Pride
Page 47
“I’m so sorry, Faythe….” he began, but I cut him off, tears standing in my eyes.
“He’s not dead, Michael. And I need your help to find him.”
“What can I do?” That was my big brother. Always ready for the bottom line. But this time his voice was pinched with concern, which warmed my heart just a little bit, and I forgave his lack of faith. I loved it that the rest of my family loved Marc as much as I did.
“Do we have anything on a stray named Peter Yarnell?” We kept track of as many cats in the free zone as we could, to make our job easier, and because Michael kept the records, he always had the most up-to-date information.
“Hang on and let me check my spreadsheet.” His footsteps echoed on the floor again, and another door creaked open. “Who is Peter Yarnell?”
“He’s the stray Kevin sent to Marc’s house this morning, to dispose of the bodies. Which we’d already done, of course. I’m hoping, since he’s obviously in on this, that he’ll know where Eckard took Marc.”
“Okay, just a minute.” Springs groaned softly as Michael settled into a chair, probably in front of the laptop he kept running all day, every day. “Um…yes. As of May of last year, Peter Yarnell was living in Gloster, Mississippi.” His fingers tapped rapidly over the keys, then he spoke again, before I could ask. “That’s about half an hour from Rosetta.”
“What’s the address?” I wrote on Marc’s notepad while Michael read information from his obsessively organized spreadsheet. “Do you have a phone number?”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t suggest warning him before you show up.”
I rolled my eyes. “Thanks, Michael. What would I ever do without the benefit of your wisdom?”
“You’re welcome,” he said in response to my sarcasm. Then he read me the number.
“Thank you. Hey, while I have you on the phone, how’s the hearing going?” I asked, taking another sip from my soda.
“It’s not looking good, Faythe.”
My heart pumped harder in sympathy for Manx. I’d really been hoping for some good news to balance out the most miserable thirty-six hours of my life. “Why not?”
“Because Manx claims she killed those toms in self-defense, but they’ve already gotten her to admit she was in no immediate danger at the time. And the council doesn’t recognize any kind of temporary insanity defense.”
Which was a real shame, because most of the councilmen had considered me crazy for most of my life.
After I spoke to Michael, I called my father and gave him another update while I finished blowing up the mattress. He gave us permission to go interrogate Peter Yarnell at our earliest convenience—the very words I’d been hoping to hear.
In the kitchen, I opened the oven and pulled out both trays of enchiladas, setting them on top of the burners. Then I grabbed a pile of paper plates from an upper cabinet and a handful of mismatched forks from the top drawer. “Lunch!” I yelled, pulling three more sodas from the fridge. Footsteps stomped toward me from all directions, and in seconds the three toms had converged around the stove, scooping sloppy servings onto flimsy paper plates.
“Eat quickly,” I ordered, pleased to hear my father’s no-nonsense tone coming from my own mouth. “We’re leaving for Gloster in ten minutes.”
I filled the guys in while they shoveled huge bites of chicken, cheese and tortilla into their mouths, and I picked at my plate, only actually eating when Ethan frowned at me or nodded at my food.
Then I put on my steel-toed boots and led the way to Parker’s car, a foam cup of coffee in one hand.
Twenty minutes later, we drove into downtown Gloster, past a row of quaint storefronts and several residents ambling down the sidewalks, presumably to or from work at one of the local businesses. After another mile and a couple of turns, Parker stopped at the first—and only—gas station we saw to ask for directions to Peter Yarnell’s street. We found it quickly after that, and slowly cruised past house after house in the calm, middle-class neighborhood, in search of the address I’d written down.
It turned out to be the last one on the block, before the street ended in a dead end and a rough circle of asphalt. Yarnell’s house blended perfectly with the rest of the neighborhood. Redbrick with black shutters. Tall windows; small, neat lawn. The two-car garage was closed, but parked in front of it was a conservative dark blue SUV.
Looks like Mr Yarnell’s home. He’d probably taken the day off from some white-collar pencil-pushing job to clean up Eckard’s mess. Too bad for him…
Parker turned around in the circle, then parked on the edge of it, facing the house. “What’s the plan?”
“I knock on the door and flirt my way inside. You guys stand out of his line of sight, then follow me in. And try not to look too thuggish. This kind of neighborhood’s probably full of bored stay-at-home moms just itching to press the panic button.”
“What if he knows who you are?” Parker asked, scanning the hushed street.
“Then we go in as quickly and quietly as possible.” Just because we didn’t see the neighbors didn’t mean they couldn’t see us.
“Who gets to do the honors?” Ethan asked, his usual smile dim beneath the weight of recent grim responsibility. He’d been picking up a lot of Marc’s former duties, including interrogation, and the strain was starting to show on him.
“He’s not dead, Michael. And I need your help to find him.”
“What can I do?” That was my big brother. Always ready for the bottom line. But this time his voice was pinched with concern, which warmed my heart just a little bit, and I forgave his lack of faith. I loved it that the rest of my family loved Marc as much as I did.
“Do we have anything on a stray named Peter Yarnell?” We kept track of as many cats in the free zone as we could, to make our job easier, and because Michael kept the records, he always had the most up-to-date information.
“Hang on and let me check my spreadsheet.” His footsteps echoed on the floor again, and another door creaked open. “Who is Peter Yarnell?”
“He’s the stray Kevin sent to Marc’s house this morning, to dispose of the bodies. Which we’d already done, of course. I’m hoping, since he’s obviously in on this, that he’ll know where Eckard took Marc.”
“Okay, just a minute.” Springs groaned softly as Michael settled into a chair, probably in front of the laptop he kept running all day, every day. “Um…yes. As of May of last year, Peter Yarnell was living in Gloster, Mississippi.” His fingers tapped rapidly over the keys, then he spoke again, before I could ask. “That’s about half an hour from Rosetta.”
“What’s the address?” I wrote on Marc’s notepad while Michael read information from his obsessively organized spreadsheet. “Do you have a phone number?”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t suggest warning him before you show up.”
I rolled my eyes. “Thanks, Michael. What would I ever do without the benefit of your wisdom?”
“You’re welcome,” he said in response to my sarcasm. Then he read me the number.
“Thank you. Hey, while I have you on the phone, how’s the hearing going?” I asked, taking another sip from my soda.
“It’s not looking good, Faythe.”
My heart pumped harder in sympathy for Manx. I’d really been hoping for some good news to balance out the most miserable thirty-six hours of my life. “Why not?”
“Because Manx claims she killed those toms in self-defense, but they’ve already gotten her to admit she was in no immediate danger at the time. And the council doesn’t recognize any kind of temporary insanity defense.”
Which was a real shame, because most of the councilmen had considered me crazy for most of my life.
After I spoke to Michael, I called my father and gave him another update while I finished blowing up the mattress. He gave us permission to go interrogate Peter Yarnell at our earliest convenience—the very words I’d been hoping to hear.
In the kitchen, I opened the oven and pulled out both trays of enchiladas, setting them on top of the burners. Then I grabbed a pile of paper plates from an upper cabinet and a handful of mismatched forks from the top drawer. “Lunch!” I yelled, pulling three more sodas from the fridge. Footsteps stomped toward me from all directions, and in seconds the three toms had converged around the stove, scooping sloppy servings onto flimsy paper plates.
“Eat quickly,” I ordered, pleased to hear my father’s no-nonsense tone coming from my own mouth. “We’re leaving for Gloster in ten minutes.”
I filled the guys in while they shoveled huge bites of chicken, cheese and tortilla into their mouths, and I picked at my plate, only actually eating when Ethan frowned at me or nodded at my food.
Then I put on my steel-toed boots and led the way to Parker’s car, a foam cup of coffee in one hand.
Twenty minutes later, we drove into downtown Gloster, past a row of quaint storefronts and several residents ambling down the sidewalks, presumably to or from work at one of the local businesses. After another mile and a couple of turns, Parker stopped at the first—and only—gas station we saw to ask for directions to Peter Yarnell’s street. We found it quickly after that, and slowly cruised past house after house in the calm, middle-class neighborhood, in search of the address I’d written down.
It turned out to be the last one on the block, before the street ended in a dead end and a rough circle of asphalt. Yarnell’s house blended perfectly with the rest of the neighborhood. Redbrick with black shutters. Tall windows; small, neat lawn. The two-car garage was closed, but parked in front of it was a conservative dark blue SUV.
Looks like Mr Yarnell’s home. He’d probably taken the day off from some white-collar pencil-pushing job to clean up Eckard’s mess. Too bad for him…
Parker turned around in the circle, then parked on the edge of it, facing the house. “What’s the plan?”
“I knock on the door and flirt my way inside. You guys stand out of his line of sight, then follow me in. And try not to look too thuggish. This kind of neighborhood’s probably full of bored stay-at-home moms just itching to press the panic button.”
“What if he knows who you are?” Parker asked, scanning the hushed street.
“Then we go in as quickly and quietly as possible.” Just because we didn’t see the neighbors didn’t mean they couldn’t see us.
“Who gets to do the honors?” Ethan asked, his usual smile dim beneath the weight of recent grim responsibility. He’d been picking up a lot of Marc’s former duties, including interrogation, and the strain was starting to show on him.
