I called Matt on the drive back home. “Sheriff’s Department,” a lady answered bluntly.
“Can I speak to Matt, please?” I wiped a bead of sweat off my forehead.
“Who may I say is calling?”
“Amy Williams.”
“The new girl.” Still blunt. “What’s the call in relation to, Amy?”
“A dead animal.”
“A dead animal. Not exactly unheard of in Church Heights. You’re not in the city now,” the receiver said.
I raised my brows. I hadn’t even met her, and I decided I didn’t like her. “How about ones with their throats slashed? Is that commonplace too?”
Silence greeted me for a few seconds. “Just a minute.”
“Amy, what can I do for you?” Matt’s voice was pleasant enough. I heard what sounded like a pen tapping on a desk.
“I went for a run in Rutherford’s Estate.” The pen stopped tapping, but he didn’t say anything, so I went on. “There was some kind of weird ritual thing, and a kitten had its throat slashed.” I swallowed back the sick taste in my throat. I wondered how twisted your mind must be to slash the throat ofa tiny, helpless animal. I knew from my parents that murderers often started their killing sprees with animals.
He swore under his breath. “Did you see anyone?”
“No, it wasn’t fresh, maybe a few days old. Hard to tell with the heat, but it smelled bad.” I recalled the scene, replaying it in my head like I was back there, and I shuddered. There had been boot prints in the soil; I could see them clear as day in my mind. Not sneakers—the ridges were too heavy, too thick, and too deep. More like hiking boots. And no doubt there’d be fingerprints on the cans. “I walked around the edge, but there are clear boot prints on the ground. Discarded trash too. I can go back up with you if you want me to show you where it is?”
“No need.” He sighed. “I know who it’d be.”
I wanted to know who it was. For some reason I thought of the goth-looking kids from the bookstore. Then I immediately squashed that thought—just because they dressed differently and stole didn’t make them weird sacrificial killers.
“Don’t run up there again, Amy. I told you once before—it’s not safe.” Now he sounded brisk.
I ignored the comment. “Are you going to do anything about the kitten?”
“Yes, I’ll talk to them.”
“Talk? That’s it? They killed a kitten for god’s sake, surely you can arrest them on animal cruelty charges.”
“I will deal with it, Amy. You have my word.” He went back to his usual calm, and the pen started tapping anew.
I blew out a heavy breath. “Fine, but if I find out who it is and you don’t deal with it, I will.” And I meant it.
There was a long pause. “I realize you’re upset, Amy, but how about you leave the police work to the police?”
I stabbed the end-call button.
Chapter 20
Fight or Flee
The bar was a busy hive of writhing limbs, relentless chatter, and robust laughter. I threw my bag in the back room and got straight into serving. Grace popped her head up and flashed a quick smile in my direction and then went straight back to work. About an hour into my shift, I glanced up to see a group of five heavily muscled, tattooed men walk in. I frowned. It wasn’t their appearance that was the cause of my displeasure. I’d served many customers in Ohio who looked every bit as rough as these men but were nice people. It was the energy that preceded them—it floated across the room and landed like a bad smell.
I looked over at Grace, but if she noticed their arrival, she didn’t seem concerned. She was busy pouring drinks and flirting with a tall blond at the other end of the bar. The men headed straight toward me.
“Five beers, love,” one said. His voice was deep and ragged, like a guy who’d inhaled too many cigarettes. His head was shaved, and he had a large scar crossing the right side of his cheek. The stench of beer and sweat rolled up my nose, thick enough to smother a raccoon.
“No problem.”
He leaned massive forearms on the countertop; on his left arm there was a tattoo of a Nazi symbol. Disgust flared dark wings across my chest. Half-cocked thin lips revealed tar-stained teeth. His eyes traveled down my body and then shifted to my face, filling with an arrogant, sickening lasciviousness.
