Garden of Evil Read Online Free Page A

at the moment.
    â€œWe talk every night; he writes every day, swears he misses me mucho. We’re muy simpatico ,” I said wistfully, “when we’re not together. But this time, Lottie, I think it’s really serious.” Sipping my Dubonnet over ice, I recalled the wire story. “Hear about the sheriff up in Shelby County? Shot dead with his own gun, supposedly by a woman. She got away.”
    â€œLover’s quarrel?” Lottie was always quick to link sudden death to sex. Most often she was right.
    â€œDidn’t sound like it. Wire story said he’d apparently arrested her. She’s young, teens or twenties. He’s a grandfather.”
    â€œMusta got careless,” Lottie said.
    â€œYeah. Never let anybody take your gun, that’s the first thing they teach rookie cops. Wonder what the heck happened?”
    â€œGot a notorious speed trap up there,” she said. “Nailing tourists comin’ off the interstate is a major source-a local revenue.”
    â€œMaybe she got stopped, had drugs in the car, or wasdrinking. What on earth could have made her go for his gun, then use it? She must be sorry now,” I said.
    â€œMaybe not.” Lottie shrugged. “Maybe she’s evil, somebody born bad.”
    â€œNo way,” I said. “Nobody is born bad. All babies start out innocent. Other people shape them, outside influences turn them into something dangerous and violent.”
    â€œI’ve seen it,” she insisted, shaking her head. “Some are born that way. They do bad things because it’s what they do. They like it. No other reason.”
    No point arguing, I thought, realizing I was hungry. “She headed south, according to the story.” I squinted at the menu in the dim light. “Could be on her way here right now. Just what we need, another cop killer.”
    â€œShelby County’s a long way off,” Lottie said. “And you know how cops are when one of ’em gits shot. Doubt she makes it this far. More’n likely she’s wearing metal bracelets by now.”
    Â 
    It was late when I drove home, fortified by a sandwich and a salad. The temperature was stuck at 90, the humidity smothering when I got out of the car. The surf pounded the sandy shoreline just a few blocks away, but no hint of a sea breeze stirred. I took out my key, walked through the quiet courtyard, and paused to gaze up at the Big Dipper hanging in place, its bowl pointed toward Polaris, the North Star.
    Somewhere out there, beneath that star-spangled black velvet stretch of sky, a woman was on the run, hunted-not in handcuffs. Somehow I knew it. Where are you? I wondered. Are you scared and alone? What are you thinking out there? My skin tingled with an odd sensation; perhaps it was the drinks, the heat, or both, but I felt connected, as though sensing her presence. I could almost hear her breathing.
    A sudden movement, a rustling in the dark, startled me. A figure watched from the shadows of the palms borderingthe building. “Who is it?” I demanded, instinctively taking a step back.
    â€œDidn’t mean to frighten you, Britt.”
    I breathed again in relief. My landlady, Mrs. Goldstein, age eighty-one.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” I asked, voice hushed. “What on earth are you doing out here at this hour? Where’s Mr. Goldstein?”
    â€œSleeping. But I couldn’t.” She lowered her voice. “It’s the water restrictions. The banana trees, you know how they need water. They’re burning up.”
    The stream from the hose she had dropped trickled into the scorched grass. The woman had sneaked out like a thief in the night to douse her little banana grove. “I’m conserving water in every other way,” she said, “but you said yourself, they’re better than supermarket bananas.”
    They are. My only reservation was that they exploded into perfect ripeness simultaneously, like