The phone rang, and he answered it. By the time he was done taking down the information about a car that had been sitting in the community garden parking lot for the last six days, a car that was either filled with brown clothes or clown clothes—I couldn’t quite catch the details—the coffee had done its trick and I was deep into my report, making headway.
~~~
I PARKED below my house. It was evening, just a little after six, and already getting dark.
Even in the warm enclosure of my car, I could hear the ocean, could hear the rain on the roof, the wind smoothing the tough, twisted coastal pines.
The day had just never let up, and I was utterly beat. I’d pulled together my report on the explosion and all the people I’d talked to, then had followed up on Odin’s complaint that Zeus had purposely trashed his favorite chainsaw when he’d borrowed it. After that, it was six phone calls from Dan Perkin, who wanted to know when I was arresting Chris Lagon. He’d called three more times since then, but I’d let them all go to voice mail.
Jean stumbled in late to take over the switchboard from Roy—wouldn’t game all day, my ass—and Roy cut out early because he had grandchildren coming to visit. It had been nonstop fires to put out all day.
I had an interview to conduct in less than an hour. In a bar.
How had I let Myra talk me into that?
I think it was the promise of a decent meal I didn’t have to cook.
What I wanted to do was sleep for about a day. But I needed to shower, change. Maybe do something with my hair.
At least Thanatos hadn’t shown up yet. Maybe he would tomorrow. Or better yet, maybe he’d come to town tonight while Jean was on duty. Good. Let her handle our newest vacationing deity.
All I had to handle was one new hire. And since Myra and Jean had already picked him or her out, I could just eat my burger and fries and pull the friendly-but-stern boss act.
Piece of cake.
I picked up Thanatos’s contract and got out of the Jeep. My very steep concrete stairway built into the hill might as well have been carved into the side of Mt. Everest. I slogged up the stairs.
The problem with being tired and distracted was that I didn’t notice that something was wrong with my house, something was different, until I was on my front step under the tiny porch roof that sheltered the worst of the rain.
I pulled my gun, suddenly very, very awake and alert.
One will fallechoed through my head. I thought about calling my sisters for backup. But this was my home, my family home. There hadn’t ever been anything that had happened here that I couldn’t deal with.
Plus, I had a gun, a badge, and any number of monsters and gods at my call, if needed.
I opened the door—unlocked—and stepped into the dark living room.
No lights on in the house. No streetlight below on the little gravel cul-de-sac.
A few steps into the living room and I spotted the backpack thrown on the floor next to the couch.
Robber? Why would a robber leave a backpack in the living room?
Transient? All the way up at the top of a hill several streets away from the main roads? Not likely.
I made a quick search of the living room, office area, kitchen. The faint light from under my bedroom door caught my eye.
Whoever it was, they were casing my bedroom. And they were being quiet about it.
I took a quick breath, set myself, and opened the door with one hand, my gun steady.
“Don’t move,” I shouted, “Police.”
“Whoa, hold on, hold on!”
There was a man in my bed. For a wild, happy second, I thought it was Ryder. But that lasted only a second.
Because I knew who was under my sheets.
