Already Taken (Laura Frost FBI)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Hank chuckled to himself, placing the card back on the mantelpiece. It was so lovely of them, really it was. And it had given him, old as he was, something to look forward to tomorrow.

He’d been dreading his birthdays ever since Anita passed. It always seemed like he was just another year older, another year colder. Anita had been the one to keep him warm. Their son, who was always ungrateful anyway and probably would have tried to put him in a home by now, had died at the age of forty of a heart attack, and just like that Hank was alone.

Not anymore, though. Now he had a whole extended family to brighten his days with birthday cards.

Well, only a few of them had. But still. It was more than enough for him. A month ago he’d been all alone in the world, and now all of a sudden he had people who cared about him again.

Hank took one last look at the card and then shuffled over to look at his calendar, hanging on the back of the kitchen door where Anita always liked to look at it when she was cooking. It was no use to her now, but Hank had left it there out of respect. Anita ran a good home. There was no reason for him to argue with her methods even now she was gone.

“Happy birthday, Hank old boy,” he muttered to himself, eyeing tomorrow’s date with glee. There it was, in his own shaky penmanship—first his birthday, etched on in block capitals the day he’d bought the calendar. Next to it, added only a week ago, the engagement: 3PM—WESTMORES—BBQ.

They were throwing him a barbecue for his birthday. He wasn’t even going to have to buy any food or do any of the cleaning—they’d offered to host the whole thing, to pick him up and then drive him home afterwards. Once they’d found out he was a distant relative of theirs—a great-uncle—they’d insisted on him not spending his birthday alone, no matter how many times he told them that was usual for him now.

Thank goodness they hadn’t listened.

Hank ambled over to his kitchen, their kitchen, really Anita’s kitchen, and started puttering through the shelves, looking for something to eat today. He didn’t have much appetite, which was fine; he wanted to save some room for tomorrow so that he could really enjoy it. He picked out a packet of mac and cheese which just needed hot water added to it, thinking that it looked just fine. Anita’s voice in his head, as always, warned him that it wasn’t exactly good for his heart. But he would eat it anyway, because there was no one to help out as far as more complex cooking was concerned.

As he poured the mac and cheese mix into a bowl, hard rattling shells hitting the porcelain, he glanced at his watch and saw it was past six-thirty already. Time for that blasted cat to come in and scrounge some food, if he was in the mood for it. He belonged to some little girl somewhere in the neighborhood who liked to dress him up in ribbons and sparkling collars, which the cat bore with a kind of injured dignity. He then came to Hank’s back doorstep as if to say that it was past time someone repaid him for his patience, which Hank did, in the form of scraps from his table and copious ear scratches.

He moved toward the back door, listening for the telltale scratch of the cat’s claws. There was nothing, but—wait—something, something different. There was a noise out there which was too big, too high, to be the cat. It had to be something bigger.

A human?

Hank frowned, moving toward the door again. What had he heard, exactly? It was cold out there, and he didn’t want to have to go out for no reason—it would get into his bones, the way it wouldn’t tomorrow when he could sit beside the barbecue and absorb the heat. Still, it was worth checking these things out. It was his home, after all. He didn’t want someone coming in, trying to steal Anita’s jewelry.

Hank moved slowly to the kitchen door, keeping an eye on the green space beyond. No sign of the cat that he could see. There was an area around to the side of the garage, where the trailing jasmine on the trellis blocked his view.

There was only one thing to do.

Hank opened the door, leaned out carefully. “Hello?” he called out. “If you’re still out here, you’d better go. I’ve called the police already.”

He paused experimentally, waiting to see if anyone would reply. Even better still, if someone would suddenly appear and jump over the fence to escape. There was nothing, however—not a single sound. Hank grunted to himself. Probably meant there hadn’t been anyone out there in the first place.

Now, where was that damned cat?

A chill dropped down his spine as he considered the possibility of the third option: that someone was there, and they weren’t put off by his bluff about the police, and they were just waiting to try and get inside as soon as his back was turned. Well, he wasn’t going to have that.

“Mr. Fluffyhead?” he called out. He hadn’t chosen the cat’s name, but in that moment, he did wish he had something less ridiculous to call out. “Where are you? Come here, tsk, tsk, tsk.”

No response.

Feeling a little braver, but knowing he had to prove to himself that the yard was empty before he could go back inside, Hank stepped forward. “I’ve got your snacks ready. Come on in, you dumb cat.”

Still nothing.

“Alright,” Hank called out. “I know you’re not dumb. You’re a very smart cat. Let’s go. Time for din-dins.”

He stepped forward, ready to open his mouth and call again, but—

He didn’t get the chance.

Something struck him out of nowhere, quick as a flash, before he even had the chance to properly register the fact that the rest of the yard was not as empty as he had hoped. Whoever it was must have been hiding around the side of the building, behind the jasmine—it was a man, he thought—and Hank was surprised to find himself on the ground, alarmed to realize that there was pain in his chest, not sure from what.

Was he having a heart attack? He’d read a lot about heart attacks. A lot of men his age had heart attacks. Anita had always been telling him about food like that mac and cheese—

No, not a heart attack. There was blood. Where was it coming from? From his chest?

Hank looked up at the man standing over him. He was… familiar, somehow. Hank frowned, trying to put together words in his mind, trying to string together an understanding of the situation. This man. He’d seen him somewhere, hadn’t he? Where had he seen him…?

He was holding something that flashed in the light of the sun—a blade—a long, tall blade—a sickle, Hank thought, grabbing the word like an anchor in the darkness and holding onto it. He held up his hands in front of his body, a silent plea.

It went unheard.

The stranger stood there, a strange expression passing over his face, something almost like a smile. Then that blade flashed down, and Hank tried to cry out but there was something wrong with his throat, and all he could think about as he watched the sickle come down again was that he was going to miss the barbecue after all.