scanned the terrain. She had a rule: Listen to the whisper on the wind. Hear the still small voice that says, Watch out.
She cupped her hands in front of her mouth. “Chennault, be careful.”
He barreled onward, seemingly certain that he was still on the attacker’s trail—or maybe just out of control. He put a hand against a tree trunk to slow himself.
Behind him the attacker rose from a thicket. In his hand he had a rock the size of a softball. He whipped his arm overhead and smashed it against Chennault’s head.
Chennault staggered, crashed into another tree trunk, and toppled like an upended floor lamp into the ravine.
The wind snapped through Jo’s hair. She clutched the phone, horrified. “He attacked the man who was chasing him. Get the cops here. Hurry.”
“They’re coming, Doctor.”
The attacker stared into the blank space where Chennault had fallen. His shoulders heaved. The rock looked sharp and bloody.
“Get them to come faster.”
The attacker continued to stare into the ravine. Shit. How far had Chennault fallen? The attacker weighed the rock in his hand. Eyes downslope, he inched over the edge of the ravine. Dammit. Damn.
“A man’s down and the attacker’s moving on him again,” she said. “And I don’t have a weapon.”
Deep in the distance, a siren cried. Jo cupped her hands in front of her mouth and yelled down the ravine. “That’s the cops.”
The attacker turned. His dark eyes peered at her from beneath the balaclava.
Her voice sounded dry. She told the dispatcher, “He’s watching me.”
Fear whispered, Run. But if she fled, the attacker would have free range to finish off Chennault. She forced her legs not to bolt. The siren grew louder.
She gritted her teeth and shouted, “Hear that?”
For another moment the attacker stared at her. Then, without a sound, he turned and disappeared into the trees.
The siren grew shrill. A police cruiser heaved into view. Jo pointed at the trees and yelled, “Assailant ran that way.” Then she scurried down the slope to the edge of the ravine. A trail of broken vegetation delineated Chennault’s fall line.
She couldn’t see him. “Chennault?”
From the depths of the ravine, beneath moss and fallen logs, came moaning. She sidestepped down the slope, hanging onto branches and crawling green vines. The shadows deepened. Above, the siren cut off and car doors slammed.
An officer called, “Are you all right?”
“Man’s hurt. He needs rescue.”
The moan came again, like the lowing of an animal. She followed the sound and found him half-buried in creepers and mucky earth.
God, scalp wounds were bloody. If she hadn’t seen the rock smash against Chennault’s head, Jo would have thought he’d been shot.
She crouched at his side. “Hold still. The police are calling the paramedics.”
“Damn,” he moaned. “Bastard brained me, didn’t he?”
Wild vines had wrapped around him. Beneath the copious blood his face was white. He tried to sit up, and screamed. His left arm was fractured and his elbow dislocated.
Jo gently held him down. “Stay still.”
“Make a great postscript for the book,” he said, and passed out.
WHEN JO GOT HOME THE SUN WAS HIGH IN THE SKY. SHE PARKED the Tacoma beyond the park and hiked toward her house, feeling spooked.
Chennault had been evacuated by the paramedics to UCSF Medical Center. He couldn’t give the police much information about the attacker. Neither could she.
When her phone rang she grabbed it and peered at the display. A pang went through her, disappointment covering worry.
“So, have the police discovered how the guy got into Tasia’s house?” she said.
“The property manager opened the back door before you came,” said Amy Tang. “He snuck in while nobody was looking. Bigger question—who was he?”
“And what did he want?”
“Thief?”
“Ghoul? Somebody seeking relics to sell on eBay?”
The cool wind shook the Monterey pines in the park. A cable car clattered past, bulging with tourists. The gripman rang his bell.
“I have another question,” Jo said. “Will he be back?”
“Watch yourself.”
“You bet.”
She hung up but clutched the phone in her palm as she walked. Come on. Ring.
How could it be that modern life was saturated with communications devices, that the information age spewed gossip and barking commentary night and day, that the entire electromagnetic spectrum was alight with phone calls and texts and breaking news about celebrity boob jobs—but when she wanted news that the PJs of the 129th had safely touched down at Moffett Field, she was utterly in the dark?
She tucked the phone in her back pocket. A second later she pulled it out again and called Vienna Hicks. When she told her about being attacked by the intruder at Tasia’s home, Vienna said, “Holy crap, are you okay?”
“Aside from a rug burn on my face, I’m perfect. But Ace Chennault was taken away in an ambulance.”
“Poor bastard. The guy never did look like he could duck.”
Jo smiled. “Do you know anybody who might want to break into your sister’s house?”
She tossed it out like chum on choppy water, not really expecting an answer. She checked for traffic and jogged across the street toward her house.
“Maybe,” Vienna said.
Jo slowed. “Really?”
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Dr. Beckett. Can you meet me at Waymire and Fong this evening?”
“Certainly.”
“Bring your secret psychiatric decoder ring.”
“Want to clarify that?”
“Six o’clock. I’ll tell you when I see you.”
Jo saw the green VW Bug drive past
