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copy of William L. Shea s Fields of Blood rested on the
Josh Lanyon 239
table where he d left it that morning before leaving to
catch the ferry for the mainland.
No sign of any disturbance. No sign of any intruder.
But Elliot s unease, his sense of something wrong, was
mounting. His scalp crawled with tension, his back and
underarms grew damp.
He stepped into the sunroom, still pressing the
flashlight button at irregular intervals and alternating the
light position.
At first quick glance the sunroom seemed just as he d
left it. But the next instant the flashlight beam highlighted
the half-full crystal wineglass balanced on the edge of the
diorama.
Elliot s heart stopped and then his pulse went into
overdrive. He flashed the light around the room, finger
quivering on the Glock s trigger.
No one was there, but an open bottle of Lopez Island
merlot sat on the fireplace mantle. It gleamed dully in the
overbright glare of the flashlight.
Was anything else was out of place? No. Or was it? He
stepped forward, shining the flashlight on the diorama.
The diminutive hand painted houses and trees, the
miniature gardens and roads popped up in the spotlight.
Something was wrong&
JEB Stuart s entire cavalry unit was gone.
Vanished.
He checked the diorama to see if they had been
moved. They had not. The flashlight beam finally picked
out what was left of the resin and alloy men and horses
crushed and broken in the fireplace grate. Stuart s small
plumed hat winked like a jewel in the ashes.
The mudroom door slammed shut, the bang
reverberating through the dark cabin. Elliot spun, the
240 Fair Game
incautious move sending pain flashing through the
damaged nerves and muscles of his knee. He ignored it
and sprinted for the back of the cabin.
The mudroom door swung back and forth in the wind.
The breeze sighed. As Elliot checked in the entrance way,
the door languidly sailed back and then flew forward
again, bouncing off the door frame with a loud bang.
Elliot was across the mud porch in three steps. He
stepped out onto the stoop training his weapon on the yard
before him.
Nothing moved in the clearing behind the cabin.
Nothing moved along the black wall of trees.
Even the wind seemed to hold its breath and wait.
After a long, long moment, Elliot went back inside,
locking the door behind him. He was now sure he was
alone within the house but his nervous tension did not
ease. The thought of the destroyed miniatures set his heart
drumming in mingled fury and outrage. This invasion of
his home offended him on every level and though he
refused to admit it scared him.
He continued to search the cabin for further signs of
his intruder.
When he was confident the bottom level was secure,
he started slowly up the stairs. Knowing how badly
disadvantaged he was on stairs, his disquiet spiked with
each careful step.
Midway up, his nostrils twitched and disquiet turned to
alarm.
His heart was galloping in the fight or flight response
as he reached the last step and advanced toward his
bedroom.
His left arm started to shake with the strain of holding
the flashlight high, and the circle of light jittered over
Josh Lanyon 241
floorboards and paneling. He flattened himself to the wall
outside the bedroom.
His stomach churned with nausea and not merely
because dynamic entries were some of the most
dangerous. He knew that particular stink. Once
experienced it was never forgotten.
Death.
He shoved the flashlight in his waistband. Using the
cover of the doorway, he whipped his pistol around the
frame and snatched a quick look.
Nothing.
Slowly canting his body around the corner, he rapidly
scanned the moonlit room, swiftly covering the perimeter
with his weapon.
There. A large shadow in the middle of his bed.
Someone crouching against the headboard?
Elliot yelled, Don t move or I ll blow your head off.
The figure didn t flinch. Didn t move a muscle. Didn t
take a breath.
Elliot s ears strained the quiet.
It was too quiet. Nothing alive could be that quiet.
He brought the pistol high and close to his chest,
gritted his jaw, and stepped out into ready stance, training
his Glock on the unmoving bulk sitting on his bed.
No movement.
No sign of life.
He had known halfway up the staircase what he was
going to find. He forced himself to face it, reaching for
the wall switch.
Mellow light flooded the room, made visible the tidy
bedroom: the Ivan Shishkin prints in rustic frames, the
ginger jar lamps with their cheerful yellow-and-gold leaf
patterns, the wide double bed with the brown-and-white-
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striped duvet. Every detail seemed startlingly vivid, as
though he were seeing the room and its furnishings for the
first time.
But in fact there was only one new addition to his
bedroom. Steven Roche sat in the middle of the bed,
slumped against the headboard. His half-open eyes were
dull and fixed. A corkscrew was jammed in the base of
his throat.
***
The sheriffs arrived first, red and blue lights flashing
eerily through the trees as their SUVs wound up the island
road to the cabin. Elliot met them outside the cabin,
making his report in the wood-smoke-scented night while
the police radios crackled with reports of other
emergencies and disasters and the stars twinkled
overhead. He had been through the grim routine of crime
scenes many times though never as a victim and he
kept his answers brief and to the point.
Maybe too brief and to the point.
He got the impression, though no one came right out
and said so, that there was something suspicious about a
homeowner who didn t have hysterics upon finding a
dead neighbor in his bed.
If you didn t give Mr. Roche a key to your cabin,
how did he get in? the deputy who took Elliot s
statement asked him twice.
I don t know.
Do you have any idea what Mr. Roche wanted?
No. I don t.
Was Mr. Roche in the habit of waiting in your
bedroom for you to arrive home?
Josh Lanyon 243
No. Elliot stared at him coldly and steadily until the
deputy s gaze fell.
It probably didn t help when he advised them to leave
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