She ran past the pens and headed for the rambling farmhouse where porch lights still burned at nearly one o’clock in the afternoon. Where was Carla?
She opened the unlocked screen door and stepped inside. The front part of the house had been made into a kind of office that was more like an old country kitchen. The computer loomed on a great round table, surrounded by several wire baskets for records. There were books on animal care, assorted pens and pencils—Carla was not known for tidiness. Four wooden chairs surrounded the cluttered table that served as a computer desk. Carla’s desk loomed in one corner, a rambling thing with big drawers, but Carla liked to have everything at her fingertips. She knew “exactly where everything was.”
“Hello?” Tara called idly. “I’m here.” She draped her wet jacket over a chair and straightened the file folders. She cleared the area around the computer and prepared to continue her work from last week. She was anxious to get busy; she didn’t want to dwell on the meeting with Jem and the way he’d simply left her, the hurt and anger plain on his handsome face.
An eerie silence pervaded, mixed with the muffled braying of dogs. Maybe Carla was out in the back preparing the feeding run that Vanessa usually took care of. She herself had never done it; Carla had made it clear that Tara was needed in the office. In the two weeks since she had worked at the shelter, she’d been tied to the computer. Maybe Carla was in her quarters behind the burgeoning office. She wasn’t the welcoming type, though she hadn’t fulfilled the dire prophecies people had predicted. It was true that she watched her like a hawk, but with eyes more curious than critical. Sometimes a soft half-smile would transform her harsh expression. Then, catching Tara’s glance, she would look away.
The minutes passed. Something didn’t feel right. A rustling came from the hallway leading to the kitchen where the barred owl resided. Carla kept Gomer in a large cage while its feet and toes mended. Tara peered around the corner. The bird stared at her, angry eyes oddly glazed. It opened its beak as though it would say something, but only a strange guttural sound came out. She shivered again and kept her distance. She’d be glad when Carla released the owl. Who knew what diseases the thing might be carrying? She’d learned diseases could be passed from vertebrate animals to people. They were known as zoonotic diseases, but she’d had no experience with such things.
She settled herself in the chair by the computer and focused on the website. She had to calm herself after the encounter with Jem. Was he angry enough to leave her this time? If only she’d never heard of Stony Point, Maine. If only they hadn’t come here, and she’d never met Annie Dawson. And yet …
“Pay attention to that Annie Dawson; she’s got an honest heart.” Carla had said those words out of the blue recently—Carla, who didn’t even seem to like Annie, who didn’t seem to like anyone. It was strange.
Suddenly Boomer came scuttling in, his usually perky tail draping the floor. He dragged himself toward her on his crippled hip, whining all the way. He nudged her with his snout.
“Hello, boy,” she said gently. She frowned at his continual whining and the odd way he tossed his head. Perhaps he was in greater pain with his hip condition than they’d thought. She’d loved the dog from the minute she’d met him. “What’s the matter, boy?” He sidestepped awkwardly and returned to nudge her again. Was he trying to tell her something? She got up and followed.
Boomer led her to a partly closed door off the east end of the long hallway. He pressed his furry weight against the door, flinging it wide.
Tara sucked in her breath. There was Carla on her back on a rumpled bed. She lay eerily still, her complexion drained of color. She was fully dressed in jeans, and the floppy plaid shirt she often wore had become twisted on her stout, muscled body. Graying blond hair had pulled away from its tether, and a few strands strayed across her lined forehead. In that prone position she looked old beyond her fifties.
“Carla!” she whispered, drawing close to the bed but stopping short of touching her. Her arms were flung out and hung limply over the narrow bed. Her eyes fluttered briefly, and faint groans escaped her lips.
A cluttered table by the bed held spent tissues and glasses, a bottle of cough medicine and a sticky spoon. She’d had a slight cough when Tara had seen her on Friday. Over the weekend she must have gotten worse and was treating herself for some kind of respiratory problem.
“Carla, can you hear me?” Then Tara spotted the wrist that had been bandaged after the scrape with Gomer. Ugly and red, it had swollen to twice its size. She raced down the hall for the telephone and dialed 911. Quickly, she gave the location and described Carla’s condition. She told them about the owl and the bite and Carla’s swollen wrist.