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Authors: Shirley Kennett
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little brother because even with a child’s reasoning he knew it was dangerous, and he didn’t want anything to happen to George.
Naked in the night, the sounds of the country around him, Schultz had plunged into water that looked black. He knew it was clear as glass, since he could see the bottom during the day. Ten feet down, at the bottom of his dive, he’d open his eyes and look through the heavy smothering water, searching for the sky. And there would be the moon, glorious and beckoning, up in the life-giving air. He’d flex his young arms and push himself to the surface, using the round, shimmering white ball of the moon to keep him oriented. Otherwise, he might lose his way in the uniform blackness.
The light in the glass he held was red, not white, and it certainly wasn’t the moon. It was the message light on his answering machine, probably PJ checking to see that he made it home. If he didn’t respond, she might come around to his house, and he didn’t want that to happen. He didn’t want her to see the bottles lined up like obedient little soldiers on the counter.
He sighed, put the glass down, and checked the machine. There were two messages. Punching the PLAY button, he was prepared for PJ’s voice—concerned, angry, or both. But the voice on the machine was neither. It was mechanical and flat, altered by a device made just for that purpose.
“He didn’t die fast, you know,” said the voice. “You think about that, Detective Schultz. You think about him tied up helpless like that, and gasping for air. Then think about what I’m going to do next. Oh, and have a nice day.”
There was a second message, and that one was from PJ, trying not to sound like she was checking up on him. He barely heard her words.
Stunned, Schultz replayed the messages. The time stamp placed the first call two hours ago, when he was with PJ. He plucked the tape from the machine and slipped it into his pocket. Then he emptied the whiskey bottles down the drain.
Suddenly there was too much to do to waste time on self-pity.
Seven
P J GOT TO HEADQUARTERS early Tuesday morning to work on the computer simulation of Rick’s murder. Deep in thought in front of her monitor, she almost dropped her cup of coffee when her office door was flung open, startling her.
“When’s the last time you saw Schultz?” Lieutenant Wall demanded.
Whatever happened to small talk?
PJ hesitated. She didn’t want to tell Wall that her last view of Schultz had been his backside as she shoved him into a taxi outside a bar.
“I went over to his house last night,” she said. “We talked for a while.”
Wall closed his eyes. She counted to ten mentally right along with him. Exactly at “ten” he opened them.
“When and where, specifically, did you last see Detective Schultz? And the car he was assigned?”
PJ tapped her pencil on the desk. “Want to tell me what this is about?”
“You first.”
PJ was cornered. “I went to his house a little after six. You suggested that someone spend the evening with him, so I volunteered myself.”
What PJ didn’t say was that as a psychologist and a friend—a very close friend—she had thought that she might be able to help Schultz begin to deal with his grief. That was the logical explanation. There was also the feeling that she was drawn to him.
“And?”
“I stopped after work for sandwiches. We ate in his kitchen. Then we went out.”
“Out?”
“Can’t you speak more than one word at a time?” PJ said, irritated. “We went to a bar. Schultz had… a couple of drinks, I think. I had orange juice. About ten o’clock, we went home.”
“What bar?”
Progress. Two words. “Brandy’s, on South Broadway.”
“I know the place. You were in the Pacer? Did you go into his house with him then?”
This is getting downright personal.
PJ clamped her lips around a remark that she would definitely regret later. She knew that feelings were running high after the murder of a
Naked in the night, the sounds of the country around him, Schultz had plunged into water that looked black. He knew it was clear as glass, since he could see the bottom during the day. Ten feet down, at the bottom of his dive, he’d open his eyes and look through the heavy smothering water, searching for the sky. And there would be the moon, glorious and beckoning, up in the life-giving air. He’d flex his young arms and push himself to the surface, using the round, shimmering white ball of the moon to keep him oriented. Otherwise, he might lose his way in the uniform blackness.
The light in the glass he held was red, not white, and it certainly wasn’t the moon. It was the message light on his answering machine, probably PJ checking to see that he made it home. If he didn’t respond, she might come around to his house, and he didn’t want that to happen. He didn’t want her to see the bottles lined up like obedient little soldiers on the counter.
He sighed, put the glass down, and checked the machine. There were two messages. Punching the PLAY button, he was prepared for PJ’s voice—concerned, angry, or both. But the voice on the machine was neither. It was mechanical and flat, altered by a device made just for that purpose.
“He didn’t die fast, you know,” said the voice. “You think about that, Detective Schultz. You think about him tied up helpless like that, and gasping for air. Then think about what I’m going to do next. Oh, and have a nice day.”
There was a second message, and that one was from PJ, trying not to sound like she was checking up on him. He barely heard her words.
Stunned, Schultz replayed the messages. The time stamp placed the first call two hours ago, when he was with PJ. He plucked the tape from the machine and slipped it into his pocket. Then he emptied the whiskey bottles down the drain.
Suddenly there was too much to do to waste time on self-pity.
Seven
P J GOT TO HEADQUARTERS early Tuesday morning to work on the computer simulation of Rick’s murder. Deep in thought in front of her monitor, she almost dropped her cup of coffee when her office door was flung open, startling her.
“When’s the last time you saw Schultz?” Lieutenant Wall demanded.
Whatever happened to small talk?
PJ hesitated. She didn’t want to tell Wall that her last view of Schultz had been his backside as she shoved him into a taxi outside a bar.
“I went over to his house last night,” she said. “We talked for a while.”
Wall closed his eyes. She counted to ten mentally right along with him. Exactly at “ten” he opened them.
“When and where, specifically, did you last see Detective Schultz? And the car he was assigned?”
PJ tapped her pencil on the desk. “Want to tell me what this is about?”
“You first.”
PJ was cornered. “I went to his house a little after six. You suggested that someone spend the evening with him, so I volunteered myself.”
What PJ didn’t say was that as a psychologist and a friend—a very close friend—she had thought that she might be able to help Schultz begin to deal with his grief. That was the logical explanation. There was also the feeling that she was drawn to him.
“And?”
“I stopped after work for sandwiches. We ate in his kitchen. Then we went out.”
“Out?”
“Can’t you speak more than one word at a time?” PJ said, irritated. “We went to a bar. Schultz had… a couple of drinks, I think. I had orange juice. About ten o’clock, we went home.”
“What bar?”
Progress. Two words. “Brandy’s, on South Broadway.”
“I know the place. You were in the Pacer? Did you go into his house with him then?”
This is getting downright personal.
PJ clamped her lips around a remark that she would definitely regret later. She knew that feelings were running high after the murder of a
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