High Country- Pigeon 12 by Nevada Barr Page B
Authors: Nevada Barr
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Mystery, Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths
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from an inner-city high school. Having kicked off her shoes, she rubbed her feet. The absurd but accurate clich‚ she presented made her laugh. Why eight hours waiting tables in a gorgeously appointed temperature-controlled restaurant should leave her more tired and footsore than the same amount of time crossing harsh terrain in heavy boots was a mystery.
"You survived."
Scott was leaning in the doorframe, his muscled arms crossed on his chest. The scald on his forearm had blistered. Anna suffered annoyance instead of gratitude. Being rescued was a burden she seldom carried gracefully.
Burned, aproned and spattered with food, Scott Wooldrich was still a good-looking man. Another stab, this time of guilt, stirred Anna's innards. A soon-to-be-married woman, a woman hurtling toward the half-century mark with blinding speed, should surely be past the dangerously addictive nonsense attendant on cute boys.
"I survived," she said for lack of anything witty or erudite.
"Put on your coat and let's go get that drink. How about our sister lodge, just for a change of scenery? A little slumming is good for the soul." Anna slipped her shoes back on, then stood to open her locker as he asked: "Shall we walk or drive?"
Even after an eight-hour shift on concrete floors, Anna would have chosen to walk. The air, the night, the unfettered movement were more refreshing than sleep. Tonight for some reason a vision of the woman stabbed thirty-seven times while in the stony embrace of the great boulders flashed to the front of her mind.
"Ride," she said. "My feet have had it for one day."
She pulled her jacket from the locker and swung it around to put it on. The sleeve slapped the metal of the door and thunked.
Thunked .
It was a down jacket with knit cuffs. There was no thunk about it. Anna caught up the sleeve and looked inside. A hair below cuff-line she could see a white plastic disk the size of a dime.
"What the . . ."
"A problem?" Scott came close, looking over her shoulder.
"There's something. . ." Anna held open the sleeve and peered in, remembering the silly childhood joke of holding one's fist hidden in a sleeve and saying: "Want to see stars? Look up my telescope."
"Jesus."
"What?" Scott demanded.
"Got a handkerchief?"
Scott gave her a blue cowboy bandanna. Using the handkerchief to protect any fingerprints, she reached carefully into the sleeve and pinched the barrel of a hypodermic syringe. The plunger-the end of it being the dime-sized disk she'd seen-was duct-taped firmly to the inside of the cuff. The barrel of the syringe was loosely affixed with the same kind of tape. Had she jammed her arm in the sleeve with the customary abandon of folks getting off work and heading into the cold, the force would have shoved the needle into her hand or wrist and depressed the plunger, injecting the syringe's contents into her arm.
She pulled the barrel, plunger and needle out and held it up to the light. "Blood," she said. "The syringe looks like it's full of blood."
For a second she thought she saw recognition spark behind Scott's eyes.
CHAPTER 7
Holy Toledo," Scott said. Shock blew out the spark, if it had ever been there.
Anna looked away from him to the hypodermic pinched in his handkerchief. Standard stuff. The kind doctors give out by the handful to patients with a variety of maladies. The liquid inside had the viscous clinging qualities of blood still moderately fresh-that or thinned with an anticoagulant. There was nothing remarkable about it except for the fact that someone had wanted to inject it into Anna's arm.
"Here. Let me take that." Scott reached for the needle.
"I got it." Anna held it away from where he hovered, hand outstretched, with that peculiar intensity men get when wanting to snatch a power tool or computer mouse from their female compatriots. In Anna's pack was an unopened plastic bottle of
"You survived."
Scott was leaning in the doorframe, his muscled arms crossed on his chest. The scald on his forearm had blistered. Anna suffered annoyance instead of gratitude. Being rescued was a burden she seldom carried gracefully.
Burned, aproned and spattered with food, Scott Wooldrich was still a good-looking man. Another stab, this time of guilt, stirred Anna's innards. A soon-to-be-married woman, a woman hurtling toward the half-century mark with blinding speed, should surely be past the dangerously addictive nonsense attendant on cute boys.
"I survived," she said for lack of anything witty or erudite.
"Put on your coat and let's go get that drink. How about our sister lodge, just for a change of scenery? A little slumming is good for the soul." Anna slipped her shoes back on, then stood to open her locker as he asked: "Shall we walk or drive?"
Even after an eight-hour shift on concrete floors, Anna would have chosen to walk. The air, the night, the unfettered movement were more refreshing than sleep. Tonight for some reason a vision of the woman stabbed thirty-seven times while in the stony embrace of the great boulders flashed to the front of her mind.
"Ride," she said. "My feet have had it for one day."
She pulled her jacket from the locker and swung it around to put it on. The sleeve slapped the metal of the door and thunked.
Thunked .
It was a down jacket with knit cuffs. There was no thunk about it. Anna caught up the sleeve and looked inside. A hair below cuff-line she could see a white plastic disk the size of a dime.
"What the . . ."
"A problem?" Scott came close, looking over her shoulder.
"There's something. . ." Anna held open the sleeve and peered in, remembering the silly childhood joke of holding one's fist hidden in a sleeve and saying: "Want to see stars? Look up my telescope."
"Jesus."
"What?" Scott demanded.
"Got a handkerchief?"
Scott gave her a blue cowboy bandanna. Using the handkerchief to protect any fingerprints, she reached carefully into the sleeve and pinched the barrel of a hypodermic syringe. The plunger-the end of it being the dime-sized disk she'd seen-was duct-taped firmly to the inside of the cuff. The barrel of the syringe was loosely affixed with the same kind of tape. Had she jammed her arm in the sleeve with the customary abandon of folks getting off work and heading into the cold, the force would have shoved the needle into her hand or wrist and depressed the plunger, injecting the syringe's contents into her arm.
She pulled the barrel, plunger and needle out and held it up to the light. "Blood," she said. "The syringe looks like it's full of blood."
For a second she thought she saw recognition spark behind Scott's eyes.
CHAPTER 7
Holy Toledo," Scott said. Shock blew out the spark, if it had ever been there.
Anna looked away from him to the hypodermic pinched in his handkerchief. Standard stuff. The kind doctors give out by the handful to patients with a variety of maladies. The liquid inside had the viscous clinging qualities of blood still moderately fresh-that or thinned with an anticoagulant. There was nothing remarkable about it except for the fact that someone had wanted to inject it into Anna's arm.
"Here. Let me take that." Scott reached for the needle.
"I got it." Anna held it away from where he hovered, hand outstretched, with that peculiar intensity men get when wanting to snatch a power tool or computer mouse from their female compatriots. In Anna's pack was an unopened plastic bottle of
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