St Kilda Consulting 01 - Always Time to Die

of adrenaline eased in his blood, letting him notice ordinary things once more—like the bitch-ache in his leg. He stood and went through the room’s few hiding places with ruthless efficiency, finding exactly what he’d expected. Nothing dangerous.
    It was ugly, though.
    Somebody had gutted a rat and put it on Carly’s pillow. The blood was fresh enough to shine. The rat was still warm.
    “Sweet,” he said under his breath. “Really sweet.”
    Before he could remove the rat, Carly was standing in the doorway, her eyes wide in her pale face. Freckles he hadn’t noticed before stood out on her nose.
    “You were supposed to stay put, remember?” he asked.
    She just stared at the mess on her pillow.
    He stepped between her and the bed. “Wait in the hall.”
    She blinked, then shook herself. “I’ll take care of it.”
    He moved as she did, keeping between her and the ugliness. “You didn’t do it, why should you clean it up?”
    “Neither did you. Why should you?”
    “I’m used to rats.”
    Slowly she focused on his eyes. “No one could get used to…that.”
    “You’d be surprised. Why don’t you check and see if anything of yours is missing.”
    It wasn’t a question.
    “You’re good at giving orders,” she said.
    “Too bad you’re not good at taking them.”
    She gave him a wavering smile, then let out a long breath. “If you really don’t mind handling that”—she gestured at the bed with her chin—“I’ll check my stuff.”
    “I was raised hunting. We cleaned and ate whatever we shot. I don’t mind dealing with this.”
    “Tell me you didn’t eat rats.”
    “I didn’t eat rats,” he said. Not as a kid, anyway. When he’d had advanced training in living off the land, rats were the least repellent thing he’d eaten. If it moves, eat it. If it doesn’t move, eat it before it moves.
    She headed for the old dark dresser that dominated one side of the room. Then she stopped, looking at the deep drawers almost warily.
    “You’re right,” he said. “There could be more.”
    “No, I’ll—”
    He brushed aside her protests, opened each drawer in turn, and patted through the silky stuff, the sweaters, and the jeans. If he enjoyed handling lace thongs more than denim, it didn’t show.
    “All clear,” he said.
    She started through the drawers herself, carefully not watching when he carried the pillow and rat into the hall. A door opened and shut, letting in a rush of cold air. She bit the inside of her cheek and told herself to suck it up; the rat had taken the hit, not her. Better to think about where Dan had learned to be so quiet on his feet, so quick. So dangerous.
    She shivered, hugged her computer close, and decided she should concentrate on finding out if something was missing.
    After a few minutes, the courtyard door opened again and Dan walked into the room. Cold air clung to him like perfume.
    “How does it look so far?” he asked.
    “Nothing missing. I have some expensive electronics—scanner, special cameras, color printer, and other stuff, and they’re still under the bed where I left them.”
    “So this was some sick bastard’s idea of a joke rather than a robbery.”
    “I guess.”
    “You want to call the sheriff?”
    Carly looked at Dan. “Would it do any good?”
    “It would establish a pattern if this, or something like it, happens again.”
    She hesitated. “It would also give the media something to howl about. That wouldn’t make Governor Quintrell happy.”
    “He’s a big boy. He’ll cope.”
    “If it happened to you, would you call the sheriff?” she asked.
    “No.”
    “Why?”
    “If it’s a prank, it’s not worth wasting the sheriff’s time. Law enforcement is spread too thin out here.”
    “Exactly.”
    “If it’s a threat,” Dan continued, “it will be made again in some other way no matter how many reports the sheriff files.”
    Her mouth twisted down. “Well, thanks, that sure does makes me feel better.”
    “I’m not trying to make you feel better.” His green eyes watched her intently. “Has anything like this happened to you before?”
    “No.”
    “No recently pissed-off boyfriends, jealous lovers, angry clients?”
    “No.”
    “Not even the guy you served with stay-away papers?”
    “Last I heard he was married and living in Texas.”
    “So you believe this has something to do with your work in Taos,” Dan said.
    “I don’t know what I believe.”
    “Then believe this. Whatever Miss Winifred is