and crossed two streams, ever intent upon his mission.
The Voice had warned him that there might be a dog guarding the premises. If so, he would take care of the mutt as easily as he would kill his victim. The Reviver would have to be wary. He slipped his bowie knife from its leather sheath then held it in his mouth.
Through the thin veil of fog, he loped up a small rise to the far side of the pastureland and spied an aluminum gate. Too noisy to open or climb over. Again he stretched the wire between the fence posts and slipped noiselessly to the other side.
He paused.
Listened.
Stared into the darkness.
He sensed no one outside, heard only the sound of his own heartbeat and the soft sigh of the wind rustling the branches of a willow tree and causing an ancient windmill to creak as the wooden blades slowly turned.
The house was only thirty feet away.
The porch light was off, but there was no dark shape lying near the door, no sound of a dog padding in the darkness, no smell of canine feces or urine or hair.
Ever wary, his hand on the hilt of his knife, the Reviver walked noiselessly through the weeds then hurried across parallel ruts of a gravel and dirt drive. At the garage he paused, every muscle tense. Slowly he swept his gaze over the unlit floorboards and stairs of the back porch. Still no mutt was visible.
Good. He pulled on a pair of thin black gloves and stretched his fingers. Then the waiting was over.
On the balls of his feet, he silently crept up the stairs to the back door. Paused. Checked the windows, peering through the glass. The kitchen itself was dark, but enough light spilled into the room from the hall. The room was neat. Uncluttered. Except for the bottle of whiskey, uncapped and sitting on the counter. Good. Just as expected. The Reviver moved his gaze slowly over the rest of the neat expanse and located the tiny light glowing on an area that was obviously used for a desk. Plugged into an outlet and next to an open notebook that was either a calendar or day planner or the like was a cell-phone charger with the phone inserted, the tiny red light glowing like a beacon.
He moved to the door.
Above the thin doorjamb he found a hidden key.
Just as the Voice had told him.
Barely breathing, the Reviver inserted the key.
With only the tiniest click of metal against metal, the lock gave way and the door swung open on well-oiled hinges.
Perfect.
He pocketed the key and took his knife from his mouth, holding it ready. Barely breathing, he stepped over the threshold and into the dark kitchen.
He was inside.
Eve made the call.
Dressed in her cotton nightgown and robe, she stood in the kitchen, warming one hand on a cup of green tea and holding her cell phone to her ear with the other. She’d promised Anna Maria she’d phone, and even though it was closing in on eleven, she was going to make good.
“Hello?” Anna’s voice was clear and chipper. Of course. She was a night owl, always had been, and didn’t understand people who rose before dawn.
“Hey, it’s me. I made it back. Safe and sound.”
“I was beginning to wonder,” Anna said.
“Tell Kyle.”
“I will, when he gets back.”
“He’s not there?”
“Uh-uh. He just missed you this morning, ran into the house, took one call, and left not long after you did. Some emergency at work. A breakdown of some computer system he set up for a local bank. They suffered a major crash. Their entire system is down, and with all of the identity fraud and scams out there, the owner of the bank freaked. Insisted all of the computers in every branch have to be up and operational by the time the bank opens tomorrow, so Kyle’ll be pulling an all-nighter.”
“You’d think they’d have a backup system.”
“Probably do, but Kyle’s their guy.” She sounded totally disgusted with the situation.
“Bummer.”
“Don’t get me started.”
Eve didn’t dare. She knew the drill. As much as Anna professed to believe in wedded bliss, her own marriage was a train wreck; she was just too stubborn and too Catholic to do anything about it. “Listen, I’m about ready to call it a day, so I’ll talk to you later.”
“Have you called your father?”
“No,” Eve said quickly then bit her tongue. She and Terrence Renner hadn’t been on good terms for a long while. “I’ll call him in the morning.”
“Right after you get the puppy?”
“What? Oh.” Eve smiled at Anna’s clever way of calling her a liar. “No, right before.”
Anna laughed. “Good. I’ll talk to you in a couple of days. Bye.”
“Bye,” Eve said, but the connection was already severed. Anna had hung up.
Making a face, Eve considered dialing her father and letting him know she was in New Orleans then decided it could wait until morning. Even if he were still awake, Terrence would have already downed a couple of stiff drinks.
She’d prefer to talk to him when he was sober.
Adding a little hot water from the kettle to her cup, Eve sipped at her tea then stared some more at the newspaper articles still scattered over the scarred oak table.
You should go to the police.
She read the clippings over again, taking mental notes. Faith Chastain’s obituary, over twenty years old, was included, and within it were the names of the loved ones she’d left behind: her husband, Jacques, and two daughters, Zoey and Abigail. Abby Chastain. Why did that name ring a dim bell?
Who had done this? How? There was no evidence that her car had been broken into. No windows smashed, no locks pried or jimmied. It was almost as if someone had used her own key to get inside.
A duplicate?
Her insides turned to ice. If someone had somehow gotten hold of her key ring, then any of her keys could have been copied, including the keys to this house.
She heard a scrape.
The sound of a fingernail sliding against glass.
Her heart clutched before she realized that it was the sound of a branch against a window on the second floor. Still, she dropped her cup onto the counter, and tea slopped over the sides of the rim. She didn’t care. She ran up the stairs, stopping at the landing. Sure enough, the wind had picked up, rattling the limbs of the trees outside, causing a small branch to rasp against the glass. That’s what she’d heard. No one was trying to get in.
Forcing
