No Good Deed Read Online Free Page B

state-of-the-art in the early sixties. The cabinets were yellow enamel over metal, and there was actually a dusty red-checked curtain over the small window over the sink, which was full of dishes. The counter tops were clear, and there was an old-fashioned mixer that gave Sonora a pang. It was a big Bobbie, white enamel, with black trim. Her mom had one just like it when she was growing up.
    McCarty waited for them on the front porch, leaning against the rust-stained cinder block, arms folded. He had surrendered the denim shirt, and now wore a sweatshirt that said Hawley-Cooke Booksellers on the front. He waited with no sign of impatience while they went through the depressing bathroom, rust stains around the drain, and the small bedroom, which was dusty, and held nothing more than a double bed, walnut frame, white chenille bedspread, a small dresser and a red braided throw rug over the battered wood floor.
    He did not seem concerned at the number of times the uniforms tramped up and down the short hallway and went back through rooms, cabinets and hallways they had been through minutes before. He waited with infinite patience until the uniforms were satisfied. Raised an eyebrow at Sonora when she followed the uniforms back out on to the porch.
    â€˜Right this way, officers. Part two of the evening tour. McCarty’s barn.’
    The barn was small, eight stalls, well lit and clean, with a freshly swept asphalt breezeway. Sonora breathed in the tang of horse and fresh hay. Three of the stalls were occupied, and the horses nickered low in their throats when Sam and Sonora walked in. The doors were open on either side and the wind blew through, making her shiver.
    She opened a door into a tack room. Curious bits of leather and rope dangled from hooks on the wall. Pitchforks and shovels were wedged in a corner. A dark green feed bin hugged the front wall. Sonora lifted the lid – both sides were full of a yellow mixture of oats, pellets and corn. She picked up a sticky handful and smelled it, tasted it with the tip of her tongue.
    Sam looked over her shoulder. ‘Eat up, Sonora, I’m all out of Starbursts.’
    She rolled her eyes at him, wandered back into the aisleway, and slid a stall door open slowly, peering around the edge.
    â€˜Horse?’ Sam asked.
    Sonora gave him a look over her left shoulder. ‘Quit following me around and search the other side.’
    â€˜Why? What do you think is in the stall across from this one? A pig?’
    Sonora moved across in front of him and slid the door open.
    The horse, ankle deep in pinewood shavings, looked at them over his shoulder, then went back to munching from a rack of beige-gold hay. The stall was cozy, well bedded. Beads of water lined the lip of a bucket that had recently been filled with fresh water.
    Sam opened the next door. ‘Another horse, Sonora.’
    â€˜Stay with it, Sam. I’m going up in the hayloft.’
    She headed up wood slats nailed to the wall outside the tack-room door. The ladder was made for longer-legged people than Sonora – she had to stretch to make each rung. She kept going, slowly, thinking maybe she didn’t like heights.
    She pulled herself up and on to the wood flooring. It was dim in the hayloft, dusty, a layer of old hay over aged wood slats. A pitchfork rested against a splintered support beam, and strings of orange baling twine dangled from a nail. Hay bales were stacked to the edge of the loft, leaving an eight-inch ledge for walking.
    Cozy.
    Strips of dusky half-light filtered in through cracks in the wood. Sonora squinted. Looked for hay bales that were disturbed, coated with blood or bulging with body parts.
    â€˜Shit,’ Sam said, below her. She heard him moving in and out of stalls. Then footsteps, in the aisleway.
    Sonora grabbed hold of a support beam and looked over the edge of the loft. Majors and Hill, with McCarty between them. McCarty lifted a hand and waved.
    Sonora looked at her