The Color of Light (8 page)

“Banging on the door, calling for you. Where are you?”

“On my way over. Sorry.”

“Should I open the door?”

“Definitely not.” He coughed. “Maggie, do me a favor and go back inside. Don't watch.”

“If you say so.” But I was concerned that Lacy might hurt herself, so I slipped into the shadows and watched her from a side window. After a few minutes she wore herself out and slumped down onto the porch with her back against the door, and wept.

Kevin arrived shortly after that in his unmarked police car, argued with her for a moment before he took her by the upper arms, set her on her feet, and marched her down the front steps and strapped her into the front passenger seat of his car. Before he got in on his side, he looked back at the house, searching for something he apparently did not find.

I stood there in the dark, feeling like an intruder into a very private world as the taillights of Kevin's car faded into the night. I now knew who had been in the room with Kevin when I spoke with him on the phone that afternoon.

Out of habit,
whenever I visited my parents, I slept in my old bedroom, though there was nothing left of me, or of mine, in that room. Long ago, my single bed was replaced by a double, the walls were painted and new curtains were hung. It was only when the lights were out and I lay there in the dark that I felt I was back in a familiar place.

Light from the street, interrupted by the leaves on the trees in the backyard, made the same blue-gray lace on the ceiling, framed by the skewed, angular shadows of the windowpanes, as always. I fell asleep listening to the usual lullaby of night sounds: a neighbor's dog, the occasional car or a back door closing, the creaks and groans of the old house settling, wind through the branches of the sycamore below my open window.

Sometime, deep in the night, I jolted awake, aware that something in the rhythms of the night had been disturbed. I sat up in bed and listened, heard nothing, but got up anyway, feeling uneasy. Ever since my daughter was tiny, I have always slept with the bedroom door ajar so that I can hear the house. I can't sleep otherwise, especially when I am alone. Barefoot, I tiptoed to the door and peered out into the hall. The hall was lit only by street light coming in from the window at the far end, but I could see that no one was there.

Dad, for his own peace of mind, had placed a mirror in the stairwell positioned so that he could see the downstairs hall all the way to the entry and the window in the front door without going down the stairs. I crept along the side of the hall, avoiding the squeakier center, until I could see into the mirror. There was still no sound, but I could see a disturbance in the pattern of shadows coming from the door to Dad's den; someone was in there. When I heard what sounded like a drawer being slowly opened I slipped into the nearest bedroom, my brother Mark's, and dialed 911. In a whisper, I gave the dispatcher my address and told her that someone was inside the house. She told me to stay on the line and to stay upstairs, out of sight. I told her I would stay out of sight, but I needed to hang up so that the intruder wouldn't hear the phone or see brightness from its screen. She was protesting when I turned off the phone and dropped it into my pajama pocket.

I waited to see if I had already alerted the intruder before I went back out into the hall where I could see into the mirror again. Shadows shifted along the floor outside Dad's office as someone moved about inside. Suddenly, a narrow shaft of bright light flew out through the gap between the doorjamb and the door's hinged edge, showing me, roughly, where in the room the burglar was; near the desk.

After a while, the intruder either grew more bold or more desperate to find whatever he was looking for—there was nothing of value to be found, other than some of Dad's books—and made the occasional noise moving things around. Maybe he made enough noise that he didn't hear the police pull up outside.

I called 911 again, filled in the dispatcher who answered, and told her where the intruder was and that the front door was locked. I asked her to tell the officers that I was coming down to open the door for them. She told me to wait, but already the noise from the radios on the shoulders of the two patrolmen who walked up onto the porch had alerted the person in the den. I heard him unlatch and open a window.

I flipped on the stair lights, and holding up my hands so the police looking in through the windows could see they were empty, ran down the stairs and unlocked the door.

“He was in the den,” I told the officers, pointing the way. “He may have gone out the window.”

There was a sudden cacophony of neighborhood dogs behind our house, the growing ruckus a good hint about the direction the intruder had taken. I was told very firmly to stay put by one officer while the other radioed for backup as he rushed into the den. Lights came on inside. And I stayed put.

Porch lights went on next door at the Lopers', too. I muttered, “Shit,” and turned on ours as well, as two more black-and-whites pulled up to the curb, light bars flashing.

Before anyone got around to talking to me, there was a circling chopper overhead, lighting up the neighborhood with its big night-for-day spotlights. After explaining what all the boxes were about, and after agreeing not to touch anything, I was asked to look around the den to see if anything was missing.

Several of Dad's desk drawers had been left hanging open.

“I emptied the desk earlier today,” I said. “There was nothing to find except maybe a stray paperclip.”

Mystified about what anyone would want in that room, I pointed to the stack of boxed books the university had selected. “Some of those books have value for a few connoisseurs, but they weren't touched. The computer is a good one, but it's a few years old. And it's still here. The TV, ditto. I have no idea what anyone would want in here. Unless it was someone who was just shopping and got interrupted before he could look elsewhere.”

“You didn't see anyone?”

I shook my head. “I saw his—or her—shadows, and saw that he had a flashlight, and I heard him. But, no, I didn't come down the stairs and introduce myself.”

“Were the doors and windows locked?”

“The doors all were,” I said. “I thought all the windows were, but I can't swear to it.”

The questioning officer, Bo Peng, just nodded as he looked around.

Right away, I thought of Larry. But Kevin knew already that he had been coming into the yard, so I decided that it was best to answer Officer Peng's questions without volunteering anything, and trust that Kevin would know what to say about Larry.

The search moved outside very quickly, following the intruder's ­escape route across the backyard and probably over the fence, then, according to the first barking dogs, down the flood control ditch behind our house, headed toward the bottom of the hill. Once the ­police arrived, it seemed that every dog in the neighborhood had joined the chorus.

Officers searched the entire house and yard, making sure the intruder wasn't there. When they were certain he was gone, and hadn't left a friend behind, Officer Peng checked all the doors and windows again, wished me good night and left.

For the rest of the night, sleep eluded me except for short naps full of bad dreams. I was hyper-aware of every sound, until about five when the neighbors began to stir. Comforted by the gentle racket of garage doors, the paperboy, and the heels of early dog walkers along the sidewalk, I fell into a deep sleep that lasted only until the trash trucks came up the street about two hours later.

First thing that Friday morning, I went for a run to clear my head. The day was still young, but already heat was building in the East Bay, drawing ocean air over San Francisco like a cold, gray shroud. Berkeley, in the north, was clear and it was still cool enough for an uphill sprint. I ran across the bottom of Grizzly Peak and over the few blocks to Indian Rock Park, where Mrs. Bartolini's body was found.

Indian Rock Park is a volcanic outcropping of stark gray granite that juts up out of the middle of a green hillside neighborhood; it is barely one block square. We used to play there as kids. Great for hide-and-seek and climbing, and sometimes just for hanging out. I knew from the Polaroid I found in Dad's desk that Mrs. Bartolini had been dumped near one of the park entrances. At that place, there are a park sign, a bike rack and a drinking fountain. A set of steps hewn into the granite rises from that point to give rock climbers access to the tallest of the volcanic towers. Though Mrs. B lay only a few yards from the street, she had been placed in a sort of bowl formed by large boulders so she would not have been visible to passersby.

During weekends, the park is packed with rock climbers and kids and family picnics. But on a school day, it would have been deserted except for the occasional dog walker, or soul looking for a place for quiet contemplation, or kid ditching school. There are no rest rooms and there are vigilant neighbors close by, so the park is not attractive as a haven for homeless people.

We had continued to play among the rocks after Mrs. Bartolini died, though never alone. I don't remember anyone being afraid as much as titillated when we saw some blood on the dirt where her body had been. There wasn't very much blood and it disappeared soon after, probably washed downhill during the next rainstorm. With great ceremony, we built a small stone cairn as a memorial at the place where the blood had been, and for a while remembered to lay flowers on it. At some point, the cairn was dismantled by some boys playing caveman war, and no one rebuilt it. I won't say that we forgot her, because we didn't. But I think we began to forget to remember her link to the place.

I took a drink from the nearby fountain and walked over to the site, scuffed the dirt with my toe, expecting what? A magic clue? Nothing turned up except some buried cat droppings.

The steps cut in the granite took me up to an overlook. From the top, I could not see the base of the rock where our cairn had been, but I could look down into the yards of several of the houses below. People in those yards, though they could see the taller towers and might have seen people coming and going on the street, would not have been able to see Mrs. Bartolini.

On my way down, I saw a cross chiseled with care and precision in the granite directly above her resting place. Someone had made an effort. Someone remembered.

A fresh breeze came up off the Bay. Chilled, I started for home. When I turned onto the top of our street, I saw Chuck Riley in full security guard uniform with his shoes shined and his service Beretta fastened on his belt, walking down the hill in front of me, going toward his house. Out for a little morning stroll, a visit to a neighbor's house before work, passing out Mary Kay catalogues for his wife, in full regalia? Why not, I thought. Once a cop, always a cop.

A car came down the hill behind me. The driver—I don't know who it was—called out, “Morning, Maggie” as it passed me. Chuck heard, turned, and headed back up the street toward me.

“Out for a run, huh?” he called out. “Nice morning for it.”

“Very nice,” I said, slowing to a walk. “You on your way to work?”

“Pretty soon.” Chuck reached the end of our front walkway before I did and waited for me. “What was all that excitement up here last night?”

“I had a break-in,” I said, still breathing hard.

“I'll be damned. They take anything?”

“Other than my peace of mind, no, not that I've found,” I said, sopping up my face on my sleeve. “But there isn't much left in the house that's worth taking.”

“Did you see who it was?”

“No. Just shadows. I don't know how he got in, but it looks like he went out over the back fence.”

“That would take some doing, wouldn't it?” he said, grinning broadly. “Probably some punk kid, out looking for anything he could find. He was probably more scared of you than you were of him.”

“Small comfort,” I said.

“One way to get your peace of mind back is to install a good floor safe,” he said. “I can connect you to a reliable dealer, probably get you a nice discount.”

“I'll think about it,” I said, but wouldn't. The Rileys, as I remembered them both, always seemed to have something to sell or a discount they could arrange for you.

“I need to get going,” he said. “But if you have any more trouble, don't hesitate to give me a call, Maggie. I'm just down the way and I can be here in a hurry. The neighbors have always known they can call on me any time of the day or night if they need a little help.” As emphasis, he patted the service revolver on his belt.

“Thanks,” I said. “I'll keep that in mind.”

“And give that floor safe some serious thought.” With a wave, he turned and walked back toward his home.

After a quick shower, I fired up Mike's pickup and started making deliveries, grateful for a reason not to be alone in the house. Books went to the library, clothes to the thrift store. And two big boxes piled high with fresh garden vegetables went to a soup kitchen in the basement of an old church in downtown Oakland.

Juggling the heavy produce boxes, one on each arm, I managed to get down the back stairs and into the large community room without either falling or dropping anything; my arms were sore from lifting and carrying the day before.

As I set the boxes on the first table I came to, I heard a familiar voice call out.

“Hey, McGurk.” Father John, once my parents' parish priest, leaned through the service window from the kitchen. He had a white paper cap on his head and an apron over the jeans and polo shirt he wore that day instead of his usual white cassock, looking fairly convincingly like kitchen help. “How long since your last confession?”

“I don't know, Padre,” I said. “What year is this?”

“I thought so.” He grinned at me as I rubbed a kink out of my arm. He looked fine, a little pale, thinner, certainly older. I hadn't seen him since my sister's funeral six years earlier. “What'd you bring me?”

“Green beans, zucchini, yellow squash, carrots, potatoes and tomatoes,” I said. “Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.”

“Bring it in, let's have a look.”

I carted the boxes into the kitchen and set them down next to the big stainless steel sinks. Looking around the empty kitchen, I asked, “You all alone?”

He glanced heavenward, grinning. “I am never alone, child. But Cook is AWOL this morning, so yes, no one is here except me.” He handed me a paper cap like his and an apron to put on. “He's a good cook, when he can find it in his heart to show up. Give me a hand, will you? We feed lunch to two hundred at noon and the soup isn't even started.”

“You can't feed that many people all by yourself,” I said.

“The church ladies will be here later to set up the service line and do the salad and bread. But they won't have soup to serve unless we get busy.”

He unloaded the boxes into the sink and looked at what he had to work with. “I was hoping you'd hidden a couple of fat chickens in here. Getting enough protein into the meal is always a problem. But this is nice, very nice.”