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“You’re hurt,” I say. “Can you tell me your name?” I add, “You’ve been hit on the head,” as if I need an excuse for asking his name.
The man’s gaze lifts in our direction. His pupils are huge, and his eyes are dull.
“Do you remember your name?” I say.
His mouth works, but it had started working before I finished the sentence. Is he answering the question? Or just trying to speak? No sound comes.
“Can you keep talking to him?” I say to Kit. “I’ll get a look at his injuries. See if it’s just his head.”
Kit hesitates, but then releases his grip on my hand. We’re still close, and I’m the one moving farther away. I can’t imagine this man leaping up and attacking, but if he does, Kit will be ready.
The man doesn’t seem to notice when I move away. I walk around the bush to where I can get a better look at his head. Before I can bend, I spot something lying a few feet away. It takes a moment to realize what it is, so incongruous in this setting.
“There’s a credit card over here,” I say.
Kit gives a strangled half laugh. “A what?”
“A platinum Visa. Oh, there are other cards, too.” I point. “Looks like his wallet is right there.”
“Fell out of his pocket when he got hit?”
“I guess. The credit card is closer. May I pick it up?”
He knows I’m really asking if it’s okay for me to take those two extra steps away to retrieve this possible form of identification.
Kit nods. I scoop up the card. It is indeed a platinum Visa, the sort even Kit doesn’t carry. Oh, he certainly has the credit rating. He just doesn’t like the flash of a high-end card. This guy does. Gold watch. Multiple platinum cards, from what I see scattered beyond. And when I see the name, I am not surprised.
“John Sinclair,” I say. “The security guy.”
Kit makes a noise in his throat. “Exactly how wrong would it be to just get up and walk away?”
“If I knew for certain he murdered Nate, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”
The man—Sinclair—doesn’t react. His head is wobbling, like that of an infant struggling to focus. I’m about to toss aside the card when I stop. I motion to Kit that I’m getting the rest of the wallet contents, and he nods. I do it quickly, scooping up the wallet and cards and shoving them into my pocket. We need all the data we can get on this asshole. Even if he didn’t kill Nate, he’s done so much more, and he is going to pay—
I see the wind chimes again. See the woman’s head staked on a stump.
Rachel Rossi.
His wife.
Whatever happened here, he was hit on the head, so severely that he was left for dead under a tarp. Then his wife was killed, her body torn into pieces and—
Don’t think about that. At least it wasn’t the Abbases. I have enough on my conscience already.
I move toward Sinclair. He’s still looking in Kit’s direction, but Kitis hunkered down, his face set in a look of barely contained fury that lessens only when he glances my way to be sure I’m all right. Then I’m on the other side of the man, crouching. Kit tenses, but Sinclair gives no sign of noticing me. He’s beyond that, his head injuries too severe.
I frown and lean closer. Kit tenses more, and I say, “There’s no blood on his scalp.”
Kit lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Might be a closed wound.”
“Then where’s the blood coming from?”
His wife.
Rachel.
Was Sinclair knocked out before she was killed? Before she was torn apart? Or did he witness that?
