CHAPTER 20

INSIDE THE tidy little house, Rosemary locked her doors, drew all her curtains, and fed her dog, telling him what a good boy he’d been. The message light was blinking on her telephone; she considered ignoring it, sighed, and touched the “play” button.

“Rosemary, I just wanted you to know that we’re fine. Tyler isn’t throwing up anymore and his fever is gone, so I’m going to spend the afternoon and evening with Maya and her little girl. Thanks for all your help, and I’ll probably talk to you tomorrow.”

Rosemary released breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

Gray’s voice was next. “Rosemary, I’ve been out dealing with more mauled sheep, but it looks like the rancher and his dogs have taken out the villains, a trio of young coyotes. At least, we hope they’re all of it. Anyhow, I’m wondering if there’s been anything further from Congressman Conroy, I think it was? The guy who called you last night? I’m going to turn in early tonight, so if you don’t get in by, oh, about nine, please give me a call tomorrow. Take care.”

“For all that, tomorrow will do. Or maybe never,” she told the machine, and erased the messages. And remembered that she hadn’t checked her e-mail.

It could also wait until tomorrow, she thought, looking across the room at her desk and her computer. But there might be something from Paul. She turned on the machine, clicked on her mail server, and found her more-or-less monthly message from Big Ben, not her older son but the youngest of her four younger brothers, and the dearest. Ben was only three years old, and Rosemary twelve, when their mother died.

Hi, big sis, he began, and rattled on about his students in this year’s science and math classes at the Santa Rosa high school where he taught; about the two young daughters whose custody he shared with his ditsy former wife. Ben was planning a snow trip to Mt. Shasta with his girls during this year’s winter break, and wanted to let her know in plenty of time so that she could plan to join them, or at least they could visit her on the way.

Lovely. By winter she’d no doubt be ready for some serious family time. Or she’d try to be. She typed a short note saying that, in more welcoming terms, and sent it. And then, since the machine was on anyway, she went to Google, typed in “Congressman Brian D. Conroy” and hit “Search.”

The first entry turned out to be the Conroy official website with pictures of a big, modern ranch house, and a white-railed pasture, and a big, distinguished-looking man standing beside a very handsome gray horse. A biographical sketch mentioned an old ranching family; a wife who died young and a second who did the same; a successful effort to become first a California legislator and then a national one. Brief mention of several pieces of legislation Congressman Conroy had sponsored.

There was a picture of the congressman in his office with his now presumably former chief of staff, an intense-looking, angular woman named Sammie Andre whose gray-streaked black curls made Rosemary think of an aged Christy Mendes; another picture with two young staff members—interns?—one male and one female; a third with son David B. Conroy, a slight, lawyerly-looking man with close-cropped dark hair and half glasses perched on his nose. It struck her as odd that the page had not been updated to tell of Conroy’s stroke and resignation, nor of his son’s replacing him. No mention of a daughter, either, but there was a painting of a girl, or young woman, on the office wall; Rosemary inspected that closely.

The phone rang, and she quickly, guiltily turned off the computer before reaching across the desk to pick up the handset. Not Gray as she’d expected, but Gus Angstrom. She flipped a mental coin, sighed, and touched the phone button.

“Hey, Rosemary. Are you okay?That was a pretty, uh, what’s the best word for it, heavy day you had today.”

“Oh, I’m fine. Recovering, anyway. Did you get the congressman on his way?”

“Oh yeah, after a while. What I wondered, have you had supper yet? I thought if you haven’t, I might pick up a pizza from DiGiorno’s and bring it out. Kind of a thank-you for your help. I won’t stay late, and we won’t talk about Conroys or Runyons or any of that shit.”

MONDAY morning she got up well rested and cheerful, until she recalled that she would be expected at Enders. Maybe she could phone in and plead, oh, a bad cold? A hangover? General malaise? No, bad idea. But last night’s rain had stopped and the sun was trying to shine. She had a cup of coffee and a bagel, took Tank for a shortened version of his morning walk, and then both of them climbed into the truck to head for town.

When Rosemary walked through the kitchen door of Enders Center, she was surprised by Leona’s greeting: a big hug. “Good for you, Rosemary,” said the larger woman, releasing her with a pat on her shoulder. “You’ve helped that poor girl to her rest. And her family, too.”

Ah yes, the small-town jungle telegraph. As Rosemary was trying to frame a response, Marylin chimed in. “Yeah, we heard the girl’s daddy came to town in his private plane just to meet you. Who’d have thought that Mike Morgan woman was really the daughter of our congressman? Not that I’ve ever met him. Or voted for him.”

“He came to the Fourth of July parade four years ago, I think it was,” said Leona. “Seemed like a nice enough man.”

It appeared that the tale of the hidden CD and its e-mail messages had not yet been revealed. And bless Gus Angstrom for that. “I understand that Congressman Conroy is, or has been, a successful rancher and politician,” said Rosemary. “But yesterday he was just a sorrowing father who had to identify his daughter’s body and arrange to take her home.”

As the two women murmured polite agreement, Rosemary took off her jacket and reached for an apron. “And what are we cooking today?”

She kept to the kitchen during the meal and the clean-up afterwards, to avoid the questions and comments she was sure the diners would have about the congressman and his daughter. On her way home mid-afternoon, she stopped at the market for needed supplies, and had her answers ready. “It wasn’t really my doing,” she said to the checker whose teenaged sons had liked Mike Morgan. “Sabrina Petrov’s sketches were what made the identification possible.”

THE weather was now a contest between groups of heavy-bellied gray clouds and a sharp, bitter wind that continued to push the clouds along. Occasionally visible in a cleared patch of this shifting sky, the surrounding mountains were sharp and cold without their softening cap of snow. Maybe it would snow early this year, Rosemary thought as she turned into her yard.

It wasn’t until later, at the big woodpile filling a basket with firewood, that she thought to walk to the front of the lot and take a look up the hill. Kim’s borrowed truck was back in its usual place. Behind it was a truck that was new to Rosemary, a big black king-cab with chrome that glittered even from this distance. Had Kim managed to get in touch with Cousin Steve, perhaps? And if so, it was Kim’s business and none of hers.

Her message machine was silent and dark. Feeling a bit guilty, she called Gray’s number to respond to his questions of the day before. “The Conroy story is too complicated to go into in a message. But it’s been dealt with, and I don’t expect to have any further contact with Congressman Conroy or his people. Anyway, I’ve had a busy day, and I’ll probably talk to you tomorrow.”

Now. Time to choose a personal problem of her own and concentrate on it. If Ben and his girls should come to visit in, say, three months, where would she put them? She opened the door of what had once been a bed closet and peered into the dusty interior. Probably she could buy, and have installed right there, a pull-down bed like the long-gone original. Worth exploring, anyway; she’d get onto the internet about it.

And she’d been thinking that at some future time she might lay cork-backed tiles on the floor of the basement. Then, with the addition of some indoor-outdoor carpeting, she could have room for, say, two little girls and their sleeping bags. She got her big measuring tape from its drawer and went downstairs to get some figures.

The wind was still blowing, but not rattling the windows; and her chimney was high and strong. She made herself a snack of apple slices, cheese, and crackers, carried the plate and a pot of tea to her computer desk, and spent several happy hours inspecting various kinds of built-in—or buildable-in—beds, and various types of cork-backed floor tiles. “The variety of things you can find on the Internet is amazing,” she said to the sleeping Tank, who responded with a faint snort that was the equivalent, she thought, of a shrug.

By the time she surfaced again, the plate and teapot were long empty, full dark had settled, and it was—she peered at the clock on the mantel—almost nine o’clock and too late for anything resembling real dinner. She shut down her computer, got a glass of wine from the kitchen, and from Brianna’s collection chose a CD of Richard Goode playing Mozart piano concertos. With the excellent earphones Paul had sent her, she settled into a corner of the couch. And then got up to turn off the lights.

Some time later, the Mozart drawing to a close and her glass long empty, she was sleepily considering the route to bed when she heard a small whine from Tank. With the only light the faint glow from the last of the fire, it took her a moment to realize that he was no longer on his bed beside her desk, nor anywhere in the room. “Tank?” Setting the earphones aside, she got to her feet, moved toward the kitchen, and could barely make out his pale form in alert mode at the back door.

“What is it?” She went to peer out the kitchen window, saw nothing but blackness out there, and didn’t recall hearing anything driving by. “It’s okay, boyo. Just the wind.”

She turned to go back to the living room, but the dog stayed where he was, and after a moment gave another whine and a low growl.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, it’s probably a raccoon or something. Okay, you can go out to have a look. Just don’t jump something bigger than you are.” As she opened the door, the motion lights came on and revealed a slim figure in dark pants and a hooded jacket coming towards the house from the side yard. “I beg your pardon?” called Rosemary. “What do you want?”

Tank nearly knocked her over as he shot past her to launch himself in total silence at the stranger, to hit him chest level and flatten him to the ground. Not him, her, Rosemary realized as the hood fell back to reveal a froth of gray-streaked dark hair and the woman screamed, covering her face with her arms and trying to roll away.

“Tank! Tank, stop it! Stop!” Rosemary ran to grab for his collar, couldn’t get her fingers under it and threw herself on him instead, digging both hands into the fur and loose skin of his neck as he kept snarling and lunging at the woman, trying to get past the arms.

“Tank! Come!” Rosemary seized both his ears and twisted, and as he yelped and flinched, she finally got a grip on his collar and rolled herself to her feet, pulling him with her. “Come! Come!” she shouted, and then, “Oh I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry! Let me just get him inside!” she called over her shoulder, half sobbing as she finally succeeded in dragging the dog away and muscling him toward the open back door. “Come! Inside.”

She hauled the still resisting but no longer growling animal up the steps to the porch and into the back hall, blocked him with her legs as she opened the basement door, and shoved him down the stairs.

“I’m so sorry,” she began again as she sensed movement behind her, but before she could turn, a hard shove caught her between the shoulderblades, and she went staggering and stumbling after her dog. Sprawled face down at the bottom of the steps, she heard the slam of the basement door, and then the click of the engaging lock.

“Hey!” she called weakly, and rolled over to lie flat and try to catch her breath. “Stop that,” she added to the dog, who had turned from furious attacker into worried pet, whining as he nudged her and licked at her face. “Out of the way,” she said with a shove, and pushed herself upright again, this time with a bruised elbow and what would probably be a knot on her forehead.

There had been no response to her single cry, not that she’d expected one: no way could that push have been accidental. Now that she was erect and moving, Tank stopped fussing and appeared ready for the next round, his head up and his gaze on the door. “Forget it, boyo,” she told him, and crept up the stairs to put an ear to the door. The woman was moving around not near the door but at some distance, probably in the living room or anyway the front of the house. And not furtively, either. Stopping at the desk, the computer, maybe? As Rosemary listened, and listened, her own thoughts touched briefly on the computer, and something she’d seen there, recently.

Who was the woman, and what on earth was she up to? And why? And what could she do about it? She went back down the stairs and stood at the bottom to survey the big room from a new perspective. She and Tank would stay dry and warm, but there was no easy way out of here except by that now-locked door at the top of the stairs; and the door opened into the back entry hall, not the basement, so the hinges were on that side.

Windows? The high windows on the east and west walls were shallow, meant to be tilted in for ventilation but not for passage of large objects. If she shoved the dryer closer and climbed on top, she could reach a window with a frame that was big enough for her to slide through if she could get the window part loose to lie flat against the wall. And if she could cut through the heavy screen fastened in place outside to discourage critters.

A door closed somewhere in the house, but no engine sound followed. How did the woman get here? And what could she be doing out there now? If she did go away, leaving them here, how long would it be before someone came to check? Rosemary moved up the stairs again, to listen.

The back door opened and someone stepped inside. Ear pressed to the basement door, Rosemary caught the sound of feet moving past, and then a whiff of something that smelled like gasoline.

She spun around and headed down the stairs, nearly falling again in her haste. The key to the gun cabinet was… “Right,” she said when her fingers found it in the can on the shelf over the washer. The well-oiled lock opened readily, and she grabbed the .22, shoved its loaded clip into place, scooped a handful of extra shells from the box of .22 longs, and dropped them into her pocket.

“Okay,” she whispered, to herself and to the alert dog. At the foot of the stairs she planted her feet, raised the rifle, and aligned its sight with the narrow door-edge gap where the lock went into the frame. Closed the bolt, drew a deep breath, expelled it, and pulled the trigger.

With the noise of the shot still reverberating in the concrete room, Rosemary was up the stairs, through the door, and into the kitchen where the woman with the red plastic can in her hand stood where she was long enough to stare in disbelief, then turned and fled through the open front door.

As Rosemary slowed at her desk long enough to scoop up her cell phone, Tank took off with a roar after the fleeing woman, who flung the spilling can at him and veered right toward the side yard and the big black SUV parked there on the grass. The dog recovered and put on a burst of speed, Rosemary yelled, “Tank, no!” and fired a shot over the woman’s head. Dog and woman reached the SUV together, and she managed to fend him off with knees and kicks long enough to get the door open, scramble inside, and close the door.

“Stop, damn you!” Rosemary yelled, but saw the woman slide across to the driver’s side of the vehicle. First things first, she thought, dropping the rifle as she ran to grab her dog, pull him away and drag him back toward the house and the porch-railing rope. One last big tug, a “Sit!”, and she clipped the rope to his collar, as behind her she heard the engine fire. “Stay!” she cried to all within earshot, and ran forward to get a look at the lighted license plate, scooping up her rifle as she went.

“You’re not going anywhere!” The SUV began to back up, and in the shadowy glare of the outdoor lights she took careful aim and sent a shot into the right rear tire. Brake lights flared as she worked the rifle bolt, and her rattled mind finally put images together. She knew who her assailant was, and knew it would be foolish, and dangerous, to let her escape. She had propped the rifle butt against her right hip and was digging for the cell phone in her left pocket when a big truck roared into the driveway with horn blaring and came to a nose-down stop with its massive front bumper right against the back bumper of the SUV.

“Rosemary! What’s happening?” cried Kim as she spilled out of the truck’s passenger door. “We heard shots, and yelling!”

The truck’s engine shut off but its lights stayed on, and a man who had to be Steve Runyon got out to trot up along the driver’s side of the SUV. “What the hell? What’s going on?” he called to Rosemary.

“The woman in that car locked me in my basement and was about to burn my house down.”

But Steve had stopped beside the driver’s door to peer inside, and in the harsh light of the truck’s headlights, Rosemary could see his face twist in fury. “Now that really does not surprise me. Come outta there, bitch.”

His reach for the door handle fell short as the woman in the SUV hit the gas and rocked forward over the soft grass and dirt of the yard. Steve was beside Rosemary at once, and before she realized what he had in mind, he’d pulled the rifle from her grip and fired a shot through the rear window of the moving vehicle. She stood where she was to watch as it accelerated, rose on two wheels in a too-short left turn, and ran head-on into the wood pile, where its engine died.

“Wow,” said Kim. Rosemary, when she saw Steve pull an apparently living woman from the stalled SUV, turned her back and walked away as she punched in the number of the sheriff’s department. “This is Rosemary Mendes. A woman assaulted me here at my house on Willow Lane, and a neighbor stopped her and will hold her, or try to, until someone can come to help us. Please.”