CHAPTER 29

As Belle buckled her seat belt, she had an eerie sensation; as if the atmosphere inside her car had suddenly shifted. She stared anxiously through the window, expecting to see lightning flickering overhead, while her skin and hair prickled as if affected by a rogue electrical charge. She glanced around the parking area of the Whole Earth Doughnut. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary—another early-autumn New England day on a sunny patch of asphalt near a busy interstate. A Lexus sedan and gray pickup truck arrived bearing two more customers for a midmorning snack. Belle noticed that neither person needed to stock up on extra calories as they waddled toward the entrance. Why is it, she wondered, that we humans reward ourselves with the very foods that most harm our bodies? Why aren’t we genetically engineered to yearn for carrot sticks or tofu squares? But the thought only made her wish she could duck in for another sugared treat.

Instead, she turned her key in the ignition and retraced her route to the secluded Blue Hill Cabins. There she circled past the office, searching for cabin fifteen, which she found sequestered within a patch of scruffy trees. Behind the small structure stood a dense woods that spread into the surrounding acreage. As Ricky had suggested, the site was well removed from the other cabins—a perfect place for a stakeout. Belle noted this with satisfaction as she silently repeated the phrase “subcontractor to the Polycrates Agency.” She considered her handling of Ricky and his peculiar employer pretty darn professional.

She parked her car facing the motel exit but close enough to cabin fifteen so that she’d be able to get a good look at the old lady who’d given Ricky the two crosswords. She then pulled out a map and slouched down in her seat in imitation of a tourist examining likely spots to visit. If it took all day before the woman showed her face, Belle would wait.

The idea of waiting patiently in one place, however, lasted all of eight minutes. Belle checked the clock, drummed her fingers on the dashboard, repositioned the map, checked the clock again, opened and closed the glove compartment, and after an additional seven or eight minutes muttered an exasperated: “This could take forever.”

She stepped out of the car and stretched stagily. Not a soul was in sight, and the October chill became noticeably colder as a raft of patchy clouds drifted in to block the sun. Belle shivered and closed her jacket around her neck. For good measure, she stretched again, arching her back slightly as if the muscles had stiffened after a long and arduous drive. A breeze rushed at the neglected trees, sending a noisy shower of autumn leaves scooting over the dry ground. It was the only sound in the deserted place.

Belle’s bravado began to desert her. Although she’d angled her car, preparing it for a hasty departure, she realized she was completely out of sight of the motel office. And if Mr. Hacket were busy watching television—a likely activity—she could scream her head off for a month of Sundays and he’d never hear her cries.

Anxiety made her tap the left front tire of her car with the toe of her shoe. The car was something she knew, and the act of touching it made her feel as if she had a backup, a solid means of escape. Unbidden, Rosco’s previous worries flooded her brain, but these she argued away by reminding herself that the operative words were “tomorrow” and “soon.” According to the crossword puzzle, no potentially criminal activities could possibly happen today. Belle tended to subscribe to logical, linear thought when it suited her.

She took two steps toward the cabin. A little voice in her head whispered: Curiosity killed the cat. This was immediately followed by a remembered quotation from Benjamin Franklin’s almanac: “The cat in gloves catches no mice.”

Belle wiggled her fingers, smiled smugly, then strode up the dirt path until she reached cabin fifteen and its small stoop fashioned out of graying cedar. Her shoes sounded a hollow clip-clop as she mounted the stoop—enough noise to arouse anyone inside. She listened at the door, heard nothing, raised her hand to knock, then stopped short and turned to glance behind her. She had the distinct feeling she was being watched.

Belle left the stoop and studied the woods behind her car. Overhung with bittersweet vines, the trees were in sorry repair; broken limbs lay entwined in the suffocating tendrils whose brilliant orange berries looked like a thousand restive, foxy eyes. Belle decided that nothing larger than a feral cat could be hiding among such a tortuous jungle.

She approached the stoop once more, brought her fist up, rapped three solid times on the paneled door, then immediately jumped back. There was no point in letting some crazed old lady attack her with a broom. Three minutes passed, then five, then seven. The door remained solidly closed. There was no hint of movement inside.

Belle glanced toward cabins fourteen, thirteen, and twelve. Barely visible within the rustic compound, they also appeared vacant. “Okay,” she muttered aloud, “this is stupid. I’m alone.”

She studied her hands, found they were trembling, and stuffed them in her jeans’ pockets as if nonchalance were her middle name and trailing old ladies a harmless pastime. Then she walked to the cabin’s front window and tried to peer in. A dusty green shade had been lowered, and although it boasted a large rip, the cabin’s interior was too dark to discern. Belle pushed at the window frame, but it didn’t budge; peeling yellow paint flaked off on her hands.

She walked to the side of the cabin, where she spotted another locked window, then to the rear, where she found a second door. She tried the handle; the knob turned; the door opened about six inches. An inside chain lock prevented further movement.

Belle brought her face to the opening. “Is anyone home?”

No reply.

She pushed harder on the door, but the chain held fast.

“Hello …? Ma’am …? I have a message from Ricky. The fax didn’t go through. He says he needs a second copy of the puzzle.”

No response.

“I—” Belle began again, but at that instant she was snatched by the elbows and slammed face forward against the door.

“‘Something wicked this way comes,’” a voice hissed in her ear. “‘Open, locks, whoever knocks!’”