I grabbed my bag and my bomber jacket, preparing to leave. I was almost out the door when something occurred to me. I retrieved my family album from the closet and then crossed to the desk drawer and removed the murder book and the index cards. I went out, making sure the door was secured behind me. I locked my armload of valuables in the trunk of Dolan’s car and then headed for Medora’s house. I was heartened by the lingering image of Dolan’s Smith & Wesson in the trunk.

25

The night was cold and windy, but the drive was so brief, there wasn’t time enough for Dolan’s heater to kick in. There was scarcely a building in Quorum more than two stories tall, so there wasn’t much protection from the blasts of chill air sweeping in off the desert. The sky was a brittle black and the presence of stars wasn’t as comforting as one might hope. Nature has her little ways of reminding us how small and frail we are. Our existence is temporary while hers will go on long after our poor flesh has failed.

I parked in Medora’s driveway. The house was dark except for one lamp in the living room. As I crossed the patchy stretch of grass I realized the front door was standing open. I could see the vertical strip of dull light expand and contract as the wind ebbed and flowed. I hesitated and then knocked on the screen door frame. “Medora?”

There was no sound from inside. I opened the screen door and called through the opening. “Medora?”

I didn’t like the idea of intruding, but this was odd, especially given my suspicions about an intruder of my own. If someone had read my notes and spotted her name, her house might well be the next stop. I pushed the door open and eased in, closing it behind me. The room was dark except for a small table lamp. I could see Medora on the couch, lying on her back, her hands folded across her chest. I drew closer. She was snoring, her every exhalation infused with the fumes of metabolizing alcohol. If she woke to find me hovering she’d be startled, but I didn’t want to leave until I knew she was okay. A half-smoked cigarette, resting on the lip of the ashtray, had burned down to an inch of ash before it had gone out. The ice in her highball glass had long since melted away. Her prescription pill bottles appeared to be full and the caps were in place. At least she hadn’t overdosed in any obvious way, though I knew her practice of mixing whiskey with painkillers was dangerous.

The house was cold and I could feel a breeze stirring. I crossed to the kitchen and flipped on the light. The back door stood open, creating a cross-ventilation that had drained all the heat from the rooms. I lifted my head and scanned the silence for any hint of sound. I remained where I was and did a visual survey. The back door was intact—no splintered wood, no shattered framing, and no broken glass. The windows were shut and the latches turned to the locked position. The kitchen counters were crowded with canned goods, boxes of cereal and crackers, packages of paper napkins, toilet tissue, paper towels, and cleaning products. It looked as if the dishes hadn’t been done in a week, though all she seemed to eat was cereal and soup. The trash can was overflowing, but aside from the mess, it didn’t appear that anything had been disturbed.

I glanced over at Medora, chilled by the notion of how vulnerable she was. Anybody could have walked in, robbed her, assaulted her, killed her where she lay. If a fire had broken out, I doubt she’d have been aware. I closed the back door and locked it. I toured the rest of the house, which comprised no more than one small, dingy bathroom and two small bedrooms. Her housekeeping habits, such as they were, made it impossible to tell if anyone else had been in the rooms doing a quick search.

I returned to the living room and leaned toward her. “Medora, it’s Kinsey. Are you all right?”

She didn’t stir.

I placed a hand lightly on her arm, saying, “Hey.”

Nothing. I shook her gently, but the gesture didn’t seem to register. She was submerged in the murky depths of alcohol, where sound couldn’t penetrate and no light reached. I shook her again. She made a grunting noise, but otherwise remained unresponsive. I didn’t think I should leave her in her present state. I looked for a telephone and finally spotted one in the kitchen, mounted on the wall near the hall door. I searched one drawer after another until I found the phone book. I looked up Justine’s number and called her. She answered after four rings.

“Justine? This is Kinsey. I’m really sorry to bother you, but I stopped by your mother’s house just now and found both doors standing open. She seems to have passed out. I think she’s okay, but I’m having trouble rousing her. Could you come over here? I don’t think I should leave her until you’ve seen for yourself.”