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Authors: James Patterson
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food onto paper plates.
Suddenly, an incredible number of cats appeared. They began to materialize from under cars, from behind packing crates at
the rear of the supermarket, from the tall grass. Tails up, they came scampering, talking back to her.
“Party time. Good kitties,” she said. Not kiddies—
kitties,
Kit realized.
He held the binoculars to his eyes, transfixed by a large herd of feral felines: coal-black ones, orange ones, spotted ones,
striped ones, one three-legged, and one trailing kitten collected at Frannie’s soup kitchen. She was good with them. She seemed
kind of sweet and nice, actually. She
acted
exactly the way she looked: like a decent enough person.
“C’mon, Momma Cat,” he heard her call. She was beaming—a big, generous, good-hearted smile. “Whitey. Big Boy. Freakazoid.
Howza Susie Q?”
Yes, this Frannie O’Neill was one to watch, all right. She was the key to everything, no doubt.
Chapter 22
K IT FINALLY STARTED TO LAUGH, and it was probably the first time he had since coming to Colorado. He had always been pretty
good at laughing at his own expense. For a moment, he sat watching the rubbing, chatting, chowing down. Just watching “the
party.”
No, he was watching Frannie O’Neill. He was admiring her sweet way with animals, listening to the music of her voice, remembering
her perfect-enough-for-him body. Jesus—he had a little schoolboy crush on her, didn’t he? No doubt about it. Perfectly harmless,
but this wasn’t the time or place for it.
He purposely turned away and hurried back through the woods. It was an ideal time to check out her house, to check her out.
He was thinking and acting like a field agent again. And violating her trust was also a good way to break away from the danger
of a schoolboy crush on her.
She didn’t lock her doors, of course. So he looked through her room at the Inn-Patient, and he was good at it. She’d never
know anyone had been in here. Still, he felt guilty about intruding in her house. Maybe she hadn’t known a thing about what
her husband had been involved in. But maybe she had. And maybe she was involved, too. He didn’t know enough about Frannie
O’Neill to rule her out. She might surprise him and be extremely dangerous.
He made a few notes along the way. He was going strictly by the book, even though he no longer had to.
Simple clothes and needs. Jeans, cowboy boots, pocket T-shirts. No evidence of much money spent on herself.
Nice taste, though. Simple, attractive, classic—about what he would have expected.
A small collection of birdhouses. Why birdhouses? Wedding photos, one of her and David kissing under a blue umbrella. A Mac
Performa 575. An old model, and not expensive.
Here and there an extravagant touch: a formal black silk chiffon dress; a diamond and sapphire cocktail ring; a half ounce
of Eau d’Hermès.
He thought that he’d kind of like to see her in the black chiffon dress, and smell her perfume.
No papers—scientific or otherwise. Nothing of David’s work. That was a little odd. Where were David’s papers? She wouldn’t
throw them out. Or would she?
Books—a few of them spread open around the bedroom
:If Wishes Were Horses: The Education of a Veterinarian; Veterinary Epidemiology; Into Thin Air; In Search of Human Beginnings;
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.
Nothing incriminating there, quite the opposite.
A touching keepsake. A model boat her husband had constructed, signed, and dated. “David’s ship—March 22, 1969.”
A child’s drawing of a girl and a happy dog stuck up on the fridge: “To Dr. Frannie. We love you. Your friends, Emily and
Buster.”
He finally stuck his notebook into his back pocket, took one last look around, then got out of there before Frannie O’Neill
returned. In a way, the search had turned out badly for him. He didn’t believe she was involved.
Anyway, he felt he was getting closer to something. He knew it in his
Suddenly, an incredible number of cats appeared. They began to materialize from under cars, from behind packing crates at
the rear of the supermarket, from the tall grass. Tails up, they came scampering, talking back to her.
“Party time. Good kitties,” she said. Not kiddies—
kitties,
Kit realized.
He held the binoculars to his eyes, transfixed by a large herd of feral felines: coal-black ones, orange ones, spotted ones,
striped ones, one three-legged, and one trailing kitten collected at Frannie’s soup kitchen. She was good with them. She seemed
kind of sweet and nice, actually. She
acted
exactly the way she looked: like a decent enough person.
“C’mon, Momma Cat,” he heard her call. She was beaming—a big, generous, good-hearted smile. “Whitey. Big Boy. Freakazoid.
Howza Susie Q?”
Yes, this Frannie O’Neill was one to watch, all right. She was the key to everything, no doubt.
Chapter 22
K IT FINALLY STARTED TO LAUGH, and it was probably the first time he had since coming to Colorado. He had always been pretty
good at laughing at his own expense. For a moment, he sat watching the rubbing, chatting, chowing down. Just watching “the
party.”
No, he was watching Frannie O’Neill. He was admiring her sweet way with animals, listening to the music of her voice, remembering
her perfect-enough-for-him body. Jesus—he had a little schoolboy crush on her, didn’t he? No doubt about it. Perfectly harmless,
but this wasn’t the time or place for it.
He purposely turned away and hurried back through the woods. It was an ideal time to check out her house, to check her out.
He was thinking and acting like a field agent again. And violating her trust was also a good way to break away from the danger
of a schoolboy crush on her.
She didn’t lock her doors, of course. So he looked through her room at the Inn-Patient, and he was good at it. She’d never
know anyone had been in here. Still, he felt guilty about intruding in her house. Maybe she hadn’t known a thing about what
her husband had been involved in. But maybe she had. And maybe she was involved, too. He didn’t know enough about Frannie
O’Neill to rule her out. She might surprise him and be extremely dangerous.
He made a few notes along the way. He was going strictly by the book, even though he no longer had to.
Simple clothes and needs. Jeans, cowboy boots, pocket T-shirts. No evidence of much money spent on herself.
Nice taste, though. Simple, attractive, classic—about what he would have expected.
A small collection of birdhouses. Why birdhouses? Wedding photos, one of her and David kissing under a blue umbrella. A Mac
Performa 575. An old model, and not expensive.
Here and there an extravagant touch: a formal black silk chiffon dress; a diamond and sapphire cocktail ring; a half ounce
of Eau d’Hermès.
He thought that he’d kind of like to see her in the black chiffon dress, and smell her perfume.
No papers—scientific or otherwise. Nothing of David’s work. That was a little odd. Where were David’s papers? She wouldn’t
throw them out. Or would she?
Books—a few of them spread open around the bedroom
:If Wishes Were Horses: The Education of a Veterinarian; Veterinary Epidemiology; Into Thin Air; In Search of Human Beginnings;
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.
Nothing incriminating there, quite the opposite.
A touching keepsake. A model boat her husband had constructed, signed, and dated. “David’s ship—March 22, 1969.”
A child’s drawing of a girl and a happy dog stuck up on the fridge: “To Dr. Frannie. We love you. Your friends, Emily and
Buster.”
He finally stuck his notebook into his back pocket, took one last look around, then got out of there before Frannie O’Neill
returned. In a way, the search had turned out badly for him. He didn’t believe she was involved.
Anyway, he felt he was getting closer to something. He knew it in his
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