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September drove aimlessly. For the first time in memory she’d run out of the house without latching or locking the door. Hadn’t even bothered to pack.
She’d been careless, let down her guard. He’d been in her house. He could have killed Shadow, done with her what he wanted. Security be damned, he could reach her anytime, anywhere. She was at his mercy.
What could she do? Nothing. Nothing at all. She couldn’t even call for help. The loss of her cell phone plunged her back into the helpless void she’d left behind eight years ago. The flowers, the message, all brought into focus the hell she’d escaped and hoped never to see again.
Victor Grant. Or whatever the chameleon called himself today. He sucked you in, became what you wanted and only then shed his mask to play snake to your mouse. September shuddered. Her wrists and ankles throbbed with the memory of the restraints—that, and what came after.
Publicly, Victor lamented her “nervous breakdown” while gloating how grateful her parents were for his care and protection, his superb mentoring of her career. Weeks locked away schooled her in what he expected. She learned not to fight. She learned to please him. And she learned to despise herself, loathed herself even more than the monster. September believed him, knew it must be her destiny, that she owed him everything. She never doubted he’d hurt her family. That she had no choice.
Shadow’s whimper brought September back to the present. She reached through the pet gate to stroke his face, but this time not even Shadow’s touch helped.
Victor had found her. He wanted her to worry, wonder what he’d do, guess whom he’d hurt next. She choked on a sob. She couldn’t ask the police for help without Combs finding out. He’d try to help and end up a target, like Chris. Everyone she touched, anyone who got close to her, was in the line of fire. Nobody in her family would expect danger from dear old “Uncle Vic.” After all this time, nobody would believe her if she raised the alarm. By staying silent for eight years, she’d given Victor even more power.
She should never have come home. It would have been better to disappear without a trace. For a moment, her eyes pricked, and she pushed away the feelings. She’d been right to keep Combs at arm’s length.
She had to get Macy. Her breath quickened. Victor knew she had a cat, probably knew about Shadow. Victor knew the best way to hurt her. The pets would be his first targets, just as he’d focused on Dakota.
If she could, she’d hide them away but Victor would find a way. The crippling thought of separation from Shadow or Macy made her throat ache. No! They were her family; they’d stay together, no matter what. She’d already lost too much because of Victor. She wouldn’t give them up, too.
God, her head hurt! Glancing in the mirror for vehicles, she worried that Victor might be on her tail. Two copies of Fish’s file, a copy of Sly’s research, sat on the passenger seat. She’d made an extra copy to share with Combs and hadn’t told Fish. He’d hate the police ‘scooping’ his story, but saving lives—including his—trumped any job.
Victor changed everything. He’d expect her to run.
To run meant Victor won.
Stay, and she risked everything.
September pounded a fist on the steering wheel. “Shadow, I’m not letting him win. Not this time.”
She’d stay. Victor’s sudden appearance the same morning Sly disappeared couldn’t be a coincidence, there had to be a connection. Blowing the whistle on a potential epidemic could save lives. She owed it to the animals, to the pet owners, and the people who might also be affected. Besides, September had little she truly cherished, other than her pets, but she always kept her word. Somehow she’d help Fish investigate and find the proof to break his story. More than that, she owed it to Teddy and his wife Molly.
She slowed and stopped at the light, knee jittering with eagerness to move. The roadway remained clear. To reach the clinic and pick up Macy, she should turn right. If they called her to get him, she wouldn’t know. “What should we do, baby-dog?” Shadow woofed, and his tail thumped the back seat. September adjusted the mirror to see him more clearly. He still wore the tracking harness from finding Molly.
“Teddy! Of course.” The light changed, and September swung left and headed toward the man’s house. He might not be home yet from the nursing home. She’d been saddened by Molly’s condition, but because of it, Teddy was the perfect person to connect with Fish’s investigation, and find the connection to Victor, too. Teddy could be a bulldog when he devoted his mind to a cause, and his computer-hacking skills should cut down any time needed to dig out juicy pieces that mattered.
The fifteen minutes it took for September to reach Teddy’s comfortably shabby ranch house felt like hours. The crick in her neck from straining to watch all directions at once made her back ache, and she flexed and arched her spine until it popped. She pulled into his narrow drive. The closed garage door and light in the front living room indicated he was home.
September checked both ways, but none of the other houses in the neighborhood showed activity. Quickly she gathered one copy of Fish’s file, and raced Shadow to Teddy’s front door. She rang the bell, and danced from foot to foot, craning to see over her shoulder until the old man opened the door.
“September, what’re you doing—” Teddy’s mouth made an “O” of surprise when she pushed past him into the house. “Don’t let me get in the way,” he said, offering a sweeping bow to punctuate the sarcasm. “Hey, big fella. How’s the super-pup?” He shut the door and offered his hand to the dog to sniff, followed with a chin scratch that Shadow clearly enjoyed.
“Sorry for coming without notice. I lost my phone, happened to be in the neighborhood...” She hesitated at his puzzled expression.
“My house is not in your neighborhood. And I saw you today, so I can’t think this is a social call. By the way, thanks again for helping with Molly.”
“How is she?” September followed him into the living room, fell into the squishy sofa cushions and scooted to make room for Shadow when he climbed up beside her. She crossed her legs, and when Teddy stared at her jigging boot she uncrossed them. She leaned forward with elbows on her knees. That also gave her a view of the front window. It was all she could do to keep from jumping up to close the curtains from prying eyes. A cloud of blackbirds fluttered onto the front lawn to graze for whatever buggy morsels they preferred.
“Molly is sometimes here and other times not. Today was a “not” day.” He settled in the big La-Z-Boy that had clearly seen better days. “Very agitated. Kept saying somebody poisoned her. Frantic to keep Rocky—the dog we used to have—from being poisoned, too.” He took off his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes. “She confuses Trixie with our old dog. But at least we found Molly before she got too cold, got her cleaned up and settled. Trixie helped a lot; Molly loves that dog.” He cleared his throat. “Sometimes I wonder if old Rocky didn’t look down from doggy heaven and send us Trixie, they’re so much alike.”
“I thought you had a German Shepherd.” September let him talk, giving herself time to figure out how to ask him for help.
“Yes, that’s when we were first married. The dog of our youth. Lots of dogs between him and Rocky. We adopted Rocky for our thirty-fifth anniversary from a rescue group. He was already seven when we got him. At our age, we didn’t want to deal with a puppy, and knew he’d probably be our last dog. Can’t imagine why he lost his home, he was as close to perfect as a dog could be. Something special about those old guys. Rocky used to help Molly with the housework, picking up, collecting bits of trash or stray socks from the laundry. Should have seen him Christmas morning, all that stray wrapping paper liked to drive him nuts.” The memories transformed his face to a peaceful glow. “Now Trixie does the same thing when she picks up stray socks or towels or stuffed toys at the nursing home, what Alison called thievery. I think Trixie wants things neat, especially herself. That dog loves getting spiffed up, coat groomed, nails done.” He laughed. “Molly calls it Trixie’s spa day. Never knew a dog to sit still for having her teeth brushed. She’s calmer around Trixie, always more willing to talk to the dog than anyone else, even me.” He brushed off the hurt, reconciled.
At the word “dog” Shadow raised his head and thumped his tail, and Teddy smiled. “You’re a good-dog too.” He polished his glasses on the hem of his yellow sweater and put them back on before he turned to September. “What’s this about?” He blinked pointedly at the stack of papers she’d set on the coffee table.
She could stand it no longer and jumped up, crossed the room in three long strides and swished the curtains closed over the window before turning back to him. “This morning I had a visit from Sylvester Sanger.” She indicated the folder of loose pages on the table. “He’d been working with Humphrey Fish,” she returned to the sofa and sat down, “on an investigative report involving sick animals. Pets, wildlife. And maybe people, too.”
“Okay.” He shrugged. “And this matters to me, why?” He glanced at Shadow, and the pup yawned and panted gently. “Is Shadow sick? Or the cat?” His neck wattle turned rosy with concern.
“No.” She shivered, and prayed she wasn’t lying. “Well, Macy is at Doc Eugene’s.”
He eyeballed her. “Isn’t he the husband of that tracking woman? Your friend killed last month? He’s your vet?”
“Pam, yes. A lot of people got hurt. Pam was Shadow’s breeder, so Doc Eugene was the vet of record. I hadn’t found anyone else since moving here, so . . .” She shrugged. “Anyway, Macy’s sick but it’s not related to Sly’s investigation. The doctor ran some tests and should know more soon.”
“That’s too bad.” He stared at her, lips tight, and said nothing else for a long moment until she began to fidget. “You going to tell me about the investigation?” He finally stood up. “Or are we going to sit and stare at each other?”
“Yes. I mean no. Crap, Teddy, I’m tripping all over myself, but this could be important.” She bit her lip to stop its trembling. “Guess I’m more worried about Macy than I thought.” At least that part was true. She took a breath, grabbed the folder, and opened it. “I need your help on a project, something I promised to help Fish out with. There’s nobody better at digging out the facts than you.”
He blinked. “You’re laying it on a little thick, my dear. Be straight with me. What’ve you got yourself into this time?” He underlined the last two words, but smiled, and took the file she handed him. He probably thought nothing could be as bad as the events that first brought them together. She hoped he was right.
“Okay, here’s the Cliff’s Notes version, but I’m sure there’s more detail in the file.” She cleared her throat. “Critters are sick. Wildlife first, and now pets. It’s like they’re aging super-fast, and going senile. But it’s not only the old cats and dogs. I mean, that can be a normal part of aging.” She hesitated, and then added, “Really old dogs and some cats develop cognitive dysfunction. Similar brain changes, with amyloid deposits, as in people diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease.”
Teddy carefully closed the file in his lap, and placed both hands on the cover. “Why me? What does this have to do with me? I don’t have pets. Not anymore.” The quaver in his voice said he already knew, but wanted her to put it on the table.
“Fish says people are getting sick, too.” She had trouble meeting his eyes, and hurried on. “He could be full of it. You know how Fish loves those hand-waving kinds of stories. People who don’t have pets also are affected, so there must be something else in common.”
He stroked the file but didn’t open it. “What sort of symptoms?” He closed his eyes.
“Forgetfulness, losing things. Mood and personality changes. Problems completing familiar tasks. Confusion about what time it is, or where they are.”
“Like Molly.” He blinked down at the file in his lap. “She’s younger than me, you know. The doctors say it’s progressing a lot faster than normal. Whatever ‘normal’ is.” He didn’t hide his bitterness.
She leaned forward. “Fish says it affects younger folks, too. And Sylvester Sanger disappeared after investigating the story for Fish.” She pointed to Fish’s file in Teddy’s lap. “He started getting calls to his radio show, and kept track. Fish said it’s almost night-and-day with some of the people, some way younger than Molly. He thinks the medical community hasn’t picked up on it yet because the cases are too scattered, and symptoms too similar to Alzheimer’s. So when Sly called him having already done some legwork, he decided to investigate further and sent the reporter to me. Fish thinks it’s something different, it happens so fast. ”
Like Aaron. The thought shocked her. Aaron had struggled with his memory for several weeks now. Mark laughed it off at first, and later grew concerned. But he said Aaron was in denial, and refused to see a doctor. She’d noticed Aaron’s vague behavior this morning. Now Aaron had disappeared, just like Sly. “There’s a man named Victor Grant. He’s involved somehow with Sly’s disappearance. I’m sure of it. This can’t wait. Can you help?”
Teddy stared for a long moment at the folder, but still made no attempt to open it. Finally he said, “I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Great, thanks! I’ve got to go get Macy, but I’ll be right back.” A pulse throbbed at his temple, and September worried she’d upset him too much. “Are you okay?”
“Just peachy.” He breathed heavily. “You’ve implied that my wife’s Alzheimer’s could instead be caused by some weird brain-frying zoonosis spread by wild animals and pets. I’m over the moon with delight.” He glared at her, words so soft she had to strain to hear him. “And on top of that, you dump this on me,” he slapped the files in his lap, “and run off to get your cat? Because you can’t be bothered? Because your life is more important than an old man who only has his dying wife to care about?” He rose, roaring the last words and brandishing the file like a club.
“That’s not what I meant. I don’t know—”
“That’s right. You don’t know. And you don’t care to find out.”
“Teddy, don’t be that way. I’m not dumping this on you. I just have to get Macy first, and I’ll be right back. We’ll work together.” God, this had been such a mistake, she should never have involved Teddy. He didn’t understand.
Victor hid her scars beneath long lacy sleeves and flowing floor-length concert skirts, and she hungered for each public concert, respite from his oppressive presence. Victor escorted her onstage—having concocted a story of her neediness—but had to wait for her in the wings while she performed, only returning to collect her during the applause. She reveled in sharing an intimate musical conversation he couldn’t orchestrate. But his threat to hurt anyone she told—her parents, the other musicians—kept her bound to him as securely as the ropes he used to punish imagined infractions. She concocted elaborate escape plans but never dared do more than dream . . .
She couldn’t go back to that. He’d never let her escape again. “Macy’s sick, I have to get him and make sure he’s safe.”
“Then you better go get him.” Teddy strode to the closet, shrugged on his coat, and grabbed keys off the wall hook. “Lock up when you leave.”
“What? Where are you going?” She jumped off the couch, surprised he’d not raced to his computer to work his magic.
“Where am I going? Where you should have gone. The police.” He scooped up the file and stomped to the door. “I’m not playing amateur sleuth, not again. Last time it nearly got you killed, and this time Molly . . .” He stopped abruptly, cleared his throat and opened the door. “You’re a terrible liar, September. You’re not telling me something, and I’m not in the mood to fly blind, not when it’s about Molly.” The house shook when he slammed the door.
