Read Online Drummer In the Dark by T. Davis Bunn - Free Book Online Page A

a time warp of Florida oaks and two-story wraparound verandas and squeaky sash windows. Her particular treetop haven was a former servant’s apartment set above a derelict shed. The main house was a renovator’s dream—three floors of Victorian peaks, rotting porches, and peeling paint. The owner was Millicent Kirby, a widow who probably belonged in a padded cell. But the old woman was as attached to the house and the neighborhood as Jackie, and had a terror of being sent off somewhere to rot away alone. Jackie pretended the only reason she did Millicent’s shopping and arranged for gardeners and an occasional maid was because she didn’t want new owners to cast her adrift as well.
    The muscles of her upper body quivered with a satiated hunger as she unstrapped her board from the roof of her car. Her legs scarcely held her aloft as she carried her gear into the shed. The surrounding trees bade a rustling farewell both to the departing day and storm. The nightly chorus of owls and cicadas sang an invitation to stick with the tried and true, the safe, the easy.
    Then she noticed the figure standing by the big house’s back window.
    Jackie had never seen Millicent remain in view so long. Even the monthly housekeeper claimed to see only a flitting wild-haired figure who danced from room to room, always just out of sight. Jackie studied the motionless figure holding up the curtain so that her hyperthin frame was visible. Jackie pointed a silent question up the stairs and was granted a single nod in response.
    She hefted a serrated repair knife from her tackle box, then took the outside stairs as quietly as she could. The first sight of her door hanging drunkenly on one hinge pushed a soft groan from her gut. Jackie turned back to Millicent and shouted, “Call the police!”
    The woman did not move. Jackie grimaced with understanding. There was nothing the police could do if the robbers were gone, which they had to be if Millicent was still there and letting her proceed. And the old lady wanted no truck with anyone who might threaten her isolation. Police meant social services, and they would only lead to windowless confines and nurses with needles. Jackie gripped her knife tighter and entered the maelstrom.
    Her place was thoroughly trashed. All the cupboards were emptied, all the remnants of her life stirred into a bitter caldron. She stepped carefully, moaning from the pain of recognizing small items, things prized by her alone. It was only when she realized much of the plastic crunching underfoot formerly belonged to her brother’s computer that she came close to breaking down. All her files were gone.
    She walked downstairs, crossed the lawn, and was met by Millicent opening the back door. The gray head remained pointed determinedly downward. In all the time Jackie had lived there, Millicent had never once met her eyes. Through rage bordering on anguish, Jackie asked as gently as she could, “Did you see them?”
    “Heard them first. Shouting. First inside, then when they left. Big men. Angry.”
    “How many?”
    “Angry men.” Millicent’s eyes tracked up and to the side, then down and away, searching for safety in a world far more insane than she would ever be. “Two first. Then another. When the third man went inside the shouting started. Bad words.”
    “Would you recognize them again if you saw them?”
    “Too many words for three men. But just three. First two gray men. Then one blue. I counted because I knew you’d ask.”
    Jackie sighed and patted the woman’s bony shoulder. Up close Millicent smelled like her house, mildewed and ancient. “Thank you. You did just fine.”
    Jackie crossed the unkempt lawn, climbed the stairs, and reentered her former haven. She spent hours searching for what had not been trashed. Nothing seemed to have been taken—no surprise there, as there was little of any real value. The intruders seemed to have been intent not upon robbery so much as mayhem. Jackie wept tears