Page 60 of Heart and Soul
“Okay, so…” I don’t know how to say this delicately. I’m sure he already knows, but I feel the need to vocalize it. “Matt, she’ll never…it’s impossible.”
“She won’t, I know it. Not if the thought comes from me. I told you, it’s getting more difficult for her to recognize my voice. She’ll think it’s just her own. She’ll push it away. But if it comes fromyou…”
I shudder. “Me?”
“Tell her I talked to you. Tell her she has to listen.” He pounds the table. “She has to do it.”
“No, I can’t do that.” Gathering the blanket, I leave the table and hurry for the stairs without looking back. “I’m sorry, okay? I just can’t.”
As I reach the top of the stairs, Jay’s cell phone alarm blares from the bedroom.
Witching hour.
The iron bars surrounding Elmwoodcemetery keep humans from sneaking in after dark, but they’re no obstacle for a fox—even a large fox like me. The overstuffed purse I have clenched between my sharp, pointed teeth, however, is too fat—won’t go through, whichever way I turn it. Deciding that pulling is better than pushing, I drop the purse, squeeze myself between the bars with a slight shimmy to get my hips through, then turn around and latch my teeth onto the purse strap. I jerk on it, twist it, thrash it side to side, growling for good measure, and the bag pops through.
Elmwood is black and white, like an old horror film. Black trees, white snow. Black sky, white moon. I’m a colorful intruder of autumn reds and oranges, my thick coat bouncing as I trot. There’s a winding road through the cemetery, but it’s out in the open, so I forge my own path among the gravestones and shrubbery, where dense trees give me cover from above. An attack from the sky is a fox’s constant dread—too many blind spots from above, and what’s worse, flying things can’t be heard. Not until it’s too late.
It’s easy to spot the mausoleums, rising tall and square against fields of white snow. I carefully inspect each one. Many have neoclassic elements, but none are a match for the business card. I’m halfway through the cemetery when I find one that seems promising. Marble columns, yeah, but no steps or dome—a tree squirrel!
The chubby rodent darts for the nearest tree. I chase after it with a jumping gallop. I swipe at its bushy tail as it scrabbles up the tree trunk and out of reach. Paranoid little twerp. I wasn’t going to eat him; just bat him around a bit.
Another movement catches the corner of my eye. An enormous black shape lumbering among the tree trunks on the other side of a stone bridge. When I look, nothing’s there. I stand completely still for a full minute, just watching and listening, but nothing’s there. A vague, human memory comes to my fox mind, of being inside Arael’s East Side demon lair and seeing shadow people in the corners of my eyes.
A shiver snaps me out of my thoughts. Lowering my head to the ground and perking my ears up straight, I slink across the bridge. The creek beneath it glides over smooth stones with hardly a whisper. A loud flapping sound makes me jump—a snowy owl fleeing the shadow under the bridge. It perches on a tree branch overlooking a courtyard surrounded by a gothic iron gate.
Wary of the staring owl and the eerie sound of wind causing the leafless tree branches to clatter like bones, I want to retreat. But beyond the gothic gates, built into the side of a rocky hill, is a mausoleum with marble steps leading up to four Roman pillars. Beneath its domed roof is an ornate mantle carved with words. I don’t read Latin, but I imagine it says something like,Villains only. Or how aboutOnly complete idiots would try to get inside this place at witching hour.
Either way, it’s a perfect match—this is my stop. Now for the worst part. I choose a spot behind the owl’s tree. Dropping the purse, I dig at the ground with my paws to clear the snow. Not that it will help. The ground itself is frozen solid, cold as ice. I step into the small clearing of pine needles and I shift from a fur-coated winter predator into a pink, mostly hairless winter wimp.
My sharp intake of breath scares away the owl. I can only hiss and make strange vowel sounds as I hop from foot to foot while trying to unzip the purse at the same time. I’m supposed to put the earbud in first, but screw that—I need socksnow, or my feet will stick to the ground.
I rummage and rummage. Where’s my damn socks? I dump out the purse and kick the pile to scatter my clothes. There they are. After pulling on one, then the other, relief is immediate. I push the hair out of my face, retrieve the earbud, and try to sound professional despite standing in the middle of a graveyard in nothing but tube socks. “I’m here. Enter from the south. Move toward dead center and look for a stone bridge.”
Brenner says, “Roger that. We’re on Lafayette.”
“Park on Laurel. You’ll see the truck there.”
Hillerman’s voice cuts in. “—coming down from the north side. Do not engage until I’m there.”
“Too late for Shayne and Brenner,” Russo jokes. “Congrats, by the way. Can I sing at the wedding?”
I try not to fall over as I pull jeans up one leg. “Only if you do the Pointer Sisters.”
“I love the Pointer Sisters.”
“So does Jay.”
“I do?”
“Not the singers, mind you. That’s what he calls my boobs.”
Russo gives a shout of laughter. “Wow. This I did not hear about.”
“It was one time,” Jay protests.
“So youdon’tlove the Pointer Sisters?” I ask.
“I didn’t say that.”
