Whispers at Midnight (23 page)

While their dinner guests were certainly welcome, they were unexpected. The one person that Carly, in her secret heart of hearts,
did
expect, especially given that his sister and deputies were present, was Matt. Without acknowledging to herself that she was waiting to hear his voice, she had been on edge throughout the afternoon and on into the evening as she anticipated his appearance and planned how she would react. Even as she sliced and spiced at Sandra’s direction, she found herself listening for him. When the meal was served up in the dining room, which had a custom-made table large enough to accommodate such a crowd, she had caught herself glancing toward the door more than once, expecting to see Matt standing there.

Not that she
wanted
to see him. She just expected to. Which, she assured herself, was quite a different thing.

With the lights all on and a roomful of people present, the dining room bore little resemblance to the previous night’s pitch-black chamber of horrors. In recounting, at everyone’s urging, her close encounter with the burglar, Carly even managed to find a few elements of the tale almost funny. The reality of the heart-stopping terror she
had experienced at the time receded, and became, in her own mind and in her retelling, something of an overreaction. The corner of the room where the intruder had lurked was no longer sinister; it was simply an ordinary corner where an unlucky burglar had tried to hide and been discovered. Everyone laughed heartily at the role Hugo had played, at the role Sandra had played, at the role Matt had played. Then Mike launched into a truly hilarious description of Matt’s struggle to get Hugo down from the tree. Everyone laughed some more, and the conversation moved on from there.

Except Carly kept getting stuck on a series of related, recurring images: herself frightened out of her mind, running through the dark, running to Matt. Herself shaken and scared, crying in the dark, crying on Matt. Matt holding her close, keeping her safe, comforting her, kissing her…

And then walking out. Because they were
friends,
and he didn’t want to mess with that.

Every time she remembered, her temper heated all over again.

Accidentally knocking his mailbox down was small potatoes compared to what he deserved, she told herself, fuming. He deserved—he deserved …

She couldn’t think of anything bad enough. But when she did, he better watch out.

“I’ll go cut the cake,” she said to the table in general, and, picking up her dishes, fled the general merriment for the peace and quiet of the kitchen. She was so furious with Matt, so
through
with Matt, and yet the fact that he hadn’t shown up to help them move in or to eat or even to check on how they were doing was driving her nuts. She told herself that it was because she was all revved up to tell him off and had no place to go with her crushing speech. She told herself that since he’d had the last word, both literally and figuratively, at their last encounter, she was in dire need of the kind of closure she could only get by telling him that
she
did not want
him.

She was standing over the sink getting ready to scrape what remained of her shrimp scampi down the disposal when she noticed that Hugo, who had, indeed, gotten in touch with his inner alley cat for long enough to get out of the tree on his own, was perched on top
of the refrigerator staring fixedly through the nearest window. Her first thought was that Hugo was indulging in one of his favorite pastimes: bird-watching. But his demeanor wasn’t quite right for that. For one thing, his fur had the Mohawk thing going on down the middle of his back, which he only got when he was alarmed. For another, he was perfectly still.

Carly glanced out the window too. She could see across the considerable expanse of the backyard to the imposing, black-painted barn, which was empty now except for miscellaneous items that had been stored in it over the years, and the cornfield beside it. A slight breeze had sprung up; she could see it ruffling the silky tops of the tall cornstalks in the field next to the barn. It was about eight
P.M.
, some two hours before it would be fully night. But the baking heat of the afternoon had mellowed into something more closely resembling a warming oven than a broiler, and long shadows slanted across the grass. A small black creature was moving toward the house from the cornfield, slinking across the lawn, disappearing under bushes and then reappearing again, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. As Carly watched, it stopped in the open to look toward the house, lifting its head, sniffing at the air.

The demon dog was being drawn from its hiding place by the smell of shrimp scampi.

It was probably hungry. Carly remembered how skinny it was, how anxious its dark eyes had been as it had stood over her after she had fallen down the stairs. She remembered how it had licked her cheek.

She still had her barely-touched plate of shrimp in her hand. She’d been so busy trying not to listen for Matt that she hadn’t managed to eat more than a couple of bites. Now her supper could be put to a better, more noble use than dulling the disposal blade.

“Just because it chased you doesn’t mean we should let it starve,” she said to Hugo, who replied with a disdainful glance and a twitch of his tail. Then, carrying her plate, she opened the back door and stepped out onto the small rear porch.

As soon as Carly stepped outside, the dog ran under a bush. Clearly it held no very great opinion of human beings. She’d never
had a dog herself, but unlike Hugo, she had nothing against them as a species. It was just that her grandmother had not permitted her to have any pets, and when she’d gotten into a position to please herself she’d acquired Hugo.

And Hugo harbored a definite prejudice against dogs.

She walked down the steps and crossed the yard to the bush under which the dog had disappeared. It was a snowball bush, taller than she was, green and round and bursting with the tennis ball–sized white blossoms that gave it its name. Crouching, she peered beneath it. For a moment she thought that somehow the dog had managed to dart away without her seeing it. Then she spotted it, huddled against the trunk, watching her out of big scared eyes.

“Are you hungry?” Carly asked softly. “I brought you some food.”

Staring at her, it seemed to sink even closer to the ground. Carly set the plate down. She saw its nostrils flare, saw it sniff the air.

“Come here,” she said. Then, remembering Matt and the ridiculous sounds he had made, she clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

Incredibly, it came. Slinking on its belly, its tail tucked between its legs, it crawled toward her. She kept making encouraging sounds and it kept coming until it was right at the edge of the bush. Then it hesitated, looking from her to the plate of food, clearly trying to make up its mind if she could be trusted.

“I won’t hurt you,” she said. “I promise.”

And she moved the plate of food fractionally closer to it.

With a last long look at her, the dog crept out from under the bush. When it reached the plate it began to eat voraciously, gulping down the food as if it hadn’t had a meal for weeks.

Watching it, Carly felt her heart contract. It was so skinny that it was practically skeletal. It was a little taller than Hugo but not much, although she guessed her cat outweighed it by a good six or seven pounds. Hugo’s aristocratic pedigree was evident at a glance. This dog’s ancestry was evident at a glance, too: strictly Heinz 57. It was a homely little dog, with eyes and ears way too big for its heart-shaped
face, stalklike legs, and a long, bedraggled tail. Its coat was dull and matted, black with a small whitish patch on its chest.

The sensible thing to do for it was take it to the pound. Watching it inhale the spicy shrimp, Carly already knew she wasn’t going to be able to do that.

She reached out to pat it. Her touch was tentative, because clearly the animal was a stray, not somebody’s pet, and she already knew that it was not a friend to cats, and it might just bite. It glanced at her when she touched it, lifting its head away from the plate it was now licking clean of every last trace of sauce with a suddenness that made her pull her hand back. For a moment their eyes met. The dog’s eyes were big and dark and sad, as if it knew the world was a hard place for small unwanted dogs and accepted that fact. Then, the movement barely perceptible at first, it began to wag its tail.

That was when Carly decided to take a chance.

“Good dog,” Carly whispered, easing closer to it. It had gone back to licking the plate, but as she patted it more firmly this time it lifted its head to look at her again and its tail beat the air. It was a female, she saw as her hand slid around its rib cage. It trembled but didn’t resist as she picked it up, gathered it close and stood up with it.

“Good dog,” Carly said again, holding it carefully. It was warm and wriggly and ridiculously light in her arms. She could feel the tremors that racked its slight body, see the doubt in its eyes as it looked at her. It was not accustomed to kindness, that much was clear. There was a hard, raised line on its belly that felt like some sort of scabbed-over cut, its coat was crusted with a substance that made it feel almost brittle to the touch, and it undoubtedly had fleas, if nothing worse.

For some ridiculous reason, it reminded her of herself. Oh, not of herself as she was now, but of herself as she had been as a little girl, before her grandmother had entered her life. She too had been unloved and unfed, dirty and neglected, slow to trust and wary of people. She knew how it felt to be small and helpless and scared and alone.

“Don’t worry,” she said, looking down into its anxious eyes. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

It gave a soft little whimper, almost like it understood. More moved than she could remember being for a long time, she hugged it close. Lifting its head, it licked her chin.

Carly realized that the two of them had just bonded for life. Sandra was going to kill her. Hugo was going to die. They were just going to have to deal, the pair of them. She was going to keep the dog.

Once upon a time, she, too, had been rescued from a hard-knock life. Just like she was going to rescue this dog.

“You need a name,” she said, and suddenly she knew what it had to be. “How does Annie sound to you?”

Annie, seeming to realize that something good had just happened to her for once in her life, wagged her tail as if to say that Carly could call her anything she liked and that would be fine with her.

“Good girl,” Carly said. “Good girl, Annie.”

And she carried the dog inside.

16

I
T WAS THE FOURTH OF JULY
, a beautiful, starry night, and Carly and Sandra were sitting on a quilt in the middle of the laughing, partying crowd that had gathered in the town square waiting for the fireworks to begin. Sandra was just polishing off a ham sandwich. Carly was savoring mouthfuls of a thick, sweet/tart concoction of lemon and sugar and shaved ice and water that she and Sandra had come up with for the Treehouse and called Lemon Crush. Along with her usual basic black, Sandra had on long, dangly earrings that spelled out USA in tiny flashing lights. Carly, too, had dressed for the occasion in navy shorts, a red tee shirt festooned with white stars, and a denim baseball cap with an American flag on the front. The baseball cap served a triple purpose: besides acting as a mini-billboard for her patriotism, and being just plain cute, the hat did a really good job of hiding her curls, which were pulled back into a ponytail.

“Uh, you know, I think the sheriff might kind of know who knocked over his mailbox.” Sandra’s voice was low; clearly she didn’t want to be overheard. She glanced at Carly, then looked away.

“What makes you think so?” Carly asked. Sandra’s innocent expression was a dead giveaway. Carly lowered her cup and looked at her suspiciously. “You told Antonio, didn’t you?”

During the three days since he had helped them move in, Antonio
had become nearly as much a fixture around the place as the front porch. When he wasn’t working or sleeping, he could basically be found in her kitchen. Not that Carly really minded. She liked the deputy, he was quite a bit of help. He had, for example, brought his mower over and cut the grass for them—and she was glad that Sandra’s love life was keeping her mind off certain domestic sore points like the addition of Annie to their household. But through no fault of his own, Antonio had one major drawback: he was a constant reminder of Matt.

“Okay, so it might have sort of slipped out when he was talking about helping the sheriff pour concrete around the pole for the new mailbox.” Sandra sounded a little guilty, as well she might. “I thought I ought to let you know, because, um, he told the sheriff.”

“What?” Despite her best intentions, Carly couldn’t help herself. She had to ask. “What did he say? Matt, I mean.”

Sandra glanced at her again. She seemed to hesitate. Carly waited.

“He said, ‘That girl’s been nothing but a pain in the ass since the moment I first laid eyes on her.’ ”