Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

was soaked with blood. A lot of blood.
    My arms broke out in goose bumps, my breath was coming short and sharp, and I had to fight the urge to turn tail and run back up the hill. But I told myself that whatever had happened here had happened some time before—hours, perhaps. The danger was gone and my need to know was urgent. I swallowed my fear and straightened, looking around.
    Another ten feet off the trail, in the direction of the creek, I spotted scuff marks in the soil, more broken branches, and patches of disturbed and scattered leaf litter. Something glittered in the leaves and I picked it up: a man’s Rolex, solid and heavy, its face studded with small diamonds. There was a smear of blood across the crystal and the gold accordionwatchband was twisted and broken. I sucked in my breath. What had happened here? What had
happened
?
    And then I looked ahead. Beyond the point where I picked up the watch, I could see the unmistakable furrow created by something heavy—a body—dragged through a thick green patch of river ferns. I followed the trail of torn leaves and broken stems. Twenty yards on, a Nike running shoe, the lace still tied. It was soaked with blood. It had been shredded.
    Another twenty yards on, I found the man. He was buried under a pile of twigs and leaves and forest litter meticulously scraped over him, covering all of him but his feet. One foot wore a running shoe, the mate to the Nike I had found. The other foot… wasn’t there, just a gnawed, bloody stump.
    I fought with myself, my heart thumping, my mind racing, my hands sweaty. I didn’t want to look but I couldn’t leave this place without being sure. On my knees, I frantically scraped the leaves away from the dead man’s face—and then fought against the panic that rose inside me like a terrified creature, fighting to get out. I rocked back on my heels and heard my scream echoing through the trees.
    His face was gone, too.

Chapter Twelve

    Sheila hadn’t slept well. She wasn’t sure whether it was the investigation into Kirk’s death or the almost-quarrel with Blackie, or the absence of his large, warm body in their bed. She missed him. It wasn’t the first time they’d been apart since they married, but it was the first time she had
felt
apart from him, as if they were separated by more than just distance. Separated by what they had said to each other. Even worse, what they had not said. Or what she had not said: that their marriage had been a mistake. There had been other times in her life when love (or lust or whatever it was) hadn’t been enough to bridge the gap between what she wanted and what she needed, not just in her heart but in her head and in her work life. Would it be enough now, not just for her but for Blackie, too?
    So she’d slept badly, in her dreams turning over the events of the previous day as if they were pieces of a puzzle, trying and failing to fit them together into something recognizable. A dead man and a missing man, Larry Kirk and George Timms: two separate puzzles or one larger, interlocking puzzle? She and Bartlett: a good partnership or a bad mistake that she would live to regret? She and Blackie, growing closer or pulling apart, separated by wants and needs that the other couldn’tfulfill? In her dream, she had only a few hours to find the answers, solve the puzzles, or—
    Or what? That was a puzzle, too.
    She woke before the dream brought her any meaningful answers and lay, frustrated and wakeful, in the blackness. Rambo slept in his bed on the floor beside her, his breathing rhythmic and easy. After a while, she fell back asleep, lulled by the gentle sound as she was often lulled by Blackie’s breathing.
    She was up at four thirty and out for a longer-than-usual run through the dark, cool morning, she and the dog taking the street that led up the hill above her house, tackling the steep part first, then leveling off across the wooded ridge, coming downhill as she cooled off, four miles altogether. The asphalt pavement was still wet, although the drizzle had almost stopped. She loved running while the houses were still dark, the people asleep, just herself and Rambo, all alone, moving together through the silent, empty morning.
    Usually, the running silenced her busy thoughts and filled her with a flowing energy that was all muscle, all body, no mind. But this morning, she couldn’t stop thinking about Blackie, and worrying. He and McQuaid knew what they were doing, but travel in