Blood on the Street (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #4)

radio, and seeing only fifteen or twenty minutes had elapsed since she’d last looked. She listened to the creaking, settling noises of the house, straining to pick out sounds that didn’t belong. The blankets strangled her. She was freezing cold, then hot, throwing off the blanket. And all the time, the wuhumpmg sound reverberated through her, chilling her to the bone.
    She was a country girl, but never was easy with it. All kinds of horrible insects flew through the air under cover of darkness. She told herself, reasonably, it was probably a flying beetle … or a big, fat moth.
    At five-thirty, she called it quits and pulled on her leggings and sweater and went down to the kitchen. She needed coffee. Little men were laying carpet across her face, hammering their sharp little tacks around and behind her eyes. Her empty stomach sent up queasy signals. God, she was wasted. Oh boy, was she wasted. It had been years since she’d let go like that, and she fervently vowed that it would be years before she did it again.
    The coffee was probably loaded with caffeine, but at this point she didn’t care. In Smith’s cupboard she found a white porcelain mug and filled it with liquid darkness. Liquid darkness was what she’d felt she was in last night on the deck.
    Now at dawn, it all seemed foolish, the product of a drunken imagination. Feeling steadier with each sip, Wetzon slid open the door she’d warred with and stepped out on the deck. The temperature had dipped during the night, and it was still quite cold, but dawn was tinting the sky over the Sound a pastelly pink and yellow, and a flight of birds in a V formation swooped down into the water cawing and jabbering.
    She was avoiding what she had to do. Forcing herself, she turned and looked at the chaise, where she’d been seated the night before. A fine, sheer layer of cold dew made the rubberized cloth shiny, but it was otherwise intact. What she was hoping not to see was very much in evidence behind the chaise. A splintered shingle with a hole. She touched it, then pulled her hand away.
    It could have been an accident, of course. Hunters. Kids drunk on a Saturday night. Who was she kidding? In her uneasy gut, she knew otherwise. For some reason Brian’s murderer, Tabitha’s murderer, was coming after her. He—or she—no longer had the handgun. Still, there was another handgun missing, and the rifle. She got back in the house fast and topped off her mug of coffee, found the le Carre book, and got into bed. Somewhere between five-thirty and nine, she slept deeply, waking only when she heard the sound of the shower and voices. She rolled over on her back.
    Mark’s room was awash in trophies, tennis and track. A Groton banner was pinned to the wall over the bed. Over the desk was a large black-and-white grainy photograph of Smith in an Aran turtleneck on the brink of some sort of prank—from the look in her eye, which Mark had caught brilliantly. There were snapshots of Mark and his friends on the walls. Mark had become a tall, slim, attractive young man. Tennis rackets and cans of balls were piled in a corner of the room, and the bookshelves contained schoolbooks and, surprisingly, plays and theater books.
    Wetzon knew Mark was applying to colleges now. She found it hard to believe he was the same soft, sensitive little boy who’d made breakfast daily for his mother five years ago. It had been Jake Donahue, one of the sleaziest of Smith’s old boyfriends, who’d insisted that Mark be sent away to school, and it may have been the only decent thing Donahue had ever done. And it was certainly not intentional. Jake had just wanted to get rid of Mark so that he could have Smith’s undivided attention. And he’d succeeded until last year, when Smith had met Twoey.
    Twoey was a sweetheart, Wetzon thought. Too bad. His days were probably numbered. She took a shower in Mark’s bathroom and packed yesterday’s underwear in her carryall with the book. The kitchen below was giving off waves of fried eggs and butter; feeling better, she followed her nose.
    Smith was putting sticky buns in the microwave when she looked up and saw Wetzon crooking her finger at her. Wetzon put her finger to her lips and then crooked it again.
    Smith closed the oven door and followed Wetzon to the deck. “What’s—”
    “Don’t talk, just look.” Wetzon pointed to the damaged shingle. Her heart was beating so fast it threatened to smother her.
    “Did you and Twoey do that in