Night Relics (34 page)

Klein had reacted hard to the mention of the woman in the black dress, clearly lying about her being related to the damned
maid. Hell, the maid was a Mexican, and this woman was as white as snow, literally. There was something here to take advantage
of, but he didn’t know what.

On impulse he pulled into the parking lot of a Ralph’s grocery store. An idea had come to him—something so evident that he
was astonished it had only now occurred to him. He got out of the car, holding his hair flat with both hands as he jogged
to the double doors, which swung aside to let him in. In the produce section stood a wooden cart covered with potted plants
and surrounded by bouquets of flowers.

He didn’t want anything cheap, like one of the bundles of daisies and fern leaves. The roses were sorry-looking, which was
too bad, since roses had romantic connotations. Finally he settled on a mixed bouquet, mostly purple and yellow with a lot
of iris and marigolds, already arranged in an attractive glass vase.

The checker smiled at him, obviously aware that the flowers were for someone special. He smiled back after counting the change,
then plucked a violet-dyed carnation out of the bouquet and handed it to her. “A pretty lady like you is one of God’s little
flowers,” he said, winking broadly, and strode out smiling and self-satisfied. She’d remember him for that—the gallant stranger
who thought enough of another stranger to show her an act of kindness. What he had said sounded like poetry to him. It had
just come to him—an inspiration. Maybe later this evening he would tell Beth about it, playing it down a little bit so he
didn’t sound conceited. Or maybe it would be better just to say it to
her
, as if he’d just then made it up. That was a side of him she didn’t know about, a sensitivity that would be attractive to her,
she being a woman and all.

Twenty minutes later he passed O’Neill Park, which was dark and deserted. The post office slanted past on the left, and he
could see the sign for the steak house ahead and the
little cracker-box general store beyond that. He slowed down, making up his mind finally and forever.

It would be stupidly dangerous going back up to Beth’s tonight and just hanging around, waiting. She might expect that, be
listening for it. If she caught him outright it might mean the end of their relationship. She wouldn’t give him a chance to
explain. And if she brought the police in, the whole deal with Klein would be in jeopardy.

The flowers, though, would be his ticket. That had been the idea that had struck him on the highway, right before stopping
at Ralph’s. What he had to do, obviously, was knock on her door, not as a stranger but as a friend bearing a thoughtful gift.
There was no law against that. He would explain that he happened to be in the area, and that he was still interested in hearing
about the place owned by her boyfriend. That was good—his using the word
boyfriend
. He wasn’t any kind of threat that way. The flowers weren’t meant as some sort of romantic ploy; they were a gift from one
seeker after beauty to another. If he could merely talk to her, she would see what it was he felt, what he was willing to
sacrifice for her.

He pulled off to the side of the road a block below her house and cut the engine. Very neatly, in his best hand, he wrote
“From an admirer” on the little square card that thrust up out of the bouquet on a plastic prong. Immediately he regretted
it, thinking that probably there was something better, something that implied more of the deep feelings he had for her. But
it was too late, and he climbed out of the car, walking up the road and carrying the vase full of flowers, trying to shield
them from the wind. Her son would be already in bed. The two of them could have all the privacy they needed. Still, he looked
behind him down the street, relieved that as usual it was empty.

He realized he was nervous, that it had been years since he’d come calling on a woman like this—making love to her, in the
old-fashioned sense of the word. Perhaps a little bit of nervousness on his part would appeal to her—a
woman liked a man who was shy, a little unsure of himself. But his hands were shaking, and that wouldn’t do. It looked too
much like fear. And he had to have something in his mind to say—something quick and good. What? The thing about the flowers?
What he had said to the checker at Ralph’s? He tried to get the sentence right in his mind, to be able to say it in a way
that sounded spontaneous.

He decided that it would be good to check things out first, have a look around, see what lights were on, what she was doing….

In a moment of uncertainty he loped across the lawn and into the shadows along the driveway. His heart pounded, and he broke
out into a cold sweat, like a teenager asking a girl out for the first time. Part of his mind warned him that he was risking
it all again, that he had to control himself, that there was a right and natural way to do this. But he took a couple of steps
down the driveway anyway, then, despite the danger, he stepped out onto the moonlit gravel to see whether the light was on
again in her bedroom. It wasn’t. The house looked dark, as if she weren’t home. But her car was there in the drive; she
had
to be home.

He hurried down toward the backyard, keeping to the shadows, until he could see past the corner of the house. Moonlight bathed
the backyard, and in order to stay in the shadows he was forced along the wall of the garage toward the back fence and the
shelter of the big avocado tree. Somehow his certainty that she would appreciate a late-night caller had abandoned him. How
late was it, anyway? He looked at his watch—nearly ten.

Then he saw that there was a light on, after all—in the kitchen. She was up and about still, probably doing domestic chores.
He angled up along Klein’s fence, thinking that maybe he could see her through the kitchen window, just get a glimpse of her…. He
knew right then that there was no way he could deliver the flowers himself. That was presuming too much this late at night.
He would leave them for her—a bit of romantic mystery.

There she was, moving in front of the window, working at the sink. The window was elevated above the narrow side yard, and
the angle made for a bad view. She evidently hadn’t changed into her night clothes yet. If only he could get up onto the fence…
It was possible, but he’d be too damned visible in the moonlight. She’d see him, and that would be it. What
was
she wearing? He didn’t recognize her blouse, but it clearly was too masculine for her. And the colors were all wrong. He
shook his head. That was something he could share with her—his knowledge of colors vis-à-vis one’s astrological sign and basic
physicality.

She moved away, out of the window, and he stood for several minutes holding the flowers and staring at the kitchen cabinetry
above the stove, waiting for her to return and worried that by waiting he would miss something going on in some other part
of the house. She might even have gone into her bedroom…. He hurried out of the side yard, pressing himself along the wall
of the house, ducking under the curtained service porch windows and running quickly through the ring of porchlight. He stopped,
in the shadows again, his mind flying at the sight of the back door. He set the vase down and got down onto his hands and
knees, crawling across the grass to the porch, up the concrete steps. With a trembling hand he reached up and tried the knob.

The door was locked. He pushed on it a little to see if it would give, careful to make no noise, but it was firm now, no play
at all. A wave of relief swept through him, the knowledge that the lock had prevented something from happening that shouldn’t
happen, something that was dangerous, that wasn’t at all what he wanted to happen. He started to picture it in his mind while
he crawled backward into the shadows again: Beth coming out of the bedroom carrying her night things, heading, probably, for
the bathroom, surprised to see him, but pleased….

Then all at once he realized that he hadn’t covered his hands when he tried the door. Fingerprints! Hell! Crouching
in the shadow of a pair of bushes, he fought to control his sudden panic. The worst damned mistake! Jesus, he had to watch
it! Another slip like that…

He decided to take the chance of wiping the knob clean, but just then the light came on in Beth’s bedroom, and he stood up
carefully, pressing his lips together, suddenly light-headed. He
must
see her tonight. He’d spent all this
time
, taken risks! He picked up the vase and tiptoed across to the back porch again, setting it down at the corner of the landing.
It was fairly well sheltered from the wind. She’d find them in the morning, and if she was as bright as he knew she was, she’d
put two and two together. Maybe it would be the perfect icebreaker after all.

He would chance one look through the window. Nothing risky. With blinds like that there was almost always a place to see through;
he knew that from experience. This time he’d be careful. No more surprises. He started out, moving in a crouch, the wind blowing
his hair back. The bedroom light blinked out. Damn it! He bit his lip in frustration. Momentarily another light blinked on—the
bathroom? Could he reach the bathroom window? It would mean revealing himself in the driveway, but he was willing to risk
that. He looked around for something to stand on, then remembered the couple of broken-down redwood chairs beneath the avocado,
and set out across the yard after one.

At that moment a light came on in Klein’s yard, and then just as quickly went off.

He scrambled into the shadows behind a low-hanging limb. Damn Klein! If the bastard was out snooping around again and screwed
this up … The flowers! Christ, he’d find the damned flowers and wreck everything!

He listened, watching the fence hard. There was enough moonlight so that he’d easily see someone moving beyond it. Was there
movement? The sound of voices? He was suddenly certain that whatever Klein was up to had nothing to do with him, that this
had to do with what he’d seen that afternoon—the hippie woman in the black dress. He eased
out of his hiding place, scuttling along the fence to the side yard again, where he could get a better view of Klein’s. Carefully,
very carefully, he stood up, peering over the top of the redwood slats.

Klein stood near the pool, his hands grasping the wrought-iron fence, looking out onto the windblown hillsides. Beyond him
the hills were alive with moving shadows. He stepped toward the gate, unlatching it and swinging it open just as the woman
in the black dress appeared, obviously having made her way down along the trail from the ridge. She hesitated momentarily—perhaps
the two of them were speaking—and then she followed him down the concrete path toward the darkened poolhouse. Together they
went in, closing the door behind them.

Pomeroy licked his lips, thinking for a moment. Then he turned around and ran, moving as quietly as he could, straight past
the bedroom and bathroom windows, both of which were dark now. There was a light on in the kitchen again, but it didn’t attract
him. Another brilliant idea had come to him, and he needed a telephone, right now.

H
E STRODE UP TOWARD THE RIDGE ALONG THE WEED-EDGED
track of sand and rock, sweating despite the wind that swept down off the ridges and filled the night with a rush of sound that had an almost physical presence, like the shifting of rocks deep in the earth. The forest canopy danced against the moonlit sky, and the trail was littered with the brittle, broken-off limbs of alders and sycamores.

Soon he climbed above the trees. The chaparral on the hillside was a jittering sea of dry vegetation glowing silver in the
moonlight. He saw the canyon stretching away behind and below him, swatches of it dark with trees, the road a dusty ivory.
His breath wheezed in and out of his lungs, and his shoes bit into his feet. The trail slanted downhill, and he broke into
a run, slipping on the loose dirt and scree, falling backward and catching himself on the palms of his hands, barely feeling
the rocks rasping against his flesh. He scrambled to his feet and went on, running again, dark within himself, his mind open
to the night and the wind like a derelict, roofless house.

The village of Trabuco Oaks lay below the ridge, a half dozen lamplit houses clustered near the general store. A narrow dirt
lane wound between them, turning into the carriage drive that led to the gates of the Parker ranch. The ranch house itself
was dark, and the sight of it unlit filled him with suspicion. Was the old lady even home, or was she away in Los Angeles
on one of her outings? The bunkhouse sat at the edge of the orchard, a short distance behind the house. It was a rough structure
of unpainted pine boards, with long eaves overhanging a porch. A light shone through the side window—the flickering glow of
candles.

His bones felt dry and brittle, like sticks, and dry leaves swirled around his feet as he hunched forward, half running and
half sliding down the slope. It was as he had feared. All of it true. By Christ, it would all come to an end now! He looked
at his hands. The moonlight made his flesh look ghostly white, and for one vague moment he wondered why his hands were empty.
He ought to be holding something. Whatever it was he could almost feel it there, pressing into his palms. He looked around,
possessed with the dreamlike feeling that he had been there before, stumbling down this rocky slope toward some awful destiny.
In his mind he could see the shadow of that destiny—a man’s profile against a candle-lit wall, a scream in the darkness….

The moon and wind seemed to make the nighttime flicker, and he saw things in a fluttery half-light. Leaves jerked past and
the landscape wavered in a staccato dance. He found himself at the edge of the garden, his feet half-sunk in the newly tilled
soil. He heard a horse whinny and fought against dizziness as he crept past an irrigation stand-pipe half-full of moonlit
water. He leaned against the rough wooden wall of the bunkhouse. There was the sound of a woman’s voice within, low, almost
a whisper, yet audible above the wind. He strained to hear what she said, but heard a man’s laughter instead.