Playtime (16 page)

   So Nielson doesn't have much to say besides the
same old bull about not interfering, and letting the investigation proceed in
its own way. He guesses he's lucky he got his guns back. If it had been
somebody besides Nielson, he would still be in a cell, and the guns would be
locked away in an evidence vault somewhere. 

 He doesn't know if he'd been allowed to see that
address on purpose or not. Or if Nielson was telling him the truth about them
ruling Sketch out. Nielson was a devious bastard. And he would have shot him
out there on the wall; Blaine could hear it in his voice when he hollered at
him. But he understood that. He would be the same way, he thinks. You don't
pull a gun out unless you are prepared to use it.   

 It is just after dawn when he hits the house
front door. He had called Todd the night before to let him know he had something
going on so he wouldn't worry. Of course he hadn't thought he was going to
spend the early morning hours in a jail cell. 

 Todd is still asleep, and Blaine prowls around
the house, flips the computer on, makes a cup of coffee, sits down to think about
it all. He rocks back and forth in the computer captain's chair. He replays the
night's events in his mind. His gut is saying maybe Sketch was not involved in
this deal. Everything about the way he had acted screamed innocent to Blaine.
Of this particular crime, anyway. He acted like he had something to hide, but
wow, who didn't? Everybody had some form of bony skeleton rattling around the
closet, was Blaine's experience. No, he had seemed genuinely puzzled at first
to see him. Blaine really didn't think he had remembered him. He thinks about
that for a minute, wonders if the guy could have been fooling him, decides it's
possible, if not likely. He just can't know for certain. He thinks about how it
felt when he had the Mag aimed at Sketch. The way time had slowed down and his
focus narrowed. It had felt like he had been caught up in something beyond his
control, like a slow-motion avalanche. He had known that if the guy made him,
he was going to stop him somehow. He tips back and forth in the chair, genuinely
happy it had gone no farther. 

 So where does all this leave him? What next? He
feels like Nielson cares about the case, but he has other cases, other
priorities too. Cash didn't seem to be the motive, so this guy might never call
the police again. He turns it all over in his mind, and his exhaustion must
have caught up with him because when he wakes up a few hours later, still
leaned back in the chair, Todd had tiptoed around him, left a note and is gone
again.   

 He gets up slowly and stiffly. It is about noon.
He guesses he could go take a look at Sketch's place. What else does he have to
do? He can't think of any other direction to take things. He closes his eyes
and focuses on Renee. Empties his mind of distraction and just listens. For
what, he doesn't know. Anything. He is at a point where desperation is setting
in. He had felt so strongly that Sketch was involved somewhere in this but is
really doubtful now. Two hours sleep is not making things any clearer for him.
He decides to go for a run even though he feels like a truck hit him. Not going
to sleep the day away while some bastard has his girl.   

 The back door rattles and Todd is home. 

 "Man, you were out," he says, putting two
bags of groceries on the kitchen counter. "Cutting zees in that
chair." Blaine nods, realizes that he hasn't thought of groceries in days,
as Todd puts away eggs and milk and a bunch of other odds and ends. 

 "Thanks, bro," he says. "I've lost
track of that stuff." 

 "No problem," Todd says. "Don't
worry about it. I got this. How about some breakfast?" 

 "No, I feel like crap. I think I'll go for a
run. Wanna come?" 

 "I'm going to eat. I'll tell you what: I'll
leave you some eggs in the fridge in case you change your mind." Todd is
rummaging through the bags, putting stuff up. He sneaks a look at Blaine.
"That's great news about Renee. Do you need some help on anything?"   

 Blaine considers that, shakes his head, "No,
I've got some things I need to take care of alone." He is thinking he will
go watch Sketch's house from somewhere. He's got a good pair of Nike binoculars.
He should take them. He doesn't want to pull Todd into that. "I know she's
still alive, someplace, just don't know where."   

 "Man, you're not going to get into any more
trouble are you?" his brother asks. "You know you can't go pulling
guns on people in Galveston and expect to get away with it. I'm surprised they
let you go this morning." 

 "How did you hear about it?" Blaine
asks. 

 "Nielson called me." 

 "What, asked you to rein me in?" 

 "More or less," Todd says. "What
do you expect? You and I both know when you pull a gun, bad things
happen." 

 "Guy didn't give me any choice," Blaine
says. 

 "See, that's what worries me," Todd
says, shaking his head at him. They are standing by the kitchen counter now,
staring at each other. "That you even think that. Stand back: let these
guys handle this. I know you love Renee. They know you love Renee. But if you
keep getting in the middle of their shit, things are going to go bad. You've
spent a few hours in jail. How do you think a few months would feel? Or a few
years?" Blaine stares harder, feeling the heat rushing to his face. 

 "Bad, man" he admits finally. "Like
the end of the world." 

 Todd puts his hand on his shoulder, gives it a
gentle squeeze. "That's right. I don't want to see anything worse than has
already happened to you happen." Blaine wills himself to calm down. At
least his brother gives a damn. That's a good thing, even if misdirected
sometimes. 

 "Okay, man," he says. "Don't worry.
I promise not to go off half-cocked again." 

 "That's all I'm asking," Todd says.
"Maybe leaving the guns at home would be a good idea for a while." 

 "Nope," Blaine says. "Not going to
do that. I've carried these things for years and I'm not changing my ways
now." 

 Todd shifts his eyes away, shrugs his shoulders. 

 "Nielson put you up to that too?"
Blaine asks. 

 "He mentioned that it wouldn't be a bad
idea," his brother says. 

 "I guess that all depends on where you're
sitting," Blaine says. "I've never had to pull one on a person before
in all the years I've carried them. I know that they are not for disputes or
when somebody pulls your chain in an argument. But if you really get into
trouble," he adds, cutting his eyes back at Todd, "you might wish you
had one. It could save your ass." 

 "I've never needed one yet," Todd says. 

 "That's great, and I'm happy for you and
hope you never do. But I'm keeping mine, just in case." 

 "Okay, Okay," Todd says, throws his
hands up. "I tried. I really didn't think I would get very far with that
anyway, but I thought I would try. Just don't do anything crazy." 

 "You saying I have a tendency to be dumb,
huh?" 

 "You know that's not it," Todd says.
"You've never been in a situation like this. Me either. I'm just afraid
that at some point your emotions could get the better of you, and something you
might regret later could happen. That's all I'm saying." 

 "Point taken," replies Blaine. They are
standing in the kitchen now, face to face, each with arms at his sides, fists
clenched in that classic confrontational stance. No finger-poking though.
That's when things had always gotten out of hand when they were kids, when the
finger-poking started. That was why they liked the arms down stance.   

 "Well, okay then," Todd says, and
smiles, trying to lighten things up. "So, let's go surfing, what do you
say?" 

 "Nah," Blaine says. "I'd like to,
man, but I really do have a couple of things I need to do." 

Sketch's house is way back on the east end. It is
set among all those streets he had detoured through the other day on his way to
Renee's. Swordfish, another fish name. 

 This street is set apart from the others, though,
fancier, with much bigger homes on larger lots. No direct access to the roads
the tourists use to get to the ferry. Tucked back and hidden away. Blaine had
forgotten this street even existed, though he had driven down it many years
back. The houses are quite a distance from each other. Blaine drives slowly
past the house address from Nielson's desk. It is one of those plantation-style
homes with the pillars going all the way up to the top of the second floor. The
lot has had dirt trucked in to raise the level up till it is some five feet
higher than street level, to give protection from storm surge during
hurricanes. The house is red brick with dark green shutters and white trim. A
drive wanders down the side and curves around the back, where Blaine catches
the glint off the waters of a pool. Wow. No wonder Nielson and the rest of the
cops hadn't wanted to pay attention to his ramblings about Sketch's involvement
in Renee's disappearance. This guy was seriously well-off. A house like this
would go for over a million, he thinks.   

 He sets up down the street, far enough distant so
that he can't be made out clearly with the naked eye. He can barely make
anything out himself from this distance, just fuzzy outlines.   

 But when he brings the binoculars up, everything
jumps into focus. It is like he is only feet away. His back window is tinted,
and he has those little shades on the side windows that block the sun pulled down,
so it is difficult for anybody to see into the truck from those directions.
That leaves the front, but there is nothing he can do about that. He is out of
view of the houses he is parked next to. It is the middle of the day so
probably not many people are home, though this is the sort of neighborhood
where folks would pay attention to strangers. 

 He watches for a few minutes, sees no sign of
activity at all. The house has lots of windows and he moves the binoculars from
one to another but nothing. This guy has some real money. Must have been
slumming when he saw him in the club. Blaine never would have guessed it from his
attitude on the sand. He had taken some serious shots and kept on coming.
Whatever he was, coward or wuss weren't valid descriptions. He was plenty
tough. Maybe that was how he had gotten the money.   

 He sits there for about an hour, and is starting to
worry about somebody in this type of neighborhood calling him in to the cops,
when a Beamer comes snaking out the big man's drive. He gets the binoculars up
and sees the now fairly familiar profile in the driver's seat. Alone.   

 Sketch backs out in the brown Beamer with a tan
roof, cuts the wheel and heads down the road the other way. Blaine has a moment
of indecision. Follow him or try to get a look in the house? He wouldn't have
the nerve to keep her in his home, would he? Blaine thinks that with a guy like
this, he might. Might think he is wealthy and powerful enough to get away with
that. He thinks about all the serial killer types. Charles Gacy had buried
about thirty bodies right around his home. Bunch of others had pulled stunts
like that. And so much of the time it took the cops a long while to cut through
all the investigatory mumbo-jumbo and legal rights and actually search their
places. 

 The car is becoming a small blotch at the far end
of the road. Blaine sighs and steps out of the truck and hits the button to
lock it, heads down the street. House it is. 

 He will just poke around, maybe look in a window
if he gets a chance, he is thinking as he walks towards it. He glances left and
right at the houses as he passes. Beautiful palms and landscaping. One place
with a crew of Latino men working on the lawn, wearing sombrero-style hats to
keep off the sun. One of them glances up at him, then right back down at the
earth he is shifting with a shovel. Not much curiosity there, Blaine thinks,
and keeps moving. 

 At the big man's house he goes up the front walk
to the door and rings the bell. If he drives back up now, he will just give him
some bullshit story about trying to apologize for the mistake and inconvenience
of the night on the sand. He might not go for it, but what is he going to do?
Call him a liar? Call the cops and say he is being stalked? He could, Blaine
thinks, but something about the way he had acted during their confrontation
said he wouldn't. For whatever reason, this guy didn't like the cops, which was
a surprise in itself. Most people who had achieved this amount of success or
wealth loved the law: would be hollering for them to straighten things out. But
this guy hadn't.   

 He rings again. Give somebody time to show up at
the door. He would bet a maid took care of this size house. Or maybe he didn't
live alone. Certainly has enough room for a bus full of people.   

 But nobody comes. He is reluctant to fool with
the knob, with all the potential onlookers in upstairs windows up and down the
street. After a minute more, he steps off the porch and heads around the side
towards the back yard. He casts his gaze at the house across the road and down
a bit but sees no sign of life there. Nothing the other way, either.   

 Then he is around the corner of the house and
partly sheltered from prying eyes. The back yard is surrounded by an eight foot
cedar fence, though most of the houses on the street are multi-storied, and the
second story in the one directly to the side of Sketch's house overlooks the
yard where Blaine is now. 

 He sees that with a glance, without slowing his pace,
as he looks for the back door. The pool is glinting blue in the sunlight, large
hot tub at a higher level, and water flowing into the larger pool down a stony slope.
Nice. 

 The back of the house is full of windows, too,
but he is sure a house like this has an alarm system and is reluctant to fool
with anything, unsure what he will set off. Some of the rich folks have alarms
that sound right at the police station, he has heard, though probably that is
bull.   

 There is a back door that leads into a kitchen
area. He can see in through frilly, translucent curtains that hang from the
corners of the windows. The pool circulation down the slope is making the
gurgling sounds water makes running over stone. The back yard is huge and
extends way back beyond the pool to a pool house. He could fit 10 of his houses
on this lot. He slips on a pair of super lightweight gloves he had brought from
the house. Just in case. 

 He eases up to the back door and rattles the
knob. Locked. He looks around. What now? He could bust a window and get in, but
probably an alarm will be going off somewhere. He looks farther down the side
of the house and sees sliding glass doors that look like they lead into another
bedroom. Maybe a place for guests when they swim. Heads down and pulls on the
handles. Locked also. He sighs again. Looks like nut-cutting time. Put up or
shut up. He has the .22 Mag in his pocket too. That would make it armed burglary
or some such, he is sure. The back yard is full of bushes, and he rolls over
behind one and stuffs the gun up into the branches. He stands back and checks
if he can see it. The holster he carries it in covers most of the metallic
gleam, and the leaves are thick and … bushy, and you can't see the .22 at all. He
steps back, looks again. The only person who would ever be likely to see that
gun would be a gardener trimming hedges. And his chances wouldn't be that good. 

 He is getting ready to move back toward the house
and take his shot when he hears a car engine, and he barely has time enough to
dive back behind the bushes and get out of sight when the Beamer comes roaring
up the drive and pulls to a halt next to the garage. The big man gets out and
looks toward the yard, and Blaine holds his breath hoping that all parts of him
are removed from view. But the big man only looks for a second then grabs a bag
from the passenger seat and heads for the back entrance, where Blaine watches
as he opens the door, punches his security code into the pad on the wall next
to it, and disappears into the house.