truck and walked to the front door which had a center panel of heavy frosted glass with a swirling pattern of clear glass. She pushed the bell and heard it chime, then echo through the big house. When no one came, she rang again and checked her watch. Five minutes early; he must not be back from the airport.
She got back in her truck to wait and turned on the ignition so she could sit in air-conditioned comfort. Even though it was almost five-thirty, the heat was stifling, still over ninety degrees in the sun, and she was feeling every degree of it. She picked up the sheaf of papers resting on the seat. Might as well finish editing the Abilene Angel while she waited. Rummaging in her bag for a pen, she glimpsedthree huge shadows flitting across the brick-paved courtyard. Quickly she glanced up through the windshield, scrunching her neck so she could see the sky. There against the clear blue, a bunch of turkey vultures circled overhead. As she watched, they circled lower and lower. When they were just above the roof of the house, they seemed to hang motionless in the air, so close that Molly could see the crepey red skin of their small heads and the silver flight feathers that formed the fringed tips of their wings. That familiar clutch of dread in her stomach, she told herself, was just a hangover from growing up on a West Texas ranch. There, the sight of buzzards circling low like that always meant death.
Lowering her eyes to the page, she tried to concentrate, but a prickle of misgiving had started in her fingertips and spread up her arms to her chest. Buzzards, after all, were buzzards, and likely to behave the same in this fancy Austin suburb as they did out in Lubbock.
She got down from the truck, keeping an eye on the birds. They seemed to be zeroing in on an area just behind the house. She walked up to the front door and rang the bell again, really leaning on it this time and trying to peer through the swirls in the glass panel. When she got her eye right up to one of the thin clear ribbons, she could see straight through the house out to the hills behind. There was no movement inside.
Molly glanced at her watch again. Five twenty-seven. Still a few minutes early.
She walked back to the truck and opened the door, intending to climb in, but instead she tossed her purse onto the seat and slammed the door so hard it echoed off the courtyard walls. The noise didn’t spook the buzzards a bit; they were too intent on something.
Molly walked out the gate and turned left, following the stucco wall around the garage at the side, toward the back of the big house. Just killing time, she told herself.
She stopped where the mown grass ended and the slope descended sharply. The hill was a tangle of scrub oak, cedar, tiny yellow wildflowers, weeds, and prickly pear—wild and snaky-looking. But about fifty yards down, she could make out a flat clearing and a white trellislike gazebo.
The birds were circling right near the gazebo. They’d probably found a nice ripe rabbit or an armadillo. She needed to get a grip onherself and get back to the air-conditioning. It was a furnace out here.
Just as she was about to do the sensible thing, she caught sight of four or five more buzzards soaring in to join the original group.
Word was out.
She peered hard through the brush. Just below the circling birds something white was visible through the underbrush. And then she glimpsed movement—several large dark shapes. Some of the buzzards had landed. She took a few steps to the left where she could get a better view of the clearing. There. She could see what looked like a leg—a bare human leg. She shook her head. No, it couldn’t be. But she held her breath and took three little steps down the hill to get a closer look. God. It was a leg. There was someone down there, lying on the ground, right where the buzzards had landed.
Flustered and confused, she looked back toward the road and the driveway. If a car had driven in while she
She got back in her truck to wait and turned on the ignition so she could sit in air-conditioned comfort. Even though it was almost five-thirty, the heat was stifling, still over ninety degrees in the sun, and she was feeling every degree of it. She picked up the sheaf of papers resting on the seat. Might as well finish editing the Abilene Angel while she waited. Rummaging in her bag for a pen, she glimpsedthree huge shadows flitting across the brick-paved courtyard. Quickly she glanced up through the windshield, scrunching her neck so she could see the sky. There against the clear blue, a bunch of turkey vultures circled overhead. As she watched, they circled lower and lower. When they were just above the roof of the house, they seemed to hang motionless in the air, so close that Molly could see the crepey red skin of their small heads and the silver flight feathers that formed the fringed tips of their wings. That familiar clutch of dread in her stomach, she told herself, was just a hangover from growing up on a West Texas ranch. There, the sight of buzzards circling low like that always meant death.
Lowering her eyes to the page, she tried to concentrate, but a prickle of misgiving had started in her fingertips and spread up her arms to her chest. Buzzards, after all, were buzzards, and likely to behave the same in this fancy Austin suburb as they did out in Lubbock.
She got down from the truck, keeping an eye on the birds. They seemed to be zeroing in on an area just behind the house. She walked up to the front door and rang the bell again, really leaning on it this time and trying to peer through the swirls in the glass panel. When she got her eye right up to one of the thin clear ribbons, she could see straight through the house out to the hills behind. There was no movement inside.
Molly glanced at her watch again. Five twenty-seven. Still a few minutes early.
She walked back to the truck and opened the door, intending to climb in, but instead she tossed her purse onto the seat and slammed the door so hard it echoed off the courtyard walls. The noise didn’t spook the buzzards a bit; they were too intent on something.
Molly walked out the gate and turned left, following the stucco wall around the garage at the side, toward the back of the big house. Just killing time, she told herself.
She stopped where the mown grass ended and the slope descended sharply. The hill was a tangle of scrub oak, cedar, tiny yellow wildflowers, weeds, and prickly pear—wild and snaky-looking. But about fifty yards down, she could make out a flat clearing and a white trellislike gazebo.
The birds were circling right near the gazebo. They’d probably found a nice ripe rabbit or an armadillo. She needed to get a grip onherself and get back to the air-conditioning. It was a furnace out here.
Just as she was about to do the sensible thing, she caught sight of four or five more buzzards soaring in to join the original group.
Word was out.
She peered hard through the brush. Just below the circling birds something white was visible through the underbrush. And then she glimpsed movement—several large dark shapes. Some of the buzzards had landed. She took a few steps to the left where she could get a better view of the clearing. There. She could see what looked like a leg—a bare human leg. She shook her head. No, it couldn’t be. But she held her breath and took three little steps down the hill to get a closer look. God. It was a leg. There was someone down there, lying on the ground, right where the buzzards had landed.
Flustered and confused, she looked back toward the road and the driveway. If a car had driven in while she
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