13th Precinct Police Department, Gifford Street:
“What was the time of arrival on the ambulance?”
“Little after ten.” The officer corrected himself at his sergeant’s impatient scowl. “Ten-oh-five.”
Nothing about the case looked any better in the light of day. If anything, it made the thick, dark pools of blood spreading across the concrete seem more menacing.
They’d dusted for prints. The perp was a smug bastard; they found the murder weapon in the back seat of the car, next to a small jewelry box.
“Her fiancé said he was in the house waiting for her to come inside. Said she had to get something outta the car.”
“Weird to find a jewelry box out in the open like that. Think that’s what our boy was going after?”
“We don’t even know that it’s a boy. Might have been a jealous lover.”
“Might have been HER jealous lover.”
“What else have we got?”
“Not much. Wife was pregnant, about twenty-eight weeks. Her husband said they were excited about it.”
“Fiancé,” he corrected him.
“Right, right.” He waved his hand in agreement. “Just your typical couple in a nice neighborhood.”
“Murder happens in the ‘burbs all the time.”
“Who the heck would do a pregnant woman this way, though?”
“Someone desperate enough who didn’t care about leaving a trail.” The antique scrimshaw knife was tucked safely into a plastic specimen bag. The detective hefted it briefly, examining the blood streaks staining the handle.
“Is the husband into knives?”
“Fiancé.”
“Cut me some slack…”
“Didn’t seem like it. Said it wasn’t even his. According to him, his wife was trying to get rid of it.”
“So it was hers?”
“Nah. He claims it belonged to her ex.”
“Of course it did.” They watched their fellow officers taping off the end of the driveway with garish yellow “Do Not Cross” barriers, resigned. “Makes sense.”
“We need a better picture of the former mister and what might make him do this to his old missus.”
“Think the baby was an issue?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Steve sat inside and listened to the officers searching his home in a daze.
This isn’t my life. I’m not here. She’s not gone.
Steve Rogers was a big man, six-two and built like a triathlete. Laugh lines fanned out from his dark blue eyes, but they were hollow and bloodshot from a sleepless night. He sat slumped at the table, nearly curled in a letter ‘C’. He scrubbed his face with his palm as more tears dripped onto his sleeve.
He didn’t just lose the woman he loved and his unborn son. He couldn’t have. He couldn’t still be breathing, if that had happened. The world couldn’t still be turning. Not without Carol.
It went without saying that the questions offended him, but the background noise was welcome to him, at the moment. Once they were gone, the house would be silent and empty.
“Sir,” a female officer spoke in a gentle tone, “could you tell us if your wife went anywhere yesterday, or who she was with?”
“Janet,” he said, almost robotic. “She was with her friend Janet. Janet Van Dyne.”
“We’d like to contact her for a few more details.”
“Sure.” He caught his reflection as he looked out the window; his vision blurred as he focused beyond the sight of the police beacons. Their spinning lights threw red and blue prisms over the dirty snow.
He only saw a broken man.
The woman who’d approached him moments ago informed him she was going to step outside for a moment. He paid her no heed.
“Sarge?” she called out. Her pace was quick and smooth. The cold wind stirred her dark hair. She plucked away a few strands that blew into her mouth. “We got any leads on the ex?”
“Why? How well does he know him?”
“Not all that much. Barely said two words to each other. No pissing match between them.”
“Wonder if it was an amicable split?”
“So, do we make a house call?”
“Not till we have more to go on. I want to run the knife to the lab. The jewelry box, too.”
“Man,” she sighed. “That sucks.”
“Keep those thoughts to yourself, Drew,” he chided her, but his face shared her feelings. They didn’t have a pretty job.
He dismissed her. Officer Jessica Drew knew they would have a bigger picture after they got in touch with Carol’s friend Janet, somehow, once they had clearance to bring her into the investigation.
A woman’s girlfriends often had more insight. She’d know more about Carol’s ex, and what made him an ex.
Sergeant Barton closed his notebook and clicked his pen, tucking it into his pocket. “We’ve got enough for now.”
“I’ll make the Starbucks’ run,” McCoy suggested. He was well-liked around the precinct, a guy you’d want to have your back and smart as a whip.
“Skip the whip this time.” Barton handed him a fiver. Henry McCoy sighed.
“I’ll just hook you up to an IV of French roast.”
*
It was all over the news by the morning edition, but the details were brief. Ali looked up from her pan of scrambled eggs, briefly shaking off the spatula.
“Turn it up?” she asked Remy. He sat up from his perch on the bar stool and punched the volume up a few notches on her tiny TV bolted under the cabinet.
“…this is Patricia Tilby, reporting for Channel Five news. Police are gathering a list of suspects for the murder of a pregnant woman whose body was found in her garage last night. More details at six.”
“Shit,” Ali hissed. Remy shook his head.
“That’s some messed up shit, right ‘dere, petit.”
“I know. Who would do that?” A chill ran though her. Wintertime made people do some desperate things, in her opinion.
“Den I wan’ ya t’listen t’me, Ali. Ya need anyt’in’ outside in de garage, or anywhere else after dark, don’ get it yerself. I don’ wan’ ya outside after dark. Ever.”
“It’s fine, sweetie, I don’t blame you-“
“Non,” he insisted. In two swift steps he was across the room, pulling her away from the stove. She found herself spun around and hauled against him. His dark eyes were determined and no-nonsense, and Remy’s mouth was a grim line. “Not after dark. An’ I wan’ ya ta call me any time yer about ta leave from work ta let me know when ta expect ya home.”
“Yes, Big Brother.” Her voice wasn’t teasing. “I understand,” she said softly, kissing his chin.
“Dat happened in a nice house, ta an ordinary woman. A pregnant woman. Takes a foul person t’do somet’in’ like dat, Ali. Don’ blame Remy fo’ worryin’ ‘bout his baby.”
The chill in her belly at the news hadn’t dissipated, but his embrace and hard kiss made Ali feel safer and comforted. When they came up for air, she sighed.
“Man, this has been a shitty, long winter.”
It was only going to get longer. Despite that there were more minutes of light every day, the weather forecast only offered another mid-week storm.
Remy left for work less than an hour later. His interrogation of when she was coming home was brief, and his kiss as she walked him out to the car was thorough. She went back inside and perused the color ads in the morning paper, still grimacing at the photos of the garage on Maple Drive showing police swarming around the front yard. Ali folded the front section aside and peered at a sale at Zales’, smiling over the red and pink hearts littering the newsprint.
Call her sentimental. She still loved Valentine’s Day, and this was one of the first years where she ever had anyone to share it with.
*
The nights felt shorter. Logan pondered that while he sat in his meeting. He felt a little less restless, thankfully. The sunshine outside helped. ‘Ro had complained about cabin fever. If Logan had to name it, he could say he was tired of hibernating.
He was a bad influence. Ororo started sleeping in as often as he did, even though she didn’t stay up quite as long at night. Ali chewed him out while he waited for her to come to the phone, accusing him of keeping her tied to the bed. He almost told her not to give him any ideas…good ideas.
They were dealing with Ororo’s condition one day at a time. Logan wasn’t grateful that his problem was shared; he would never wish this on the woman he loved. But she completed him, understanding him all the way down to his essence. She knew his pain before he even felt hurt.
Like him, it took her a while to get used to her newer, enhanced senses. She was sensitive and jumpy, moodier than usual. She resumed her yoga before bedtime instead of at the crack of dawn now, and it helped. She also began drinking a strange-smelling tea that she said she picked up at an herbalist’s downtown. Logan felt irritated when he caught the scent of a male when he picked up the package.
But her appetite was still off. Not just the kinds of food she was eating, but the times of day. She had her heaviest meal of the day at dinner time now, not typical of Ororo at all. Sometimes when he came home from his nighttime sojourns, he’d find her rummaging “ foraging “ in the refrigerator.
Every now and again, she’d find the feathers on her back porch when the Beast’s urge to hunt overtook him. She’d never pressure him for details; most of the time, he couldn’t recall any. He did almost laugh, though, at her grimace when she found the remains of his “prey” by the mailbox when she went to collect the paper:
“Bills, bills, bills, junk mail, no, I don’t want to renew my factory warranty, no, I didn’t win a million dollars…ACK! LOGAN! Ewwwww! Ew! Ew!”
“Sorry, darlin’,” he called back sheepishly.
He suffered Ali and Remy because they were Ororo’s other two favorite people, and because they were actually a lot of fun. But it was getting harder to share her with anyone else. Logan couldn’t remember ever feeling so possessive before.
“Logan? Any other action items or takeaways? Clem?” Mac said. Logan still looked blank. “Logan?” he repeated. Logan turned with a jerk, looking slightly annoyed. His face relaxed.
“No. Nothing else. Let’s wrap it up. I think we did what we needed to do. Clem, you’ll send us the minutes and a reminder for Tuesday?”
“I’m on it,” she assured him cheerfully, but her eyes reflected worry. He was so distracted lately, and he seemed exhausted. Logan’s vibrancy that he’d enjoyed over the past few months dimmed recently, and she couldn’t put her finger on it.
She came to his desk later under the guise of bringing him coffee. He smiled in approval as she handed him his cup of strong black.
“Yer a peach, darlin’. Thanks.”
“You know I’m happy to do it. I’m happy to listen, too. I’m a little worried about you. You seem like you’re in another world, lately. And don’t hate me for being nosy, but…”
“Folks always say that when they’re being nosy,” he interrupted her with a sigh. “No, don’t worry about me. And I appreciate everything ya’ve done, darlin’. I know I ain’t an easy guy ta work around.”
“You seem tired.”
“I am,” he admitted. He rubbed his nape, and she noticed how…out of his element he seemed. He tugged at his tie, wishing it wasn’t there. He reminded Clementine of a caged animal.
Before he’d been canned “ she didn’t make any bones about how AlphLight treated one of their most loyal employees “ Logan loved what he did. Clients were fond of his easygoing demeanor and straightforward answers, how he didn’t snow them under in bullshit about their accounts and options. He didn’t go home until the last contract was signed on the dotted line, and most nights it was hard to tear him away from his desk.
His restlessness was affecting the other staff. His replies to questions were shorter, not quite terse. He was often silent and observant, interacting less with those around him. He didn’t walk through the office anymore. He stalked.
“Is anything going on at home?”
“Nothing new, I guess…”
“Nothing new.”
“Naw. Eh. It’s complicated, Clem.”
“I’ve got time.” She hauled her meaty frame into the chair facing his desk and took a sip of her coffee. Logan’s laugh lines creased at her. She missed those lines.
“It’s nothing new, I guess. It’s been goin’ on fer a while. I’ve been seein’ someone. Stayin’ with her, most of the time.” It was true. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d gone home to his own house except to check the mail or wash his socks. Ororo’s beachside Colonial felt more like home, rife with her scent, full of her warmth. And it had the best view of the stars. The only other place that appealed to him was the cabin, or more accurately, the woods surrounding it.
“That’s wonderful! I’ve always hoped you would love someone again!” Clementine looked almost gleeful. Logan sighed.
“That don’t even begin ta describe it. Ain’t anyone like ‘Ro.”
“Ro?”
“Ororo. Nice lady. Writes books. Ya’ve probably seen her stuff at the drug store.” Clem almost choked on her coffee.
“Don’t tell me you’re dating the Ororo Munroe? Mick and Zoe Ororo?”
“That’s the one.”
“Oh. My. Goodness.” She set her cup on his desk blotter and made “I’m not worthy” bowing motions. This time Logan laughed.
“That’s how I felt when I found out who she was.”
“How did you meet her?”
“Long story short, she was in trouble, and I helped her. Guy was tryin’ ta mug her at an ATM.” Clementine winced.
“That’s awful.”
“Ya wanna talk about a time when ya can’t think, and all ya can do is act, that was that time.”
“So you’ve been peas in a pod since?”
“Yep.” Soul mates.
“So…things are going well, then.”
“Ups and downs. Sometimes a little drama, not from her, just from stuff going on in our lives. My ex showed up a while back. Then HER ex showed up.” He seemed to choke on the word, and his fingers tightened around the armrest of his plush leather chair.
“Didn’t I read something in the paper about her? A stalker?”
“Yeah.”
“Wait…that was…it said in the paper she was staying at a cabin?”
“Mine.”
“So…you were there with her when he came after her?” Clementine went pale.
“They kept my name outta the press. ‘Ro had a lot ta do with that.”
“Wow.”
“I didn’t need folks bangin’ down my door, ‘cuz most of ‘em just wanna get closer ta ‘Ro. She doesn’t need them in her business, either.”
Despite being a celebrated writer, Ororo led a quiet life. The Cape boasted its share of writers, artisans and actors who owned vacation homes on the Vineyard; in their plain clothes, they often merited a brief second look before the locals turned back to their Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.
Some nights, he still felt the bullet piercing his flesh, heard Ororo’s screams.
“It sounds like you two have been through a lot. That’s a lot of pressure on a new relationship.”
“Don’t matter much. We’ve got plenty of time ta make up fer a shaky beginning. I love Ororo. I ain’t pinin’ away fer Carol anymore. She’s moved on, I ain’t cryin’ about it, and she’s proved already that I was never the one fer her.”
“You were once,” Clem sniffed, but she was glad.
“Just because we had nine years that doesn’t mean we didn’t make a mistake.”
“Whatever.”
“I don’t wanna be with someone who doesn’t wanna be with me. I’m pretty cut and dried. Besides, Carol was young and had different dreams than I did. Mine are gonna include retirement pretty soon.”
“Wait…what?” She couldn’t believe her ears.
“I know, I know. Mac spent all that time tryin’ ta get me back, but I’m already thinkin’ about packin’ my shit up again and closin’ the door behind me.”
“You’re sure?”
“Clem…I don’t know if this is me anymore. I don’t know if I even know who I am anymore.”
“Well…wow. I just don’t know what to say, James. I really don’t.” She looked flustered and took a generous gulp of her coffee.
“I’ve been figurin’ this out fer a while. I almost died that night that I was attacked. I thought I lost everything back then. No more marriage, no more job…but the truth was, I was free. Free, Clem. Everything feels different. That’s not a bad thing. I got so wrapped up in my life I didn’t know how much it was strangling me.”
“Okay. So what are you going to do about it now?”
“Take a few months to tie up some more loose ends. I want more time with ‘Ro and ta rethink what ta do with the rest of my life. It ain’t gonna involve spreadsheets and earning reports.”
“Heaven forbid.”
“I think it’ll help things with her, too.”
“Is there something wrong?”
“She’s different. She was shaken up after that night at the cabin, Clem, but there’s something else happening with her.”
“Is she sick?”
“No. Yeah. I don’t know…”
“Okay. Let’s try this again. What’s she doing that she wasn’t before?”
“She ain’t sleepin’ as well as she used to. Takes more naps during the day. Appetite was fine a few weeks ago, now she seems pickier about how stuff smells. She turned kinda green when I brought home a Cobb salad the other day. She loves that stuff, usually.”
“I can’t stomach the smell of bleu cheese,” Clem admitted. “Ugh. Maybe that was it.”
“Hm.”
“What else?”
“Sensitive. Touch. Mood. Everything.”
“Don’t wanna blame PMS, huh?”
“Hush yer mouth, woman.” Even the Beast inside of him wanted to run and hide.
“Maybe she’s anemic.”
“She got this tea ta help with that.”
“Tea?”
“Eh. Got me as to how it’ll fix anything. Seems ta calm her a little.”
“Let’s back it up. Go back to the food.”
“Well, yeah…sometimes she doesn’t wanna eat breakfast. But then at dinner, I have a hard time keepin’ her from finishing what’s on MY plate and hers.”
“She ever get headaches? Woozy?”
“Yeah…she thought she was catchin’ the flu. I took her temp, though. She didn’t have a fever.” That was another excuse to put her to bed, that time only in concern. She wasn’t hot, but she huddled deep in the covers and still looked wan. “Couple days ago, she was getting up from her desk, and she kinda slumped. She was shakin’. Scared me half ta death.”
“Okay. Now I’m getting a picture of what’s going on.” Logan perked up.
“What?”
“It’s obvious. You’re going to be a daddy.”
Logan’s mouth dropped open. Clementine’s face lit up.
“No way.”
“Uh-huh.”
“A daddy. That means…a…baby.”
“Uh-huh,” she told him, with more enthusiasm.
“Ororo’s…pregnant.”
“It all adds up. Mood swings, appetite, faint, tired…she’s doing fine,” Clementine pronounced as she ticked off each point, even though each symptom made it sound like she was anything but.
Logan was plastered back into his seat, limp with shock.
“We’re gonna have a baby.”
“We went over that!”
“I’m havin’ a baby. With Ororo.” A hint of something akin to joy crept into his voice.
Wait for it…wait for iiiiittt…
“YES! YES, YES, YES!”
In all of her years of working as Logan’s administrative assistant, Clem couldn’t remember once during her tenure that her boss jumped out of his seat, yanked her out of hers and spun her around in a ludicrous happy dance. It was one for the books.
*
The voice was speaking to him again. Pietro leaned his head back into the hot spray, working the lather roughly through his thick silver hair, as though it would dissolve those words.
He didn’t feel the chill as he stepped out of the shower; lately he felt nearly immune to the cold. The cooling mist of steam in the bathroom settled over his skin, making him feel refreshed.
But restless.
The visions that plagued him all day made him restless and irritable. He lost ten hours between leaving the restaurant and waking that morning with a metallic tang in his mouth. Pietro looked around his bedroom for clues but came up blank.
Strangely, that expensive little knife he bought was gone.
He attempted to replay the night’s events as he selected his clothing from the bureau.
A lancing pain staggered him moments later, threatening to split his head in two.
“Yeeeerrggghh…” He shivered as the pain wormed its way through his body.
He woke up some time later, still cold and naked, wrapped in nothing but his towel. He sat up groggily, moaning.
“The hell…?” Pietro scrubbed his face and rose unsteadily. He climbed into the first warm clothing he could find, settling for flannel pajama bottoms and a thermal henley.
He continued to reply the events from the evening before. Lo mein noodles and the evening news. Stroking the handle of that knife and reflecting on that smug bitch’s words to him.
“What did you say your name was? I’m Pietro.
Oh, I didn’t. Carol. Carol Howlett, technically; soon to be Carol Rogers.
Anything that Pietro could associate with that bastard made him seethe. Thought he had everything, didn’t he?
He vaguely remembered getting into his car. Must’ve wanted to clear his head.
Pietro decided on more TV and he settled under his favorite thick fleece blanket. He punched the power button on the large remote.
“…and we’re back tonight with details from the murder of a pregnant resident in her home. Area authorities have identified her as Carol Danvers Howlett. She was apparently stabbed to death, then mutilated repeatedly in her garage sometime during the evening. Witnesses are coming forward to lend details to one of the most bizarre murder cases in several years…”
The remote fell from his nerveless fingers.
*
“…the victim was roughly six months pregnant. Police are looking into it as a possible motive for the murder.”
Three witnesses took their turn flashing across the screen, giving their account of the disturbing event.
“She was low-key, minding her own business, y’know? Her boyfriend was nice, they seemed happy. Who could get mad at Carol? She was nice.”
“She was happy about the pregnancy, so this really sucks. I just walked by the house and saw cops standing around…man, that sucks. They baby their cars. They never park ‘em out in the street. Aw, man. Man…”
“I thought I heard a scream last night…I had no idea where it came from, but then it was gone. I just thought it might have been those teenagers down the road, messing around like they were a while ago when they got into their dad’s liquor cabinet. I wish like hell I’d gone out there to look. This is awful. Just awful.”
Ororo watched the screen flicker back to Trish Tilby and felt sick.
“Every now and again, in our line of work as police officers, as law enforcement, we come across sights no eyes should see. We mean to find her killer and bring them to justice.” The caption identified him as Sgt. Clint Barton; he was a sturdy looking man in his mid-forties, perhaps even Logan’s age.
Trish continued her report. “Most puzzling about the murder were the wounds found in the victim’s neck. They appear to be punctures, not unlike those made by a dog’s bite. Mr. Rogers claimed that the couple didn’t own a pet; none of the neighbors reported that their dogs roamed loose last night onto their property.”
Ororo’s stomach pitched. Dizziness made her reel and stumble up against the counter.
“God, why?” she pleaded weakly.
She needed a minute to recover, hating the low buzzing in her ears. She was so focused on trying to calm her breathing and rapid heartbeat that she missed the jangle of the phone. “Sorry…can’t think right now,” she apologized under her breath.
Punctures. Like a dog’s bite. What did it mean?
It didn’t matter. A woman was dead, murdered in a grisly, cruel way that defied human decency.
But…bites?
She heard Logan’s voice on the machine, stunning her when she noticed how chipper he sounded.
“Hey, darlin’. Don’t bother heatin’ up dinner, I’m gonna take us out, I’m thinkin’. I have something I wanna give ya if ya can tear yerself away from yer laptop. Mick an’ Zoe can wait. Kinda figured ya’d be around ta pick up, though…” There was a note of uncertainty in his voice. “But I can’t wait ta see ya, ‘Ro.” Click.
The nights. The blackouts. The dreams. Ororo wasn’t always awake when Logan left, and she frequently only woke up when he eased himself back under the covers.
No. She wouldn’t think the impossible. Not for one second.
There was no mistaking who the woman was. How many people in town had the name Howlett? He’d mentioned her occasionally when they’d talked about previous loves; he only frowned once in a while now when she mentioned Forge. A stray snapshot of her that Ororo found in his belongings when she helped him clean out his attic gave her an immediate idea of her appeal to him. She was beautiful, wholesome-looking and she seemed full of life.
Ororo tried to work. The harder she tried to pull together a cohesive paragraph, the more the display swam before her eyes. She began to feel sick again…
She heard Logan’s feet tramp up the steps to her porch. “Darlin’!”
She made out his voice from the hall bathroom this time. “Hey, darlin’, where are ya? ‘Ro?”
“Not again,” she muttered helplessly as she wretched into the porcelain.
It wouldn’t stop. By the time she finished, Ororo was clammy and shaking, and the sliver of light coming in through the gap between the bathroom floor and the door was extinguished by Logan’s feet outside.
“Darlin’?” He tapped lightly on the door. “Ya okay?”
After a moment she answered him. “Uh-uh.”
“Whaddya need?”
“I don’t know. I’m a little off today.”
“I hate ta ask ya a favor, but I need ya ta come out fer a sec, if ya can.” She obeyed him, pausing to rinse her mouth. He heard the low flush and caught the smell of Listermint before she opened the door.
She looked peaked and weak, but relieved to see him.
“What kind of favor?”
He handed her a plastic shopping bag. Strangely, a red gift bow was stuck onto it.
“It’s not my birthday.”
“Nope. Not yers.” His face was unreadable, but there was an odd gleam in his eye. He pressed the gift into her hands and stroked her cheek.
“So what’s this for…oh,” she said, pulling out a small white box.
“Go ahead, darlin’.”
“Logan…no. This is silly. I’m not-“
“One way ta find out.” She scowled, then backed away from him. The bathroom door closed gently on him again. He walked away from the sounds inside and went to fix himself a glass of juice.
He was peeking at her open laptop, heedless that it was one of her taboos, when he heard her low shriek. Logan flinched.
He walked slowly to the bathroom, even though the anticipation was killing him.
“Darlin’?”
The door swung open on a low creak. Ororo leaned her hip against the edge of the sink, holding out the small white cartridge. She was dazed as she handed it to him.
“It’s not my birthday,” she said hollowly, repeating her earlier words.
“It ain’t yer birthday,” he agreed, shaking his head. He held his breath.
His relief was tangible as she launched herself at him, nearly knocking him off his feet.
“How did you know?” she whispered. Logan felt something warm and damp seep into the shoulder of his dress shirt.
“I didn’t have a clue. Clem put it together when I told her ya hadn’t been feelin’ well, and…” Logan’s own voice caught for a moment. Her embrace was so hard it hurt.
They couldn’t speak. Logan let his senses tell him what he needed to know. Yes, her scent was different, heady and rich with pheromones and a faint musk. Her heartbeat was the rhythm that rocked him to sleep every night; it thudded heavily through him as he held her close. Her neck felt warm and satiny against his cheek and he clutched her thick hair.
He heard it, that tiny, nearly imperceptible little throb inside her.
The baby’s heartbeat. He pulled back slightly and wiped away the tears coursing down her cheeks. Logan led Ororo back to the living room and urged her onto the couch. She choked back a sob. He shushed her gently and knelt before her, parting her knees so he could move between them. Reflexively she embraced him, and he palmed her belly, feeling a hint of roundness that wasn’t there before.
Slowly, reverently, he bent his head to it and listened. A rush of protectiveness and pride washed over him.
“I’m guessin’ that’s why ya haven’t felt so great, lately. Might explain why ya were tossin’ something up a little while ago.” He felt the shift in her mood and backed off as she released him.
“No. That’s not it, sweetie, but I wish it was. Go ahead and turn on the TV while I fix us something.”
“I was gonna take us out-“
“Not tonight.”
Like that, his euphoric, warm glow dissipated. He watched Ororo get up and head toward the kitchen. He took her place on the couch and turned on the set.
*
“Have ya taken a look at Darkholme again yet?”
“I’m comparing them now.”
“We got a match?”
“Sure looks like it. Same distance and depth, almost an identical angle from where she was bitten.”
“That’s just weird. Are we looking at someone turning their pit bull on the victim once they’ve done the deed?”
“Uh-uh. Somehow it just doesn’t pan out.”
“I’m kinda intrigued.”
“By what?”
“They didn’t hurt the fetus.”
“And that’s intriguing?”
“Your typical motive for someone who killed her because they resented her being pregnant. Jealous ex of her fiancé, or jealous ex-husband for her who wanted to take it out on her, get revenge on her for being happy with someone else.”
“That’s all we need to wave in front of the press. I don’t want this investigation to turn into a circus.”
“What else do we know about Carol?”
“Was about to get remarried. Not much contact with her ex. James Howlett.”
“He’s next on the list.”
“Why does that name sound familiar? Didn’t we just handle something on a trespassing charge of private property?”
“What, something he was charged for?”
“Hmmmm…” McCoy’s thick fingers raced over the keys of his PC.
“No.” Barton looked up from the hard copies and frowned.
“What, then?”
“An attack on his property. Recent. Man, how could I have forgotten it?”
“Who was it?”
“Have you ever had one of those days when a clue so good, and a motive to boot, just fell into your lap?”
“Not for a while.”
“Then get ready to buy the beer. That was the night, and the place, where Darkholme did himself in.”
Barton felt a frisson of excitement.
“Nice.”
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