something a little more tangible, let me know. I'll see what I can do."
Maddie didn't want to go back to Eddie's, but she was going to have to.
If the cops weren't going to do anything about her missing sister then she'd have to take matters into her own hands. This time she'd just march up to Eddie Berlin's door and walk in.
If he wasn't home.
~0~
Maddie left her car at the beginning of the lane, the front bumper pointing in the opposite direction, poised for a speedy getaway. At first, as she made her way toward the house, the shaded lane seemed cool and damp. But then bugs started to swarm. The original sensation of coolness had been nothing more than a seductive lure.
Under the canopy, no breeze stirred. And the dampness that had at first given the illusion of coolness was fast becoming smothering.
A mosquito landed on her face. She slapped it. Another latched on to her arm. She slapped again, smearing blood. She walked faster, finally gaining the cleared area, relieved to feel a slight breeze.
Leaving the mosquitoes behind in the shade, she marched up to the house and knocked on the loose screen door.
If he was home, she'd confront him with everything. Who she was, why she was there. She just wasn't any good at this spy stuff. On the other hand, if he wasn't home…
She knocked again.
And waited.
She cast a glance over her shoulder.
No dog charging out of the brush. No sign of a drunk lying in wait in the weeds.
She wrapped her fingers around the handle of the screen door and pulled, ungreased metal creaking like the hinges to an old coffin.
She grabbed the knob on the carved oak door, her heart rate increasing as it turned. She pushed open the heavy door.
"Yoohoo. Anybody home?"
Her voice echoed back.
She tried again, louder this time.
Nothing.
Casting a last glance around the clearing, she stepped over the threshold, closing the heavy door behind her.
Dark.
Stuffy.
Like a crypt.
She was in kind of an entryway. To the right, was a living room, to the left, the kitchen.
She turned left.
It was a huge farmhouse kitchen with a butcher-block island. From the ceiling hung dried herbs tied in bundles with string. Two counters ran parallel along opposite walls, the surface covered with jars and plants and boxes and grocery bags, as if nothing got put away. Above a double-porcelain sink was a window that was almost completely obliterated by a sweet potato vine growing from a spud shoved into a jelly jar.
She peered between the vines, trying to see out the dirty window. The view was fuzzy, like trying to look through the bottom of a pop bottle. It made her think of an old Neil Young song, the one about a man needing a maid.
She didn't even know what she was looking for, didn't know what she'd expected to find. Maybe something of Enid's. Something that might prove her sister had been there.
Maddie moved through the kitchen. At the back of the room was a door that led outside. To the left of that door were narrow wooden steps, leading upstairs.
She took them, trying to move quietly, every step screaming with her footfall.
A bedroom.
His bedroom.
Hot. Stiflingly hot. And dark.
It was hardly more than an attic, the roof pitched, the points of nails sticking through bare wood. At one end, just above a narrow single bed, his bed, was a small open window.
Next to the bed was an upturned orange crate. On top of it, an oscillating desk fan. She imagined him lying across the rumpled sheets, all hard-muscled and half-dressed. Opposite the narrow bed was a desk with a swing-arm lamp and a bunch of papers. She crossed to the desk and began shoving the papers around, looking for something, anything.
And in the back of her mind, she knew and yet denied that she was looking for clues, not to Enid's disappearance, but to Eddie Berlin himself.
Notebook paper. Ragged pieces torn from grocery bags. Matchbook covers. Full of writing. Not any writing that made sense. More like stream of consciousness stuff. More
Maddie didn't want to go back to Eddie's, but she was going to have to.
If the cops weren't going to do anything about her missing sister then she'd have to take matters into her own hands. This time she'd just march up to Eddie Berlin's door and walk in.
If he wasn't home.
~0~
Maddie left her car at the beginning of the lane, the front bumper pointing in the opposite direction, poised for a speedy getaway. At first, as she made her way toward the house, the shaded lane seemed cool and damp. But then bugs started to swarm. The original sensation of coolness had been nothing more than a seductive lure.
Under the canopy, no breeze stirred. And the dampness that had at first given the illusion of coolness was fast becoming smothering.
A mosquito landed on her face. She slapped it. Another latched on to her arm. She slapped again, smearing blood. She walked faster, finally gaining the cleared area, relieved to feel a slight breeze.
Leaving the mosquitoes behind in the shade, she marched up to the house and knocked on the loose screen door.
If he was home, she'd confront him with everything. Who she was, why she was there. She just wasn't any good at this spy stuff. On the other hand, if he wasn't home…
She knocked again.
And waited.
She cast a glance over her shoulder.
No dog charging out of the brush. No sign of a drunk lying in wait in the weeds.
She wrapped her fingers around the handle of the screen door and pulled, ungreased metal creaking like the hinges to an old coffin.
She grabbed the knob on the carved oak door, her heart rate increasing as it turned. She pushed open the heavy door.
"Yoohoo. Anybody home?"
Her voice echoed back.
She tried again, louder this time.
Nothing.
Casting a last glance around the clearing, she stepped over the threshold, closing the heavy door behind her.
Dark.
Stuffy.
Like a crypt.
She was in kind of an entryway. To the right, was a living room, to the left, the kitchen.
She turned left.
It was a huge farmhouse kitchen with a butcher-block island. From the ceiling hung dried herbs tied in bundles with string. Two counters ran parallel along opposite walls, the surface covered with jars and plants and boxes and grocery bags, as if nothing got put away. Above a double-porcelain sink was a window that was almost completely obliterated by a sweet potato vine growing from a spud shoved into a jelly jar.
She peered between the vines, trying to see out the dirty window. The view was fuzzy, like trying to look through the bottom of a pop bottle. It made her think of an old Neil Young song, the one about a man needing a maid.
She didn't even know what she was looking for, didn't know what she'd expected to find. Maybe something of Enid's. Something that might prove her sister had been there.
Maddie moved through the kitchen. At the back of the room was a door that led outside. To the left of that door were narrow wooden steps, leading upstairs.
She took them, trying to move quietly, every step screaming with her footfall.
A bedroom.
His bedroom.
Hot. Stiflingly hot. And dark.
It was hardly more than an attic, the roof pitched, the points of nails sticking through bare wood. At one end, just above a narrow single bed, his bed, was a small open window.
Next to the bed was an upturned orange crate. On top of it, an oscillating desk fan. She imagined him lying across the rumpled sheets, all hard-muscled and half-dressed. Opposite the narrow bed was a desk with a swing-arm lamp and a bunch of papers. She crossed to the desk and began shoving the papers around, looking for something, anything.
And in the back of her mind, she knew and yet denied that she was looking for clues, not to Enid's disappearance, but to Eddie Berlin himself.
Notebook paper. Ragged pieces torn from grocery bags. Matchbook covers. Full of writing. Not any writing that made sense. More like stream of consciousness stuff. More
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