The Code of the Hills Read Free Page B

feeling in Elsie’s stomach captured her attention. She hadn’t eaten all day, but was reluctant to lose her momentum. The McDonald’s down the road presented a solution, and she pulled into the drive-­through lane.
    â€œI’ll have a cheeseburger and a forty-­two-­ounce Diet Coke,” she told the voice inside the speaker box.
    â€œDo you want fries with that?” the box inquired.
    â€œNo,” Elsie said, then amended that. “Oh, what the heck. Yes, I’ll have a small fry. The size that comes in the little bag.” It was justified—­she needed some grease and salt to fortify her.
    She ate while she drove, keeping a sharp eye out as she searched for her witness’s neighborhood. Barton was not a big town, but she wasn’t familiar with this area. She pulled up in front of 985 North High Street.
    It was a peeling white American foursquare that had once been stately but clearly had suffered neglect and fallen into disrepair, and at some point was chopped into apartment units. Elsie pulled her county badge out of her purse, shoved the purse under the front seat, and grabbed her file. Taking care to lock the car, she thrust her keys in her pants pocket. She felt a little flutter of nerves; she considered herself a plucky gal, but something about this tumbledown house conjured up an image from an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Hopefully, her witness would not channel Norman Bates.
    Screwing up her courage, she headed for the door, nearly tripping on the cracked pavement path. She had to step carefully toward the sagging porch, where a jumble of makeshift mailboxes hung beside the door. She studied them, trying to determine which one might belong to her witness. The boxes bore peeling layers of Scotch tape and hand-­scrawled names, signs that the tenants did not stay at this High Street residence for long.
    She finally made out the name Taney on the mailbox for apartment 1B. In the building’s entryway and found a door marked 1B in black marker, gave the door a decisive rap and waited. No response. She knocked again, and waited again, to no avail. She counted to ten, then knocked a third time. Then a small commotion behind her, the rattle of a doorknob and angry murmurs.
    Hearing a harsh voice whisper “Hush your mouth,” Elsie whirled around as the door across the hall opened briefly and the occupant of Apt. 1A peeked out at her. “Can you help me?” she began, but the door closed as quickly as it had opened.
    Stepping across, she knocked briskly. When she got no response, she called through the door: “I don’t want to bother you, but I need to talk to your neighbor. Can you tell me who lives across from you? Please open the door.”
    She heard a hushed exchange within, followed by silence. After another moment, the door opened again and a woman stood in the doorway, glaring at her suspiciously.
    â€œWell, hello,” Elsie said in her friendliest tone. “I’m so sorry to trouble you on this awfully cold day, but I have an appointment with Mr. Taney, and I’m having trouble reaching him. Do you know him?”
    The woman looked at her as if she’d inquired after the devil. “What do you want him for?” she asked, an unmasked note of dread in her voice. Her face was skeletal, with an unhealthy pallor, and her long dark hair was lank. The smell of mildew in the woman’s apartment hit Elsie like a fist. “He’s not in here,” she added, though Elsie had not asked.
    â€œAl Taney is a witness in a court case next week,” she said, “and I want to talk to him. See, I’m an attorney at the Prosecutor’s Office; this is my badge.” She offered her ID to the neighbor for her inspection. The woman took it and gazed at it for a long minute. When she looked up at Elsie, her expression was less hostile.
    â€œSo it’s Al you’re looking for. You’re not here for