“What…?”
A large shoe box sat on the gray deck and the contact with her sandal had knocked the lid askew. Chloe couldn’t see exactly what was inside, but what she could see chilled her blood.
Feathers spattered with crimson, and thin shattered bones were visible.
Chloe spun on her heel and ran back into the house, locking the door behind her. She grabbed the phone from its base and dialed Jake’s number.
“Jake? There’s something on my back deck. I—I think it’s dead.”
Fifteen minutes later, Jake pulled into Chloe’s driveway, loped up the sidewalk and knocked loudly on her door. It was opened by the rumpled, young off-duty cop with bleary eyes who’d spent the night outside her house.
“Hey, Jake.” He jerked his head toward the kitchen. “She’s in there.”
“What did she find?”
“A shoe box with pieces of a dead seagull inside. Looks like somebody blew it up, maybe with a big firecracker of some sort, then put it inside the box. Her name was written in big block letters on the lid. She didn’t touch it and neither did I. I called the PD. They’re sending out someone to collect the evidence and take a report.”
“Damn.” Jake strode quickly down the hall and into the kitchen. Chloe sat at the table, cradling a mug of coffee in her hands. She glanced over her shoulder, saw him and stood. Her face was pale, her green eyes dark and vulnerable.
He held open his arms and she walked into them, her hands clutching the back of his shirt.
“Hey, babe,” he murmured. “You okay?”
“No.” Her voice was muffled against his throat. “It was awful, Jake. Why would anyone do that to a bird?”
“I don’t know. Some people’s actions are beyond understanding.”
She nodded, her hair brushing his throat and chin. “Yes.” Her voice was steadier, stronger. She leaned back and looked up at him. “How long before you catch this person?”
“Maybe today.”
Her eyes widened with interest.
“I was up most of the night tracking down information on Kenny Dodd. He joined the Marines with a friend, Alan Granstrom. Granstrom’s currently living in Mason city, Oregon, the same town where he grew up. I’m driving down there this morning.”
“You think Alan Granstrom might have information about the person stalking us?”
“I think it could be Granstrom himself who’s following us. When Dodd was killed, Alan Granstrom was there and he blamed me for his death. He went crazy, even threw a few punches at me. I chalked it up to shock and grief under battle pressure and forgot about it. I never thought he’d be carrying a grudge after all this time.”
“But someone has, and it might be him.”
“It might be him,” Jake said. “In fact, I hope it is, because then we’ll have a name and a face for our stalker. Up until now, we’ve been looking for a phantom. If we’d been able to get fingerprints from the sedan, we could’ve included Granstrom or ruled him out because his prints are in the military database. But whoever our man is, he was smart enough to wipe the car clean.” Jake paused. “I have to check out Alan Granstrom in person.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Most of the day. It’s a three-to-four-hour drive, one way. And I have no idea how long it’ll take to find Granstrom and talk to him. I doubt I’ll be back in Seattle before tonight.”
“I’m going with you,” Chloe said decisively. “I’ll call my department head and ask if someone else can cover my two classes today.”
Jake thought swiftly, weighing the value of having her safely under his watchful eye versus the unknown situation waiting for him in Oregon. Having her near him, where he could make sure she was safe, won out. “All right.” He released her and looked at his watch. “It’s after nine. Make your call and get whatever you need.”
“Why isn’t Gray going with you?” Chloe asked, suddenly remembering the detective’s interest in their stalker.
“He has to testify in court today on another case.”
Within the hour, they were driving south on Interstate 5 toward Portland, Starbucks lattes in the cup holders on the console between them, the Dave Matthews Band growling out “Crash” on the car’s CD player.
“There’s the exit.” Chloe pointed at the highway sign with Mason City spelled out in big white letters against a forest-green background.
The town’s cluster of buildings was visible from the highway, and Jake slowed to a crawl as they drove through the business center. Shops and stores lined both sides of the wide street, and although small, the town appeared to be prosperous and well kept.
“Alan Granstrom’s address is 238 Tenth Street.” Jake noted the cross streets as they approached an intersection.
“We just passed Eighth,” Chloe said.
“So, do we turn right or left on Tenth?”
“I vote for left.”
Jake waited for an oncoming car to pass before he turned left. The Porsche’s engine purred as they moved down the street, which changed from a small-business area to a residential one.
Chloe peered out the open car window to read house numbers. “Six-forty, six-twenty, six hundred,” she mumbled to herself. “We’re going in the right direction.”
The tree-shaded boulevard drowsed in the early afternoon sunshine. Sprinklers arced sprays of water across green lawns and children played at a corner city park.
“There.” Chloe pointed to a tidy bungalow, set well back on a neat square of lawn with flower borders edging the walk.