duty bound to protect the information until she’d told Pete. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I really can’t talk about it.”

“Are you like a cop or something?” Eric asked.

“Or something,” Sadie said. She shifted, causing her shoulder to protest, and she winced. “Do you by any chance have a bandana or something I can tie my arm up with? I think if I could immobilize it a little bit it wouldn’t hurt so much.”

Eric looked at her arm that she was hugging to her chest. “It’s your shoulder, right?” he asked, standing up and moving to a cupboard in his kitchen.

“Yes?” Sadie said, realizing it sounded like a question.

After several seconds of rummaging, Eric returned with what looked like an actual sling and an Ace bandage.

“I don’t throw many things away,” he said by way of explanation, which Sadie did not find to be very surprising. It was good to note, however, that his pack-rattyness had worked in her favor. “We’ll need to remove your jacket,” he said, nodding toward the zipper.

Sadie hesitated, feeling oddly vulnerable, but then used her good hand to unzip. She couldn’t fix herself up without help. Eric leaned forward and helped her ease the sleeves off her arm. He smelled like coffee and sweat—not a great combination.

Once he’d removed the jacket, Sadie tried to smooth out her horribly wrinkled shirt while Eric adjusted the sling. He eased her arm into it and she tried not to whimper as he fiddled with the strap that went around her neck.

“Sorry,” he said. “I swear it will feel better in a few minutes.”

Sadie hoped he was right. After the sling was in place, he explained that, in order to immobilize the shoulder, he needed to lash her arm to her chest. Sadie agreed and then winced some more as he adjusted the bandage, trying not to show how uncomfortable she was with him being so close to her as he did so. She wasn’t used to being . . . touched by a man. The thought made her blush since it sounded so wanton, but it was the truth. Not even Pete did much more than put his arm around her when they watched a movie. She immediately felt silly for thinking those types of thoughts at all. Eric was younger than she was and had hygiene issues.
And
Sadie had a boyfriend. Maybe.

By the time Eric had finished wrapping her arm, Sadie was exhausted. Between the pain and the sheer stress of everything, it suddenly felt like it was one o’clock in the morning. She was ready to go home with or without hearing from Pete. Then she remembered the paper she’d taken from Thom’s pocket. Maybe she should at least look at it before she threw in the towel.

“May I use your restroom to clean up a bit?” she asked, coming to her feet slowly. With her arm bound, she felt a little off-balance. She picked up her jacket from the table with her good hand.

Eric pointed to the hallway off the kitchen. “Second door on your left,” he said, still watching her as if he might be able to see what it was she knew if he looked long enough. “Please don’t judge me too harshly. I’m not home much.”

He was certainly home enough to
make
the mess,
Sadie thought to herself, then felt bad for being so judgmental. Just because she was a bit neurotic about having a clean house didn’t mean everyone was. Although, it would be nice.

Sadie found the door easily enough: it had a red “Danger” sign on it. Wonderful. She took a breath and used two fingers to push open the door. Her first thought was that it could have been worse. At least there were no bugs or dirty underwear amid the excessive collection of stray hairs, half-full personal care items, and the kind of dust indigenous to bathrooms—the kind that glued itself to the floor when not swept up in a timely manner.

Sadie pushed the door closed and then fumbled with her jacket until she managed to remove the paper from her pocket. With nowhere to safely put her jacket down, she put it back on, the left sleeve hanging empty at her side.

She moved to the counter and vacillated for a moment before gingerly moving some cologne, shaving cream, and deodorant by lifting the bottles by their lids. Then she got some toilet paper wet and wiped down the cleared section of the counter with her good hand. If she had a little extra time—and two working arms—she’d clean the whole room. Alas, time was of the essence.

It was tricky trying to smooth the paper out on the blue Formica with one hand, and she knocked over a tube of toothpaste, which hit the shaving cream and started a chain reaction along the countertop clutter that eventually sent a bottle of mouthwash to the floor.

“Everything okay in there?” Eric asked from the other side of the door while Sadie tried to keep her balance as she squatted down to pick up the mouthwash.

“It’s all good,” she called back, then paused to listen as he moved away. She cleared a bit more of the counter and then flattened her palm over the paper to keep it flat enough to analyze it. The paper turned out to be a typed letter, written in full block form. The return address in the upper right-hand corner was from New York. Her eyes roamed down the page—looking for the meat—when they zapped back to the name written above the sender’s address: Mark Ogreski.

A letter from the dead man!

What was it doing in Josh’s room?

Her eyes were drawn to the date printed above the salutation—it was dated more than ten years ago.

A letter from a dead man written ten years ago found in the room of a young man who’d taken pictures of the deceased and then pinched by the client of said dead man.