before, driving past it, the Sinclairs’ place, empty for fewer than a couple of days, had felt desolate. Here, before the arrest, before the Nostromo , before all the other unthinkable deeds, John Cameron had come back after a day at school, sat down, and done his homework like any other kid. Madison felt his presence like a trick of the light.
The bushes, about shoulder height and barren, grew quite close to the garage wall. She squeezed by them and stood on tiptoe to lookinside the narrow window—it was safely shut and shaded. Madison kept walking, close to the wall. Her jacket got caught on a branch, which snapped off sharply.
Suddenly, there was a shuffle above her and to the side, behind a maple. Madison froze. The smell hit her, and she knew instantly what it came from.
She stepped forward. The bushes were behind her, and she was standing by the long side of the house. There were no windows there; on the far corner the fence started and carried on till the bottom of a garden. There was about ten feet between the wall and the trees.
The putrid smell was distinct even in the winter chill. Madison saw the wing of the gull behind the tree roots; it shuffled out of sight, and its feathers rustled against dry leaves. She walked around the tree and saw it. The gull squawked. The cat was dead—it must have crawled there after being hit by a car, or maybe it had just been old or sick. She couldn’t tell. The gull had been feeding on it for a while—the fur had once been gray and black.
“Damn!” she said, not loud enough for even the bird to hear. She stepped closer, and the gull hopped backward, not yet ready to leave his find.
Madison crouched on her heels and lifted the branches under which the cat had sought refuge. There was a deep cut on one of its hind legs. It was curled up. The gull had done a lot of damage to the soft tissue around the face. Madison picked up a small stick and ran it gently along the side of the neck. No collar.
She picked up a handful of leaves and bits of wood and placed them on top of the small body, covering it up completely. The gull stood by.
Madison straightened up and took a quick step toward the bird, and it flew off.
The fence was tall enough to say “ Go away” without being too unfriendly toward the neighbors. The Camerons had likely wanted safety and privacy for their boy while he was recovering from the ordeal on the Hoh River Trail.
Madison looked left and right: nobody around and completely out of sight from the street. She gripped the top of the fence with both hands and kicked up, straightening her arms at the same time. She leaned forward for balance, half of her over the fence, her hips taking her weight against the wood.
The backyard was large, a patio behind a sunroom, a brick barbecue to the side. It was bare, the grass burned by the frost. Dry leaves carried by the wind had come to rest against the glass door—nobody had pushed it open for some time.
Sometimes places carry a kind of memory of what happened within their walls: this house seemed merely a blank space.
The gull flew above her and perched on the roof, keeping an eye on Madison. She let go and hit the ground easily on the other side of the fence.
“See ya,” she whispered to the gull, and she walked back to the front of the house.
Brown was coming out at the same time from the opposite corner.
“Nothing?” he asked.
“Nope,” she said.
“May I help you?” The voice came from behind them. Brown and Madison swung around quickly.
It was a man in his seventies, with short white hair and a nice red Gore-Tex jacket, a bag of groceries in one arm. The front door of the house across the street was open, and a woman with a matching jacket was carrying in more shopping bags.
“Hello,” Madison said. “We’re from the Seattle Police Department.” They showed their badges.
“Clyde Phillips.” The man smiled. “I’m a neighbor. If you’re looking for Jack, he’s not at
The bushes, about shoulder height and barren, grew quite close to the garage wall. She squeezed by them and stood on tiptoe to lookinside the narrow window—it was safely shut and shaded. Madison kept walking, close to the wall. Her jacket got caught on a branch, which snapped off sharply.
Suddenly, there was a shuffle above her and to the side, behind a maple. Madison froze. The smell hit her, and she knew instantly what it came from.
She stepped forward. The bushes were behind her, and she was standing by the long side of the house. There were no windows there; on the far corner the fence started and carried on till the bottom of a garden. There was about ten feet between the wall and the trees.
The putrid smell was distinct even in the winter chill. Madison saw the wing of the gull behind the tree roots; it shuffled out of sight, and its feathers rustled against dry leaves. She walked around the tree and saw it. The gull squawked. The cat was dead—it must have crawled there after being hit by a car, or maybe it had just been old or sick. She couldn’t tell. The gull had been feeding on it for a while—the fur had once been gray and black.
“Damn!” she said, not loud enough for even the bird to hear. She stepped closer, and the gull hopped backward, not yet ready to leave his find.
Madison crouched on her heels and lifted the branches under which the cat had sought refuge. There was a deep cut on one of its hind legs. It was curled up. The gull had done a lot of damage to the soft tissue around the face. Madison picked up a small stick and ran it gently along the side of the neck. No collar.
She picked up a handful of leaves and bits of wood and placed them on top of the small body, covering it up completely. The gull stood by.
Madison straightened up and took a quick step toward the bird, and it flew off.
The fence was tall enough to say “ Go away” without being too unfriendly toward the neighbors. The Camerons had likely wanted safety and privacy for their boy while he was recovering from the ordeal on the Hoh River Trail.
Madison looked left and right: nobody around and completely out of sight from the street. She gripped the top of the fence with both hands and kicked up, straightening her arms at the same time. She leaned forward for balance, half of her over the fence, her hips taking her weight against the wood.
The backyard was large, a patio behind a sunroom, a brick barbecue to the side. It was bare, the grass burned by the frost. Dry leaves carried by the wind had come to rest against the glass door—nobody had pushed it open for some time.
Sometimes places carry a kind of memory of what happened within their walls: this house seemed merely a blank space.
The gull flew above her and perched on the roof, keeping an eye on Madison. She let go and hit the ground easily on the other side of the fence.
“See ya,” she whispered to the gull, and she walked back to the front of the house.
Brown was coming out at the same time from the opposite corner.
“Nothing?” he asked.
“Nope,” she said.
“May I help you?” The voice came from behind them. Brown and Madison swung around quickly.
It was a man in his seventies, with short white hair and a nice red Gore-Tex jacket, a bag of groceries in one arm. The front door of the house across the street was open, and a woman with a matching jacket was carrying in more shopping bags.
“Hello,” Madison said. “We’re from the Seattle Police Department.” They showed their badges.
“Clyde Phillips.” The man smiled. “I’m a neighbor. If you’re looking for Jack, he’s not at
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