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She crossed her arms and tapped her foot, a habit she inherited from her mother that showed up whenever she was confused or conflicted. She bit her lip—thathabit was all hers—and finally sighed and pulled her phone and the pepper spray from her pocket.
It was probably nothing. The dispatcher would probably tell her, in a slightly irritated voice, that there was nothing to worry about but if she saw something else that concerned her, please call back.
It was only a few minutes. She would call the police, get this off her chest, take her mild scolding, and jog the rest of the way home with a funny story to tell Kyle when he inevitably woke up on her arrival. He would shake his head and say, “Oh, Kenny,” with his trademark exaggerated patience and they could both laugh and then make sweet and surprisingly intense love before she fell asleep in his arms.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“Hey,” she said, and the sound of her own voice was oddly comforting in the stillness of the night. “Hey, I’m sorry to bother you guys. This is probably crazy, but I’m running past the Sam Houston Memorial Cemetery on Olive Street, and I… this is crazy, but—”
“You said the Sam Houston Memorial Cemetery on Olive?” the dispatcher interrupted.
Her voice was all at once alert, the polite but bored tone gone. The fear which had fled Kendra upon hearing her phone call connect returned in full force, and her voice was thready and weak when she replied, “Um, yes. I, um, I heard a bell, and—”
“Ma’am, where are you right now?”
The alertness in the dispatcher’s voice had escalated to tension and Kendra’s knees began to tremble. “I… I’m just past the cemetery. I’m on the corner of Olive and Greenwood.”
“Ma’am, I need you to stay on the phone with me, okay? The police are on their way.”
Kendra nodded numbly. It wasn’t until the dispatcher said, “Ma’am? Are you there?” that she remembered that she couldn’t see her and said, “Okay. I’ll stay on the line.”
She gripped the pepper spray until her knuckles turned white and promised herself that she would never run alone at night again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Faith was in a funk after talking to Daniel Campanelli. She hadn’t lost anyone close to her the way he had, but she knew what it was like to feel hopeless, to feel that she could do nothing to change her circumstances and had to simply endure the tragedies life threw her way.
She had felt that way after Trammell hurt her. She recalled lying in a hospital bed and wondering if it might be easier to just end things rather than suffer sixty years of pain and uselessness. It was a terrible place to be, and she wouldn’t wish that feeling on anyone.
Turk nudged her hand. She looked down and saw his big brown eyes staring compassionately up into hers. She had met Turk at the hospital. He was recovering from his own injuries at Trammell’s hands, and if anything was as traumatized as she was.
They had gotten through that together. They would get through this case together as they had through several others. As they would through many more.
She reached down and scratched him behind his ear. “Good boy, Turk.”
Her phone rang. She saw the number and a chill ran through her, confirmed a moment later when she answered and Missy said, “Faith, there’s a report of a bell ringing at Sam Houston Memorial Cemetery. It’s on Olive and Greenwood Street just south of Bellaire.”
Faith put the phone on speaker and said, “Sam Houston Memorial on Olive and Greenwood?”
“Yes. Do you need the address?”
Michael tapped the name of the cemetery into the GPS of their rental as Faith spoke and the navigation popped up even before Missy asked about the address.
“No need,” Faith replied. “We’re on our way.”
“Perfect. Units are responding. Hopefully we get there in time.”
Michael spun the wheel and the SUV swung around, tires screeching. He accelerated in the direction of the cemetery and glanced at the nav, which showed an ETA of ten minutes. The way Michael was driving, they would shave a few minutes off of that, which meant, Faith hoped, that they would arrive at the same time or shortly after the police.
They made it in seven minutes exactly, and Faith saw three patrol vehicles. A fourth parked just as the three of them reached the cemetery and Missy got out of the driver’s seat. Her normally jovial attitude was gone, replaced by a tense and businesslike expression.
Missy nodded, a single, rapid bob of her head, then followed the three agents inside.
“Find him, Turk,” Faith said.
Turk immediately trotted ahead, nose to the ground. He searched for the scent, and as he looked, Faith talked to Missy. “Who called it in?”
“Local resident,” Missy replied. “Kendra Hearst. She’s sitting outside with the first officers on scene right now.”
