Crazybone (22 page)

“That’ll be two hundred and fifty bucks,” he said.

“I don’t suppose you know an easy way to get past a dead-bolt lock.”

“Not my area of expertise. Whatever you do to get inside, you won’t have to worry about alerting the M.A.S. command center. Fay me and I’m out of here.”

I paid him. “I wish I had your hourly rate.”

“Sure you do. What you wouldn’t want are my expenses.”

“I’ll be in touch, George.”

“Uh-huh. Next time you’ve got a job for me, try to make it at least semilegal.”

“Why should I be different than any of your other clients?”

He waved and went away. I was glad to see him go. I liked Agonistes and most times I didn’t mind the mandatory raillery our relationship seemed to require, but I had little patience for it tonight. I was edgy about getting into the house, edgy about what I might find in there.

Dusk was approaching now and that meant I’d have to put lights on inside, something else that made me uneasy. I looped around to the rear, checking windows along the way; all of them were tightly latched. There was a set of steps leading up to a back deck. I climbed up there and tried the sliding-glass doors I found. They wouldn’t budge. Double-locked, likely — regular latch and a security bolt at the bottom or top.

No more time to waste. And only one real option anyway. I descended the steps and went around on the side away from Whiskey Flat Road. The branches of the heritage oak and a row of cypress shrubs separating the property from its nearest neighbor gave me as much privacy as I’d need. I picked one of the windows toward the back, the smallish kind that usually means bathroom; a shade was drawn over it so I couldn’t see inside. I waited until the wind gusted and made some noise in the trees and then drove my elbow in a short, hard thrust against the lower pane. The glass shattering seemed loud, but it wasn’t loud enough to carry. I cleared out shards with my elbow, widening the hole, then reached through and found the latch and raised both the sash and the shade.

Right: bathroom. I wiggled my way through, being careful of the broken glass. A child’s robe hung from the back of the closed door; a jar of bubble bath and a rubber Donald Duck bath toy sat on the edge of the tub. Emily’s bathroom. It made me feel like even more of an intruder, as if I were violating a place I had no right to be. Emily would have understood, but I wished just the same that I’d picked a different window.

I passed through her neat bedroom — stuffed animals dominated it, all shapes and sizes — and into a central hallway. I stood there for a little time, keening the air like a dog, getting the feel of the house. It didn’t feel right, but that could have been my keyed-up state, the fact that I was in the process of an illegal trespass for the third time in four days, even a reaction to the faint musty smell that develops in places closed up for more than a couple of days.

First action, then, was a quick preliminary search, opening doors and switching on lights and shutting them off again. Three bedrooms, three full baths, den, TV room, formal living room, family room, dining room, kitchen, utility room with washer and dryer. Computers. TV sets, VCR’s, stereo system with six-foot speakers, wet bar loaded with expensive Scotch, bourbon, and gin, fancy household gadgets, child’s toys and adult toys, fashionable clothing, a smattering of antiques — everything that illicit money could buy to take the place of faith, stability, unity, peace of mind. Expendable leftovers now. Throwaways. Emily’s hollow, inconsequential legacy.

Otherwise, the house was empty.

Orderly, clean, and empty — no signs of disturbance anywhere.

There should have been a small relief in that. Ever since yesterday I’d had a nibbling suspicion that I might find Sheila Hunter dead in here. Not the case, yet I couldn’t shake the not-right feeling. It was like a colorless toxic gas that you couldn’t quite smell or taste. Something had happened here. A violent act, possibly, despite the apparent lack of supportive evidence. Violence leaves that kind of residue, a psychic stain on the atmosphere. A touch of evil.

I prowled through the rooms again, stopping in the den and then the master bedroom to search closets and drawers and paper files. Nothing to tell me where Sheila Hunter might have gone, or who the third party involved in her disappearance might he. And all the while my sensitivity to the residue of evil grew until I was drawn so tight inside I could hear myself fast-ticking like an overwound clock.

Back to the front of the house. The residue seemed concentrated in that part; the hairs on my neck prickled as I walked through the living room. Not in there, though. Nor in the family or dining room.

Kitchen.

I flipped on the overhead track lights and stood in the archway, looking in. Big, open kitchen, usual appliances, wood-block center island with an electric stove top and tiled counter space alongside. Clean and tidy, like the rest of the house. Sheila Hunter was a far better housekeeper than her sister.

Nothing wrong, nothing out of place — or was there? The longer you look at a particular area, the more details your eyes pick out. The first one that caught my awareness was a toaster on the countertop next to the sink. Two pieces of bread in it, popped up, dark brown. Nearby sat a plate, empty except for a fork. Above a tiered pair of wall ovens was a built-in microwave with its door partway open. A paring knife lay in one half of a double stainless-steel sink; a copper saucepan was in the other half. I saw those last two things when I moved a few paces toward the center island.

I kept on going to the toaster, felt one of the bread slices. Hard, brittle — been there a while. I bent to peer first at the paring knife; the blade was clean. The saucepan had been used to cook something with oil or grease in it. Even though it had been rinsed out, a faint smeary ring showed inside.

Sidestepping, I poked the microwave door all the way open. Within was a tray full of a congealed substance that on closer inspection turned out to be macaroni and cheese. Heated but never taken out. Also there for some time.

Under the sink was a garbage bag; I dragged it out and stirred among the contents with two fingers. Couple of wads of paper towel, the carton the macaroni and cheese had come in, an empty package that had contained Ballpark Franks, and a shriveled, cooked or partially cooked hot dog. I lifted the hot dog out and examined it, sniffed it. Nothing wrong with it that I could tell. Heated and then tossed in the garbage.

Little things. By themselves they didn’t mean much, but when you added them all together...

I put the bag back where I’d found it, closed the cabinet doors. I was still humped over as I turned away from the sink, and the angle of my vision was just right for me to notice a faint smear on the blond-wood base of the island. It might have been grease or a food spatter, but it wasn’t. I knew what it was even before I flaked a little of it off on my fingernail.

Blood. Dried blood.

The smear was down close to the floor, near one of the corners. Sharp corners, this one nicked and gouged in a couple of places as if something hard had banged into it. Up close the marks looked relatively fresh. I checked for more blood residue, didn’t find any. The rest of the wood was clean, smelling of lemon scent, and the patterned linoleum floor underneath was also clean, as from a recent mopping. I got down on all fours and crawled around the island. The floor along the other three sides was not quite as spotless.

Away from me, against the baseboard under the bottom oven, something glittered.

I saw it as I started to get up. Whatever it was, it was tiny and yet it shone brightly in the track floodlights. I crawled over there and picked it up and laid it on my palm for a better look.

Thin piece of filigreed gold about an eighth of an inch long, bent on one end, jaggedly sheared on the other. Broken link from a bracelet or necklace, maybe. It hadn’t been down there long: no grit or dust to dull the polished surface.

Slowly I got to my feet. All sorts of things had begun to run around inside my head — facts, impressions, scraps of conversation dislodged from memory, irrelevancies that became relevant by short hop or quantum leap. My mind works that way sometimes, when it gets stuffed full enough — a kind of skip-around stream of consciousness that somehow sorts itself out into cohesiveness and clarity.

Dried blood and a broken gold link. Sharp corner, nicked and gouged, and a partly cleaned floor. Uneaten toast, uneaten macaroni and cheese. Half-clean pot in the sink, half-cooked frankfurter thrown away. Ballpark Franks — they plump when you cook ’em. DiGrazia’s Old-Fashioned Italian Sausages — new world elegance, old world taste. Roseanna, she says I got sausage on the brainhe sure wish she’d let me bother her a time or two. That’s all you ever think about, she says, your sausage. I can tell you this — she wouldn’t play the one time I tested the waters.
Cogliona
like that, hates you one minute, you talk to her right and the next minute maybe she changes her mind. Persistence is my middle name. Bada boom, bada bing, maybe she ends up sampling my sausage after all. Bombay Gin and Speyburn Scotch. Drowning herself in gin, as usual. I am a connoisseur of martinis, Charles, did you know that? I’ve got some really good twelve-year-old Scotch. She made his life miserable... cold-hearted bitch, someday I’ll tell her what I think of her. Out somewhere that required looking her best. Drunks are unpredictable, can’t tell what they might do. Bada bing, bada boom...

Little things, lots of them, and what they amounted to was something big and ugly. A chain reaction scenario of sudden violence, sudden death.

There was anger in me now, cold and focused. If my scenario was the right one, and I was reasonably sure it was, I had more work to do tonight. Hard work. Dirty work.

I went out of there to get it done.

Most businesses in the village were closed for the day; it was almost seven o’clock. The first open place I stopped at a liquor store, had a public phone outside, but the directory was missing. I went inside long enough to ask the clerk a couple of questions about Speyburn single highland malt Scotch. Then I drove on a ways until I came to a Shell station.

Two phone booths there, one with a tattered book. I flipped through the survivor’s white pages. There was a listing — an address on Ridgecrest Road. I had a map in the car that would tell me how to find it.

“He’s not here,” the woman said.

Her name was Lillian. She’d volunteered that information right after she opened the door, making it plain that she preferred her given name to her married one. Even in the pale porch light I could tell she had once been a beauty, the dark-haired, smoky type. She was still attractive at around forty, but there was a letting-go laxness to her facial muscles, a listlessness in her voice and movements, lines bracketing her mouth that had been deep-etched by the acid of bitterness. Behind her, inside the house, I could hear voices and laughter, some young and live, the rest canned — teenagers watching a TV sitcom.

“When do you expect him?” I asked.

“I don’t. He’ll be late, as usual.”

“Do you know where he is? It’s important I talk to him.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“No. It’s urgent. Really.”

Pause. “He said he had a business meeting.”

“Did he say where or with whom?”

“No.”

“So you haven’t any idea where I can find him?”

Another pause, longer this time. Studying me. I was making an effort to keep my feelings from showing, but some of the anger must have leaked through. A good thing, as it turned out.

At length she said, “What do you want to talk to him about?”

“A personal matter.”

“I see. An urgent personal matter.”

“Very urgent.”

Her faint smile had no humor in it; in the diffused light the lines of bitterness looked deep and blood-dark, like slash marks. She thought she knew what kind of urgent matter, that was plain. And it didn’t seem to bother her. If anything, she was pleased. Long-suffering and fed up, and I’d caught her in just the right frame of mind.

“Well, then,” she said, “I may have an idea where he is. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but he has a cabin up in the mountains off Skyline. It used to belong to his brother before Dennis moved to Texas. He goes up there sometimes.”

“On business?”

The faint smile again, so fleeting this time it was like a shadow across her mouth. “When he wants to get away from me and the kids. His private little retreat.”

“Can you give me directions?”

“It’s about fifteen miles from here.”

“I don’t mind driving fifteen miles.”

“You might have trouble finding it.”

“I don’t mind that, either.”

She told me how to get there, in some detail. I said then, “A few more questions before I go. What kind of Scotch does your husband drink?”

“Now why would you want to know that?”

“Speyburn? The expensive twelve-year-old kind?”

“That’s right. Nothing but the best for him.”

“Is he in the habit of keeping a bottle in his car?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Her laugh was as cold as the night. “He wouldn’t want to be caught without it in an emergency. Such as a sudden business meeting. So you’d better be prepared, not that you aren’t already.”

“Prepared?”

“If he is at the cabin,” she said, “he won’t be alone.”

Lillian’s directions were explicit enough, but as she’d predicted I had a little trouble pinpointing the exact location of the cabin. It was northwest of Greenwood, on winding Tenitas Creek Road just off Skyline; the area was heavily forested, the property screened from the road by pine and spruce, the night dark, windy. Shifting splinters of light winked through the trees, but it wasn’t until my second pass that I spotted the half-hidden driveway leading in that way. The drive made a dogleg to the left partway along so I couldn’t tell whether the illumination came from a window or some kind of outside night-light.