A Voice in the Dark

“My truck. Stay inside. Doors and windows locked, lights off. I’ll handle the follow-up.”

“I promise you, the guy’s gone. I even went through my upstairs neighbor’s condo. I’m watering her plants while she’s away for the holidays. There was no one.”

“Humor me, okay?”

She heard a squeal of tires. “Well, yeah—if you get here. The door’s bolted, and Moscow may be young, but he’s trained. I have two guns, I was top ten in hand-to-hand, and I’ve got adrenaline to spare at this point.”

“Use it to think. Just make sure you do it inside your place.”

“I’m not…”

“Promise me, Angel.”

The words wanted to stick. However…“Okay, I promise. On one condition.”

“And that is?”

Another squeal had her wincing. “Make it two. First, that you slow down, and second, that you don’t tell Bergman about this.”

“No.”

Frustration bled into exasperation. “Why not? And don’t be obtuse. Foret’s not the only person with connections in the capitol. My uncle’s a congressman.”

“Retired and living in Juneau.”

“I said don’t be obtuse.”

“This isn’t a game, Angel.”

“I’m not playing one. This is my life and my case. If Bergman pulls me off, I’ll simply investigate on my own time, without partner or backup.”

“The note you got tonight is evidence. You’d have to withhold it. Federal offense, Agent Carter.”

“I’ll have it analyzed for prints and all the usual etceteras. Fully aware here, Graydon, whatever you might think.”

A final squeal of brakes told her he’d arrived. She couldn’t resist, she returned to the window and stared at the street below.

It had to be Noah who climbed from the large, black truck. His coat was long and, she suspected, also black. In fact, everything about him appeared black, even his hair, which she thought might skim his shoulders. She couldn’t tell because he was wearing a hat with a broad brim and, since it was still raining, had his collar turned up.

He was definitely tall. Over six feet, with a long stride and, she imagined, a lean build.

Unfortunately, no features were visible, and she only had a glimpse to go on as the shadows of the old house swallowed him up within seconds of his arrival.

Moscow wedged himself between her and the ledge and pushed on her legs.

“Okay.” She gave his side an appreciative pat. “Backing away.”

But she glanced toward the solarium. It felt downright spooky that she would have painted Noah almost exactly as she’d seen him tonight. A shadow within a shadow.

“I’m in.”

“What? Oh.” She’d forgotten about the active phone connection. A frown, then, “In the building?”

“I’ve already gone through the lobby.”

Not going to ask, she decided. “Noah?”

“Stay where you are,” he repeated.

“Yes, I got that part. I thought you’d like to know what the note said.”

“I was getting to it.” But he sounded distracted which probably meant he was searching again. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

She unhooked and lowered the blind, didn’t need to see the words to recall them. “It said: THE CIRCLE OF UNDERSTANDING WILL BE COMPLETE AT LAST. He stenciled it on a scrap of yellow newsprint, the kind you use for notes in college.” She heard boots on the stair treads and added, “I went through the basement, too.”

“Did I mention the part about humoring me?”

“Did I mention the part about not telling Bergman?”

“Can’t hear you, Angel. Bad reception.”

“That’s not very original.” When he didn’t respond, she sighed, “Come on, Noah.”

Only silence reached her.

She debated for a moment, then shrugged and dropped the phone in the pocket of her pants. “In that case, ditto.” Pulling on her coat and boots, she picked up her gun, motioned to Moscow and slipped into the hall’s period lighting, glowing and romantic, perfect for a nineteenth-century mansion.

But the shadows that might have been deemed intimate in their day created a much less appealing atmosphere right now. Angel angled her gun toward the coffered ceiling as she started down the stairs.

Because the first-floor neighbors were abnormally nosy, she knew all the creaks and how to avoid them. Moscow padded ahead of her. Angel retrieved her cell and brought it to her ear.

“Noah, are you there?”

No answer.

Had the communication really broken up? Builders had added a layer of concrete between the first floor and cellar. It was possible, she supposed, if a little too convenient.

“Noah?”

Still no response.

“Don’t think I’m liking this, Moscow. Be very quiet.”

The dog’s ears twitched, but he obeyed.

The shadows deepened on the first floor, because, of course, no one had bothered to replace the burned out light near the basement door.

“Noah?” She called his name, first into her cell and again down the narrow cellar stairwell.

The single shaft of light trickling upward didn’t quite reach the top. Use the main switch, or take a chance and creep down in the semidarkness? Either way, she could wind up shot.

She opted to creep, on the off chance that the killer was still lurking. Noah would be too well trained to shoot first and ask questions later. She hoped.

“Behind me, Moscow.”

She made one last attempt to raise Noah on her cell. When he didn’t answer, she disconnected. Liz might be trying to call her, although she hadn’t noticed a vibration from her caller alert. Maybe Joe had taken his wife out for a late dinner.

She counted down fourteen steps, used her free hand for balance on the wall and kept her gun up.

Moscow gave a prolonged growl—not a promising sign.

“Stay back,” she ordered, then peered into the gloom. “Noah?”

Eyes moving, she sketched the layout. Bike room dead ahead, furnace room to the left, storage right. The cellar smelled of old earth, old bricks and centuries’ old wood. But strangely, the faint scent of apples superceded all those things in Angel’s mind, and gave the place a sense of nostalgia that took her back to her grandmother’s Iowa root cellar.

She’d played hidden ghost there with her cousins several times as a child—until nasty cousin Billy had grabbed her ankle from under the stairs and almost given her a coronary.

Moscow growled again. Angel accepted the shiver that rippled along her spine. Had the darkness shifted?

The growl became a barely muffled bark. The dog’s muscles bunched against her thigh. Setting a hand on his head, she stilled him.

She felt it, too. Something about the air had altered. She made a cautious half circle, saw nothing. But there was a sound. A movement. A faint swish of motion that bordered on invisible.

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