Page 18 of Sharp Force (Kay Scarpetta #29)

He doesn’t answer immediately, and I crouch in front of the fireplace, the bricks bordered in blue-and-white Delft tiles the sea captain imported from the Netherlands.

Drawing open the metal mesh curtain, I make sure the flue isn’t closed.

I grab a section of the Washington Post from the sweetgrass basket next to the low hearth.

Merlin is watching my every move, his tail twitching as another message lands on my phone.

Potomac Yard. Benton writes back that he’s three miles away. Slow but moving at least. Maybe 30 mins.

Be careful when you get here, I remind him.

Have my friend with me. He means his gun.

Park near front door.

Can’t, he answers.

Benton needs to recharge his electric SUV, and I don’t like the idea of him leaving it halfway down the driveway in the carriage house.

Black bears, bobcats, coyotes in this part of the world aren’t known for attacking people.

But that doesn’t mean they won’t, depending on the circumstances.

They have before. For sure, they’ll go after pets.

But I’m more concerned about a predator of a different variety as I think of the red orbs on the driveway.

I don’t believe it was animal eyes, and I continue to sense a sinister presence.

At moments the creaking of the house sounds like whispering.

I hear creepy music that turns into the eolian strains of the wind.

Opening my bedside drawer, I retrieve my Glock. Removing the trigger lock, I rack back the slide, chambering a round. Setting the 9mm pistol on top of the nightstand within easy reach, I try Lucy’s cell phone and she doesn’t answer.

I’m texting her about the strange red lights, the growling and screaming, when Merlin hisses and sallies out of the bedroom.

“Well, you can’t go very far without your collar,” I call after him, my nerves humming.

Arranging split logs on the fireplace grate, I keep glancing at the security monitor across from the bed.

My attention returns to the shaded windows as I envision the ghostly hologram that levitated into Dana Diletti’s house.

I expect it to happen here any second while anticipating how I might handle such a ghastly visitation.

I tell myself not to allow my imagination to get the best of me. But the sensation persists while I crunch up sheets of newspaper, stuffing them under slender strips of fatwood, my hands sooty from newsprint. I pick up the electric match, pressing the trigger.

Flames shoot up, licking around logs, smoke curling, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.

Getting up from the hearth, I step inside the bathroom to rinse my hands.

From there I head to the nearest window, the wind making its baleful music.

Pushing open an edge of the shade, I peer out at darkness, snowflakes dancing madly.

Lightning flickers, and I can see the boxy shape of the greenhouse in the garden, the UV lamp inside a pale purple smudge. If a large animal were prowling around, motion sensor lights would turn on, and they haven’t. Not noticing anything out of the ordinary, I step away from the window.

Burning logs snap and crackle, the smell of woodsmoke heavenly. I pad barefoot to the tall cabinet that belonged to Benton’s great-grandfather, an industrialist friendly with the Carnegies and Vanderbilts. I open the flame mahogany doors, the bottles of liquor and tumblers neatly lined up.

Pouring a Macallan Scotch aged fifteen years in sherry casks, I set my drink on the nightstand as Lucy tries to FaceTime. I accept her call, my phone’s display filling with an image of her in a gray sweatsuit.

She’s sitting on the bed in the FBI Academy dorm room where she’s staying the night. Her keenly pretty face is somber, and she looks frustrated as she pushes back her short hair, the overhead lights catching the rose-gold tints.

“I’ve checked the security system,” she says. “What you saw isn’t the eyes of a deer or any other large animal. Otherwise, motion, thermal imaging and other sensors would have detected it.”

“Possibly it was the hologram?” I reluctantly suggest. “In fact, what else could it have been?”

“Consistent with it.”

“Should I be worried someone’s on the property right now, Lucy?”

“No one is, Aunt Kay.”

“We’re sure?”

“An intruder would be caught on multiple sensors and cameras. Janet would know it and so would I,” Lucy says.

“Frankly, I’m worried about the hologram suddenly floating through a window like Dana Diletti just experienced.”

“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen. But no one is on the property,” Lucy promises. “I don’t blame you for feeling on edge. I can be home in an hour.”

“Benton will be here soon.” I don’t want her fretting about me or doing anything reckless.

“I think I should come.” Her green eyes look at me.

“Please stay put. The roads aren’t safe.”

“Most likely the Slasher is spying and harassing, possibly even you since you’ve been on the news all day talking about him.”

“Yes, we can thank Dana Diletti for that. I’ve given her one damn interview about these cases, and she plays it repeatedly as if to give the impression I talk to her all the time.”

“The killer knows we can’t do anything about his ghostly projections,” Lucy says heatedly. “You can’t catch or shoot a hologram. And we can’t trace it either.”

“Implying that the spectrum analyzers aren’t picking up any unusual signals on our property,” I assume.

“Not so far. But like I said, we can’t trace the Slasher’s holograms. We can’t detect anything is there unless we see it on camera or with our own two eyes.” Anger has crept into her tone.

When Lucy feels outsmarted, she takes it personally.

“It’s a most unpleasant thought that the hologram could be hovering nearby, and we don’t know.” My attention is riveted to the shaded windows.

“The good news is if the Slasher decides to show up in person, we’ll know it instantly,” Lucy threatens. “It’s not possible for him to defeat our entire security system since not all of it is wireless. I assume you’ve got your Glock handy, Aunt Kay?”

“I’m all set. And hopefully, you can drop by tomorrow to exchange gifts and maybe have lunch.” I switch to a happier subject.

“I’ll be there,” she says. “Afterward I’ll drive you and Benton to the airport.”

“Much better than Uber.” I tell her Merry Christmas and that I miss her.

Settling on top of the bed, I take a sip of Scotch, the sherry patina waking up my tastebuds, reminding me I’m famished. I open my briefcase, pulling out Rowdy O’Leary’s medical records, police reports and multiple news stories copied off the internet.

Stacking the paperwork next to me, I cover my legs with the duvet, firelight wavering, wood snapping and popping. I begin reading about the hit-and-run six years ago on December 30, some four miles from where the O’Learys lived at the time and still do.

The first officer to arrive at the scene reported that Rowdy was struck at approximately ten p.m., a light rain falling, the night misty and dark. A motorist noticed a body on the roadside and stopped to help, calling for an ambulance. There were no witnesses who might have seen what happened.

The investigation was turned over to the Virginia State Police. When Trooper Trad Whalen interviewed Reba O’Leary the next day, she said that Rowdy often jogged late at night. Under a lot of stress at work, he was anxious and suffering from insomnia.

“The software designing business is cutthroat competitive,” I read in the transcript of Reba’s recorded interview. “He’d been complaining that he felt ripped off and even spied on. He was always saying that you can’t trust people.”

“Why would anyone spy on your husband, ma’am?” Whalen asked. “Related to his work, I’m assuming?”

“A lot of intellectual theft goes on in the tech world, and Rowdy’s a genius, people always after his ideas. And some of them have been stolen for sure. But he also can be paranoid,” Reba explained. “Thinking someone’s out to get him when no one is. He’s always been like that.”

“Is it possible someone was out to get him, ma’am?”

“I suppose anything’s possible,” she answered.

“I’m wondering what your husband was so afraid of,” Whalen said to her. “Did he have any reason to be afraid of you?”

“Goodness, no.”

“Have you two been getting along, Reba? Any relationship problems?”

“Who doesn’t have those?”

“Reba, what kind of car do you drive?” Whalen then asked her.

“A two-thousand-eighteen Jeep Cherokee. Silver.” She recited the plate number.

“Where were you when your husband went out jogging, ma’am?”

“Home with our two boys. You don’t think I had…?” She didn’t finish the sentence.