Blood Trail

looks like shredded wheat out there. How do you keep the garden watered? It must be almost a full-time job."

    "Not at all." He rested one foot up on the cement platform and leaned a forearm across his thigh. "I use an underground irrigation system, developed by the Israelis. I merely turn on the tap and the system does all the work. Just to be on the safe side, however, I've run a water line out into the garden with a hundred feet of hose, in case a specific plant needs a little attention."

    She waved a hand between the brown and the green. "I just can't get over the difference."

    "Well, sometimes even the Lord needs a little help, his wonders to perform. Have you been saved, Ms. Nelson?"

    The question came so unexpectedly, in such a rational tone, that it took Vicki a moment to realize what had been said and a moment beyond that to come up with what she hoped would be a definitive reply. "I'm an Anglican." She wasn't, really, but her mother was, sort of.

    "Ah." He nodded, stepping back off the platform. "Church of England." For just a second, caught between the sun and the concrete, the damp sole of his shoe left a print - concentric half circles of tread last seen pressed into pine gum in the crotch of a tree.

    Her expression carefully neutral over a sudden surge of adrenaline, Vicki put her own foot up on the platform and bent to tie her shoe. In the heat of the sun, the print dried quickly but it was a definite match.

    Unfortunately, so was the print she left behind.

    A quick look told her they were wearing the same brand of running shoe. A brand that seemed to cover the feet of half the civilized world.

    Shit. Shit. Shit! Good news and bad news. Or bad news and good news, she wasn't quite sure.
    Evidence no longer pointed directly to the feet of Carl Biehn but her suspect list, based on the sneaker print at least, had just grown by millions. There'd be small differences of course - size, cracks in the rubber, wear patterns - but the possibilities of an easy match had just evaporated.

    "Are you all right, Ms. Nelson? Perhaps you should sit down for a moment, out of the sun."

    "I'm fine." He was watching her with some concern so she pulled up a smile. "Thank you, Mr.
    Biehn."

    "Well, maybe we'd best see about getting you back where you belong. If I could offer you a lift somewhere. ..."

    "And if you can't, I most certainly will."

    Vicki turned. The man standing in the doorway was in his early thirties, of average height, average looks, and above average self-opinion. He leered genially down at her, his pose no doubt intended to show off his manly physique - which, she admitted, wasn't bad. If you like the squash and health club types. ... Which she didn't.

    Slipping on a pair of expensive sunglasses, he stepped out into the sunlight, hair gleaming like burnished gold.

    I bet he highlights it. A quick glance showed he wore blue leather deck shoes. Without socks.
    Vicki hated the look of shoes without socks. Although odds were good he owned a pair of running shoes, she somehow doubted he'd be willing to ruin his manicure by climbing a tree.
    Which was a pity as he seemed to be exactly the type of person she'd love to feed to the wer.
    Beside her, she heard Carl suppress a sigh.

    "Ms. Nelson, may I introduce you to my nephew, Mark Williams."

    The younger man grinned broadly at his uncle. "And here I thought your only hobbies were gardening and bird-watching and saving souls." Then he turned the force of his smile on Vicki.
    Some expensive dental work there, she thought, picking at a bit of dried pine gum on her T-shirt and trying not to scowl.

    "Ms. Nelson got lost in the conservation area," Carl explained tersely. "I was just about to drive her home."

    "Oh please, allow me." Mark's voice stopped just short of caressing and more than a little past what Vicki considered insulting. "If I know my uncle, once he gets a lovely woman alone in a car all he'll do is preach."

    "Please, don't put yourself out." Her tone made it more a command than a polite reply and Mark looked momentarily nonplussed. "If you wouldn't mind . . ." she continued, turning to Carl. Being preached at would be infinitely preferable to being with Mark. He reminded her of a pimp she'd once busted.

    "Not at all." Carl was doing an admirable job of keeping a straight face, but Vicki caught sight of the twinkle in his eye and a suspicious trembling at the ends of his mustache. He waved a hand toward the driveway and indicated Vicki