Crow-Black the Night by Benjamin Foster

Author:Benjamin Foster
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BookBaby
Published: 2023-08-30T20:36:10+00:00

She’d just taken a spoon from the drawer when Tommy stomped through the back entrance, shaking rain from his hair.

“Hey, guess what I just saw?” he said. “A giant, that’s what!”

She slipped the spoon in her back pocket. “Quiet dude with Manson eyes?”

“That’s him!”

“He’s the caretaker.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “A tall tale is what he is. Guy ought to be riding a big blue ox.”

She realized she hadn’t brought up her suspicions about Hamish to Charisse. She could go back to the studio and tell her right now. But what would Charisse do about it? Risk a bear attack while trying to locate Hamish’s cabin? And anyway, Rudder was surely hiding out in the garage, just like Charisse suspected, probably fast asleep after having smoked too much weed. Maybe not the flashiest theory, but far more feasible than the idea that she was tied up in Hamish’s cabin or lying in pieces on his floor. She had to stop letting her mind run wild. In fact, her mind running wild was the source of all her problems right now. She needed to quiet it.

“You okay?” asked Tommy. “You look peaked.”

“Just heading up for a nap.”

“Night-night.” He grabbed his copy of Some Buried Caesar and took a seat at the dining room table.

She opened the cabinet under the sink. From where she was crouched, she could see Tommy reading in the dining room; if he looked up from the book, he’d have a clear view of her. She located the bleach and checked again to make sure she he wasn’t watching, but Nero Wolfe had his undivided attention. She grabbed the bottle and hurried up the back stairs.

Ernst’s door was still open. The syringe and lighter were where they’d fallen next to the singed bottle cap he’d used to cook the dope. She groped under the bed until her fingers brushed the familiar feel of wax paper.

On the way back to her room, she stopped at Charisse’s doorway. The resistance band was hanging from the exercise bench. She grabbed it and headed to the master bath, pushing down her mounting excitement to focus on the job. After cleaning the needle and syringe, she set them on a hand towel. Next to it lay the baggie, The Grand Illusion stamped on the front in red ink. Under the words was a line-drawn woman’s face, a crude caricature of the Styx album of the same name. She took the spoon from her pocket and opened the baggie.

This is a bad idea, she thought. But that had never stopped her before.

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