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Combs cursed under his breath. Late again. September expected him a half hour ago. He’d tried to call, but her phone kept going to voicemail. That bothered him. She never went anywhere without her cell phone. Last month, that had saved her life.
No matter how much he planned, Combs always ran out of time. Not on the job, that was different, and partly why his private life came last. He knew she’d been screening calls on the business line to avoid the sickos badgering her over her fifteen minutes of fame from last month. But she wouldn’t answer her cell, either.
It had taken him a long time to get her to agree to this “not-a-date” as she insisted on calling it. The earlier visit with Gonzales might have been too much deja vu for her. She saw threats in the shadows. Not good, not good at all. He liked her too much, wanted more for her, than hiding from the world.
He didn’t think she’d told anyone the whole story about her stalker, certainly not him, and not even her family. Last month during the Blizzard Murders he’d found out more about her past than she’d want him to know, and out of respect he’d not pressed her for details. But Combs understood why September kept relationships at a distance. Besides, the circumstances when they’d met were hardly conducive to dating. He hoped someday September would trust him enough to share her burden. That’s what friends were for.
Combs was ready to move on from his divorce. The internal affairs investigation that derailed his career had been the final straw, but to be honest, his marriage with Cassie hadn’t been healthy for a long time. He’d been so angry and defensive at the injustice of it all that he’d had no interest in dating again. How ironic that the horror that introduced him to September also ultimately caused the Department to reinstate him.
He switched on the turn signal for Rabbit Run Road, and waited for a huge flame-red truck to pass. He hoped September’s failure to answer the phone meant she was pissed he’d questioned her story about Sly’s body. Combs saluted the truck driver, and made his turn.
The gate stood sentry at the bottom of the twisty road. Sly’s car still squatted like a crushed bug against the gate, ready to be towed as soon as the department got the chance. They’d found nothing in the car to suggest any reason for his disappearance, and canvassing local hospitals had produced nothing. The crime scene in the field had been processed, and a few blood samples collected, but it would take time to know if the evidence would help.
Once he got out of his car, Combs grabbed the carton of cold beer, skirted the gardener’s truck and headed for the front door. His steps slowed when he realized no downstairs lights brightened the interior of the house. And the front door stood ajar.
He fell back two steps, dropped the beer and drew his gun. Combs dug the cell phone out of his pocket to call for backup. He hesitated, and instead dialed September’s number again.
Combs heard the phone inside the house ring, ring, ring, ring, before the machine clicked on. He disconnected, and once more approached the front door, slowly climbed the steps and pushed the door open with his foot, screening himself as best he could by standing next to the door but away from the leaded glass sidelights.
“September? You there?” His cop voice switched on with sharp authority. “This is the police. Show yourself.”
No answer.
He quickly entered low, stopped on the wooden entry and swept the room from side to side with his gun at the ready. Down two steps and to the right, the living room area with adjoining dining room stood empty. The table’s place settings for two was a nose-thumb jab at the evening that apparently wouldn’t happen.
To the left, September’s music/office space was different, something was off—and then he saw it. The carpet was bare, a bright throw rug missing from the room.
“September? Where are you?” He took the steps to the left at a near run. Items were missing. He couldn’t pinpoint the changes. But not a burglary. The expensive computer equipment hadn’t been touched. Something else. Like she’d packed away items or rearranged the furniture.
“What the hell?” He holstered his gun and scratched his head. He noticed the bunch of blue flowers on the stained glass kitchen table, probably for a centerpiece for their dinner. Maybe she considered it was more of a date than she’d wanted to admit. The dinner table settings said she’d planned to be here, so her absence must be unexpected.
That’s right, she’d been in a rush to take Macy to the vet. The pets won over dinner with him, paws down. “Some date.” More disappointment than anger made him wince. It’d been years since he’d been stood up. “Guess I’d better get used to it.” Thank God he’d not called Gonzales for backup after all. The man would never let him hear the end of it.
Combs headed back to the front door to collect his beer and stopped short at the sight of the gardener’s truck. Aaron seemed scattered earlier during his questioning, but that happened when people talked to the police. Nothing like a cold one to get a guy to talk. He took two, and popped the top on one can as he walked, wishing he understood women better.
His face smacked into the seashell wind chimes hung at head level directly outside the door. “Bastard!” Combs made a point to dodge the others, and rubbed one eye that got nailed.
A fine white powder dribbled a path along the paved walkway from the front drive to the back garden entrance. Before Combs pushed open the metal garden gate, he stooped closer and touched some of the powder to his glove. It coated the fabric, almost like talcum. He stood, noting the trail led beyond the gate into the garden proper. A new trail had been torn through the weedy overgrowth. He could see why September wanted to get a handle on the mess. It was a far cry from the rose arboretum the place used to boast.
The old house was a landmark as a showplace until it fell into disrepair. They’d called it a haunted house when they were kids. He remembered lobbing stones to crash windows, ashamed to have broken into the place with other high schoolers to smoke and drink beer out of sight of their parents. September hadn’t been part of that crowd, though.
For the past dozen years, the place stood vacant until September came back home, bought it and began renovations. Complete with triple locks that even the gardener should know to keep latched.
The hairs stood on the back of his neck. He couldn’t see any movement. “Hey, is anyone there? Aaron Stonebridge, this is the police!” He pushed through the fresh path, holding the beer away from wicked thorns that grappled his pant legs to trip him up.
When he broke through into a cleared spot at the back of the fenced enclosure, he saw nothing and no one. The ground had been plowed and then raked. A towering stack of dried cuttings piled against the fence spilled to the other side where dead roses and other vegetation had been dug out by the roots. Dozens of blackbirds played hopscotch inside the prickly bundle, tree lice colonizing the dead and probably debating the merits of nest building within thorny protection.
“Hello?” He called once more, turning 360-degrees to capture any human motion. He idly wondered if any of the old roses were worth saving, or if all would be discarded and new ones planted. Somehow, the thought made him sad. The old house’s garden was a reminder of his childhood.
As he trudged back through the weeds he pulled out his cell to try September one last time. When her phone rang, he heard an odd echoing ring-tone nearby. After three rings it stopped, going to voicemail, and Combs canceled the call and immediately re-dialed, this time standing still and cocking his head.
There! He dropped the beer and hurried back the way he’d come. Combs had to dial a third time and listen before he was able to pinpoint the source of the ring-tone. He knelt in the mud, reached through the undergrowth and pulled out September’s ringing cell phone.
