heavy. The scent of roses came with her. She was tall, maybe five-ten, thin-limbed but busty, and perspiring heavily from her efforts in the warm bedroom. She wasn’t Elizabeth Ghostly; her features were broader and her eyes smaller and more deeply set. She had on very red lipstick that looked wet.
She put the suitcases down, still not seeing Carver, and wiped the back of her hand across her glistening forehead. Said, “Holy Jesus!” apparently commenting to herself on the heat, and walked over to the window. A graceful walk, now that she wasn’t burdened by the suitcases. She glanced out the window in all directions, as if to make sure no one was out there waiting for her.
Then she turned around and saw Carver.
Shock hollowed her out; the vacuum caused an intake of breath that shrieked in the quiet room.
Carver limped across the spongy carpet, smiling and holding his free hand at eye level and palm out, as if about to recite the Boy Scout oath. He didn’t want the woman to have a heart attack. He actually said, “Now, don’t be alarmed.”
Fear crossed her face, widened and brightened her eyes. Then anger washed in. She seemed to encourage the anger, much preferring it to terror.
She said, “Jus’ who the fuck—” and the side of her head exploded.
4
C ARVER LAY CURLED on his side on the carpet, where he’d dropped automatically once he realized the woman had been shot.
His cheek pressed flat against the rough fibers, he glanced over and saw her lying spraddle-legged on the floor, her skirt bunched up around her hips. Her bowels had released. The ruined side of her head was turned away from him. Thanks for that! There was a wide smear of blood and gray brain matter on the wall, like horrifying modern art. What looked like a tiny black hairpiece with something shiny and white poking through it lay beneath the smear, near the baseboard. Carver saw a dark pattern of blood on his shirt and bare right forearm and felt his stomach lurch. He swallowed a taste bitter and metallic. Almost gagged.
What now? It was quiet outside and in the condo. Mingled with the stench of feces, he caught a whiff of roses. The dead woman’s perfume. He felt shaky.
Jesus, he was hot! He swiveled his head in sudden alarm and was relieved to find he was low enough that no one could see him through the window; the gunman might still be out there, finger on the trigger.
Might. But Carver was pretty sure the killer had gotten away as soon as possible after accomplishing his mission. People didn’t tend to hang around murder scenes if they were the perpetrator.
The cane was on the floor, near the woman’s sprawled body. Carver stretched out an arm for it, closed fingers on the crook of hard walnut, and pulled it toward him. He felt immediately better, whole and more secure now.
Still staying low, he used the cane for support and worked himself into a sitting position. He scooted away from the window, but not before seeing the single round bullet hole in the thick thermal glass. It was just left of center in the middle pane; it had turned the glass milky but none of it had fallen from its metal frame. Safety glass, but not safe enough for the woman on the floor.
Not looking at the dead woman, Carver crawled awkwardly to the window, his shoe making a scraping sound as his bad leg dragged behind him on the carpet. He peeked outside, around the fold of the drape.
Several people were milling around below, including the old security guard who’d stopped and questioned him on the way to the condo. They’d heard the shot, though in his rush of shock he hadn’t, even though he’d been standing next to the victim. He remembered hearing only the sickening impact of the bullet.
The curious and remotely alarmed folks below were craning their necks, peering this way and that to determine where the noise had originated. Sooner or later one of them would notice the milky window in the third-floor unit, and realize that what they’d heard
She put the suitcases down, still not seeing Carver, and wiped the back of her hand across her glistening forehead. Said, “Holy Jesus!” apparently commenting to herself on the heat, and walked over to the window. A graceful walk, now that she wasn’t burdened by the suitcases. She glanced out the window in all directions, as if to make sure no one was out there waiting for her.
Then she turned around and saw Carver.
Shock hollowed her out; the vacuum caused an intake of breath that shrieked in the quiet room.
Carver limped across the spongy carpet, smiling and holding his free hand at eye level and palm out, as if about to recite the Boy Scout oath. He didn’t want the woman to have a heart attack. He actually said, “Now, don’t be alarmed.”
Fear crossed her face, widened and brightened her eyes. Then anger washed in. She seemed to encourage the anger, much preferring it to terror.
She said, “Jus’ who the fuck—” and the side of her head exploded.
4
C ARVER LAY CURLED on his side on the carpet, where he’d dropped automatically once he realized the woman had been shot.
His cheek pressed flat against the rough fibers, he glanced over and saw her lying spraddle-legged on the floor, her skirt bunched up around her hips. Her bowels had released. The ruined side of her head was turned away from him. Thanks for that! There was a wide smear of blood and gray brain matter on the wall, like horrifying modern art. What looked like a tiny black hairpiece with something shiny and white poking through it lay beneath the smear, near the baseboard. Carver saw a dark pattern of blood on his shirt and bare right forearm and felt his stomach lurch. He swallowed a taste bitter and metallic. Almost gagged.
What now? It was quiet outside and in the condo. Mingled with the stench of feces, he caught a whiff of roses. The dead woman’s perfume. He felt shaky.
Jesus, he was hot! He swiveled his head in sudden alarm and was relieved to find he was low enough that no one could see him through the window; the gunman might still be out there, finger on the trigger.
Might. But Carver was pretty sure the killer had gotten away as soon as possible after accomplishing his mission. People didn’t tend to hang around murder scenes if they were the perpetrator.
The cane was on the floor, near the woman’s sprawled body. Carver stretched out an arm for it, closed fingers on the crook of hard walnut, and pulled it toward him. He felt immediately better, whole and more secure now.
Still staying low, he used the cane for support and worked himself into a sitting position. He scooted away from the window, but not before seeing the single round bullet hole in the thick thermal glass. It was just left of center in the middle pane; it had turned the glass milky but none of it had fallen from its metal frame. Safety glass, but not safe enough for the woman on the floor.
Not looking at the dead woman, Carver crawled awkwardly to the window, his shoe making a scraping sound as his bad leg dragged behind him on the carpet. He peeked outside, around the fold of the drape.
Several people were milling around below, including the old security guard who’d stopped and questioned him on the way to the condo. They’d heard the shot, though in his rush of shock he hadn’t, even though he’d been standing next to the victim. He remembered hearing only the sickening impact of the bullet.
The curious and remotely alarmed folks below were craning their necks, peering this way and that to determine where the noise had originated. Sooner or later one of them would notice the milky window in the third-floor unit, and realize that what they’d heard
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