Kathleen ran her hands over the sides of the base. The surface had been decorated with carved vertical lines, disguising the edges of what she realized had to be a shallow drawer on the left-hand side. If she hadn’t read about this exact thing in one of her great-aunt’s books, she never would have thought of it. Running her hand underneath, she found a latch the size of a wing nut. Turning the latch released the drawer. She pulled it out, and it resisted, squeaking slightly, the wood presumably having swollen with time. She managed to get it open only halfway and was reluctant to force it.
She knelt on the concrete floor, leaned over, and peered inside. There was something there that looked like fabric. With curious fingers, she eased the drawer all the way open. Inside was a drawstring bag made of some kind of coarse material, the kind she associated with feed bags. Her sense of anticipation heightened, she carefully widened the bag’s opening and looked inside. At the bottom of the bag was one item, a small metal key. She took it out and held it in the palm of her hand. So tiny. Not the right size for a house or a car. The key to someone’s diary, maybe? Or a very small cabinet? Her heart sank with disappointment. She’d been hoping for letters or documents or family jewelry. Something with meaning or value. This key could belong to anything. Chances were, she’d never find out what it was for.
She sighed, then closed the hope chest and walked out of the storage area, closing the door behind her. She put the key in the cash register drawer. Joe would be bringing in more items over the next week or two. With any luck, something he brought in would need this key. If that was the case, she’d be ready. Or maybe something in the house required this key, a curio cabinet or jewelry box. She’d ask Joe the next time they spoke if he had any ideas.
Kathleen turned off the lights, locked up the store, and headed down the sidewalk toward home. Now that she’d gotten that out of her system, the comfort of her bed sounded good. Going back to sleep was a real possibility. With any luck, she could get two to three hours before her alarm went off.
She was nearly home when a continuous reedy whistle pierced the night air. Pausing, she listened. There it was again, a whistle, more pronounced now. She’d never heard a bird that sounded like that, but living so close to the lake, she’d encountered all kinds of wildlife she’d never seen before. One evening shortly after her great-aunt had died, she’d sat on her porch, transfixed to see two cranes walk between her house and the neighbor’s, pause at the curb, and then casually cross to the other side.
When the piercing whistle happened again, her stomach dropped, an old fear settling around her. She clutched her keys, ready to use them as a weapon, and hurried to her front door. Her hand shook as she fumbled the key into the lock, and she darted a glance over her shoulder. Hurry, hurry, hurry.
Finally, the key turned, and the door was open. In a moment, she was inside, the door locked, her back against the wall. She peered out through the small window at the top of the door, looking out to the street. No one was there, but she knew what she’d heard.
That whistling. It was a person, not a bird.
And she had an idea of whom it could be. She could picture him, his eyes hooded, whistling in that creepy way.
Ricky. He was here. In Pullman.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
1983
Ricky found Miss Whitt to be the ideal landlady. From the moment he’d entered her front door, he made a point to call her “Aunt Lorraine,” and she giggled every single time. Her guest bedroom was more than comfortable and had the added bonus of a patio door that led to the backyard, all the better to slip in and out without detection. He took inventory of everything he’d brought with him to Pullman. Clothing. Shaving kit. Money. Ski mask. Handgun. Without even trying, the universe had gifted him with all the components necessary to win Kathleen back. It was a sign, he thought. The two of them were destined to be together.
To Miss Whitt, her new guest, Richard, was a recovering surgical patient who slept day and night. He told her that if the door was shut, he was not to be disturbed. For added insurance, he wedged a chair underneath the doorknob. With the help of a baseball cap and sunglasses, he was able to go into town and keep an eye on everything Kathleen did. Once she was home, he was right next door, able to keep a close eye on her.
That night, Ricky was already awake when the light went on next door in Kathleen’s upstairs bedroom. He watched the lights go on and off, following along as she moved through the house, ending with a lamp in the living room. He quickly got dressed to go outside and get a closer look. Was she expecting a middle-of-the-night visit from a lover? The thought momentarily filled him with fury, but then he calmed himself with the thought that this wouldn’t be Kathleen’s style. She was more the early-to-bed and early-to-rise type. Sometimes she didn’t even make it through the ten-thirty news. The idea that she’d have a nighttime rendezvous was unlikely. So it had to be something else. Maybe she just had a touch of insomnia and was going to drink some warm milk to settle herself. That was a trick his mother had taught her in the early days of their marriage.