The Sixes

23

SHE SPUN AROUND, instinctively grabbing the handle of the frying pan—to hurl or to swing it. To her utter shock, she saw Duncan standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

“What are you doing here?” she blurted out. Whatever relief she felt at the sight of him was overridden by her distress. How had he gotten in?

“Uh, sorry,” he stammered. “I just needed to find out how you were. The mailbox on your phone was full, and then when I showed up at the hospital, they said you’d already been released.”

“But how did you get in the house? The door was locked.”

“It wasn’t, actually. I knocked a few times, but I guess you couldn’t hear me over the music. I tried the door, and it was open.”

Phoebe brought her right hand to her forehead and massaged it, thinking.

“Sorry I sounded so frantic,” she said after a moment. “Glenda brought me home, and in my foggy state, I must have forgotten to lock it again after she left.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to scare you out of your wits. I’m just glad to set eyes on you.” He smiled mischievously. “I’m also thrilled to know you’re a Neko Case fan.”

She let out a long sigh and smiled back. So he’d obviously been concerned about her.

“Want some scrambled eggs?” she asked. “For some reason I’ve decided to prepare the same thing they served at the hospital.”

“I’ve already eaten, but why don’t you sit down and let me do it?”

“I’d like that. Have a glass of wine at least. On the counter.”

He slipped out of his coat and hung it on a peg by the back door. As he slid the eggs onto a plate, Phoebe settled at the table. She watched him butter the toast. She could feel her earlier panic subsiding. After Duncan finished serving her, he poured a glass of wine for himself and sat across from her.

“I’ve been really worried about you,” he said. “I heard about Hutch, and the fact that you found him.”

She wondered how he could have heard, since the cops told her they were keeping things under wraps.

Before she could ask him, Duncan reached out and stroked her forehead.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he said. “Or maybe I shouldn’t assume that. Are you?”

“A mild concussion, a small fracture on my elbow.”

“Tell me what happened.”

As she went through the saga again, Duncan asked only a few questions, and mostly let her talk, but his eyes betrayed how disturbed he was by her story.

“You must have been terrified,” he said when she’d finished.

“Completely,” she said. She’d lost her appetite as she spoke, and now her eggs lay cold and bloblike on her plate. “It was like one of those recurring nightmares where you just can’t seem to move fast enough.”

“And you never got a good look at who was chasing you?”

“No. But I started thinking that if I stop trying to force my mind to work, something is eventually going to come to me.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. His soft brown eyes were quizzical.

“Have you ever had the sense that something is scratching at your brain? That there’s a thought trying to reach you, but when you try to grab it, it retreats like a mouse. So you just need to be patient and wait. Sorry, there must still be a trace of painkiller in my system. I sound kind of loopy.”

He cocked his head. “No, I hear you. What you’re saying is that there’s something in your subconscious trying to break free. Do you think it’s about the killer?”

“Maybe,” Phoebe said. “It could be something I saw last night that I didn’t fully acknowledge, or maybe something I picked up from reading Hutch’s notes.” But even as she spoke, she realized that the sensation had first started with something Wesley had said at the diner. Maybe, she realized, the smell of the eggs tonight had retriggered that disquietude.

“Why don’t I take a look at the notes at some point,” Duncan said. “Maybe a fresh pair of eyes will help.”

“Sure, good idea,” she said.

“And if something does come to you over the next day or so, don’t keep it to yourself. This is a dangerous situation. You understand that, right?”

“I know,” she said. She felt her panic rear its ugly head again. “I appreciate your coming over tonight. I thought—I guess I had this feeling I might not hear from you again. Something seemed off between us Saturday afternoon.”

Duncan leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other and resting his wine glass against his chest.

“That was completely my fault,” he said. “And I’m sorry about that. It didn’t reflect how I feel about you.”

Phoebe waited, not saying anything. It seemed best to let it all just unfold.

Duncan brushed twice at an unseen object on his thigh. She realized how seldom she’d seen him make a nervous or awkward gesture. Finally he looked back up at her.

“Something a little weird happened on Saturday,” he said. “At the inn.”

So she’d been right about the timing then, she thought. “Between us?” she asked.

“No, no,” he said. “It happened when you went to the ladies’ room. A couple that Allison and I used to spend time with came into the restaurant. I was never crazy about them, but the woman was a friend of Allison’s from high school and the two of them became tight again when we moved back East. I waved to them from the table—I was about to get up to go over and say hi—and they just completely ignored me. Made eye contact and looked away very intentionally.”

“Was it because they’d seen you with me, do you think?”

“No, you were in the restroom when they walked in. I’m pretty sure Allison badmouthed me to this woman right before she died. Allison grew very bitter as her illness advanced, and though I couldn’t blame her, it was tough to live with. Her take was that our marriage was on the rocks because of me—that I had just announced one day I was bailing. And that I was sticking around through her illness just to make myself look good.”

“I’m sure when I came down and joined you at the table, it only made things worse.”

“Probably. Right after you showed up, they paid for their half-finished drinks and left. I’m sorry I let it get to me. The whole situation with Allison sometimes comes back to haunt me.”

“I can understand. I’ve been dragging around plenty of baggage myself this fall.”

“Speaking of baggage,” Duncan said. “I want you to come stay with me tonight. I don’t like the idea of you being here on your own.”

“That would be great, actually,” Phoebe said. And she knew she was feeling more than just relief over not having to stay in her house alone, checking and rechecking every entry point. Things seemed back to normal with Duncan, and that, she realized, was something she hadn’t thought would happen. “Let me just round up my toothbrush and a change of clothes.”

“Why don’t you plan to stay for at least a couple of nights? I think it would be smart to hang out with me till the cops have caught this maniac, or at least have more information.” Phoebe agreed.

In her office, she grabbed her laptop and with her good hand stuffed a tote bag with files she would need for class as well as her notes from Wesley and the copy she’d made of Hutch’s. Her eyes roamed toward the back of the table where the file of inspirational clippings for her next book sat forlornly. She started to reach for it but then stopped herself. Who the hell am I kidding? she thought.

Next Phoebe hurried upstairs, took an overnight bag down from the top shelf of the closet, and tossed a few days’ worth of clothes in it.

She followed Duncan to his house in her car so that she’d have it. Duncan kept his speed at around thirty, making it easy to follow him. When she arrived at his house, she felt suddenly exhausted and dressed for bed immediately. With her arm starting to ache, she popped one of the painkillers she’d been given. As she crawled into bed, Duncan slipped into the room and sat down next to her.

“I’m going to read in the next room for a while, but just give me a shout if you need anything,” he said.

She slept deeply that night, stirring just once. When she woke in the morning, her brain felt sodden, as if it had been packed with wet towels. She was afraid she’d missed Duncan, that he must have already headed to class, but just as she inched her way into a sitting position, he popped into the room, carrying a mug with steam coming off the top.

“I heard you stirring, so I thought you might be ready for coffee.”

“Oh, that’s great. I still feel a little drugged out. Back to straight over-the-counter meds today.” She took a sip. “You don’t have a class this morning?”

“Not till ten, but I’m going to head out in a second to check on things at the lab. There’s stuff in the fridge for lunch. Can you think of anything else you may need?”

“No, I’ll be fine. I’ll drop by campus at some point but probably hole up here for the day and rest.”

“Sounds like a good plan.” He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, and with a firm stroke of his hand, brushed Phoebe’s hair from her forehead. Then he leaned down and kissed her softly on the lips.

“By the way, don’t even think about making dinner,” Duncan said. “I already have a plan for that.”

Two minutes later she heard his car pull out of the driveway. Somehow Duncan’s presence had helped keep her grief at bay, but as soon as she was alone again, it was back. She had known Hutch only briefly, but she had liked him, had even imagined herself staying in touch with him through the school year, sharing the occasional cup of coffee. There was no escaping the fact that she could be partly to blame for his death. If she hadn’t solicited his help, he may not have been murdered.

Her mind kept whipping back to the sight of Hutch dead, his face horribly battered. It was terrible to imagine his last moments and the pain he must have felt from those blows. Phoebe focused for the first time since that night of the rough, gray wood slivers protruding from Hutch’s face. Had the killer used a piece of firewood as a weapon? she wondered suddenly. If that was the case, it seemed to suggest that the murderer hadn’t arrived at Hutch’s cabin with the express purpose of killing him.

So what did that mean? She’d surmised before that Hutch must have tipped off the killer—in person or by phone. But maybe Hutch hadn’t said anything too specific; perhaps he had just hinted at his suspicions. So the person—or persons—had tracked down Hutch’s address and dropped in on him, probably catching Hutch totally off guard. In the conversation that ensued, Hutch might have elaborated on what he knew, trying to flush the person out. And he could have overestimated his ability to control the situation.

The fact that the killer had parked his car elsewhere reflected a need for secrecy, so even if murder hadn’t been premeditated, the person wanted to be sure his—or her—car wasn’t spotted at the cabin by anyone.

After summoning her strength, Phoebe finally propelled herself out of bed. As she drank another cup of coffee, her phone rang from inside her purse.

“Where the heck are you?” Glenda demanded before Phoebe could even get a hello out. Glenda sounded more worried than miffed.

“You went by my house?”

“I’m out front now. I pounded on the door, but there’s no answer.”

I’m busted, Phoebe thought. Now I have to spill about Duncan, and she’s going to be mad that I’ve kept this from her.

“I’m not there. I’m—I’m at someone else’s house. A guy’s.”

Glenda snickered good-naturedly.

“Did you pick up some cute doc at the hospital?” she asked. “I have to say that those tread marks on your face haven’t managed to make a dent in your looks.”

“No, not a doctor. It’s someone from Lyle. He came by last night and suggested I stay with him for a few days.”

“You’re dating a townie?”

“No, I mean Lyle College. We’ve only had a few dates, and I’ve been meaning to fill you in, but there’s always been something more pressing to deal with these days. You aren’t pissed, are you?”

“Of course not—unless it’s my husband, of course. You gonna tell me who?”

“Duncan Shaw. I met him on a committee. He’s in the psych—”

“Yeah, of course I’m familiar with him.”

There’d been something abrupt in Glenda’s tone that perturbed Phoebe. She wasn’t sure if it reflected Glenda’s views of Duncan or the fact that she’d been left in the dark.

“You don’t sound that tickled,” Phoebe said.

Glenda waited a half beat before answering.

“No, I hear great things about him as a teacher. The kids love him. I—I just don’t know him socially. But I’m glad you’ve got someone now. This is a time when you could really use a safe haven—and a warm body, too.”

“I’ll fill you in more when I see you.”

“Okay. How are you feeling, anyway?”

“Achy, but on the mend.”

After she’d signed off the call, Phoebe sat quietly for a moment and replayed the conversation with Glenda. There’d definitely been a weird undercurrent, but she didn’t know what it sprang from. She’d have to wait until she was face-to-face with Glenda and force it out of her.

Phoebe slid off the kitchen stool, retrieved her laptop, and checked the local paper on line for their latest coverage of the crime. This time it was a big story, prominent on the home page—though once again it contained no mention of her. For a brief moment it felt as if she had simply read about the crime and then envisioned the whole awful thing in her mind. But she had been there, and the terror she’d felt seemed to be hovering just over her shoulder.

Well, don’t just sit there, she told herself. She found Hutch’s notes in her purse and laid them out on the kitchen island. For the next thirty minutes she went over them again meticulously, even saying out loud the parts Hutch had underlined—in case the sound of the words triggered a revelation. But she got nothing. Frustrated, she dug out her own notes and went over the parts Hutch had underlined there. But they were virtually identical to what he’d marked in his. Still no insight.

I need a shower, she thought suddenly, something to help defog this damn brain of mine. It had been two full days since she’d had one. It proved to be slightly tricky showering with her injured elbow in a bathroom she was barely familiar with.

As the hot water streamed over her, soothing her aching muscles, Phoebe let her mind find its way back to the Sixes. Though she’d been fixated on Hutch’s murder since Sunday night, she knew she also had to stay focused on exposing the group, since there was still a chance that they were tied to Lily’s death—and even to Hutch’s. I need to find out who else is a member, she told herself—and what the fifth and sixth circles are.

Maybe it’s time for another chat with Jen Imbibio, she thought. Though Phoebe had been undecided about whether Jen might be a member, she sensed the girl knew something.

With just a towel wrapped around her, Phoebe typed an e-mail message to Jen on her laptop. She told her that there was a small matter she needed to chat with her about and asked that she get in touch by phone.

As she tramped back to the bedroom to dress, Phoebe could feel her energy starting to wane a little. She couldn’t let that happen. There was plenty she needed to do today, including making a trip to campus. She planned to give Ball a debriefing, per his request, and also because she was eager to learn if he knew anything about Hutch’s murder.

She dug out a fresh pair of jeans and a top from her overnight bag and struggled into them. She’d just run a brush through her wet hair when a sharp buzzer sound tore through the house, startling her. It wasn’t until it had rung a second time that Phoebe realized it was the doorbell. Who could it possibly be? she wondered. An alarm bell went off in her head. Had the killer tracked her to Duncan’s? Well, he sure as hell wouldn’t be ringing the doorbell, she chided herself.

She slipped into the great room and made her way to the front door. It was solid wood, but there was a tall, narrow window on each side of it. She was going to have to look outside and see who was there. But before she could move toward the window, the person on the other side of the door took a step to the right on the stoop, and leaned forward, peering in through the glass.

Phoebe caught her breath. Val Porter was standing there, staring right at her.