his head again, to look at the coat. Working awkwardly with only the one hand, he folded back one of the lapels to expose the inside breast pocket. Yes, there it was: the airline ticket envelope.
Aware of the risk—aware that, yes, he was going hollow at his center, beginning to tremble—he drew the envelope clear of the pocket. Still using only one hand, fumble-fingered as a child, he managed to open the envelope, take out the itinerary slip that accompanied the ticket.
Flight 235A to San Francisco, the printout read. And: Flight 87 to Sacramento.
In the margin of the itinerary slip, four words had been handwritten: Janice Frazer, Fowler’s Landing. It was Maranzano’s scrawl.
Carefully he refolded the envelope, returned it to the pocket, refolded the topcoat’s lapel. Then, drawing a long, shaky breath, he turned back to face the house, both hands resting once more on the steering wheel. Safe.
WEDNESDAY, MAY 21st
11:57 P.M., PDT
W ITH THE TINY FLASHLIGHT Maranzano shone a slim beam of light on the ground. With his free hand he carefully brushed the fresh dirt away from the newly laid square of sod. He switched off the flashlight, straightened, looked carefully around, slowly pivoting. The night was still, the sky overcast. Holding up his wrist, he checked the time: midnight. The whole job, from the time he’d arrived, had taken twenty-five minutes. It was longer than he’d estimated; the ground had been hard and dry, the digging had been slow. Lying at his feet, the plastic shopping bag rustled faintly in the gentle breeze. He stooped, picked up the small collapsible shovel, began to turn the large knurled nut that would collapse the shovel to backpacking size. He laid the collapsed shovel on the ground, picked up the plastic bag, upended it, shook out the dirt left from the sod. He put the shovel and penlight in the bag, used the paper toweling he’d brought to clean the dirt from his hands. Then, with time passing, each minute a risk, he picked up the plastic bag. He began walking to the gate. He’d left it closed but unlatched. His rental car was parked a few feet from the wrought-iron fence, perhaps a hundred feet from the gate. He’d parked the car on the grass in the shadows cast by a small grove of trees.
When he was still thirty feet from the gate, he saw headlights. The car was coming slowly, making steady progress down the narrow, uneven road that led past the gate. A large tree grew close beside the pathway he was on. He must move fast enough to reach the tree before the car’s headlights picked him up—but not so fast that the movement would attract attention. “In the dark,” Bacardo had told him once, “if you move too fast, they’ll see you.” He’d been only twenty when Bacardo had told him. He’d been the lookout when Bacardo and two others went in after Tommy the Cork. They’d found Tommy in bed—with a boy.
When he was five feet from the tree’s shadow, the oncoming car’s headlights dipped down, then bobbed up—and caught him. Instantly immobilized, he waited until the headlights dipped again. Then, two strides took him into the shadows, hidden behind the trunk of the tree. Safe.
Safe?
No, not until the car passed would he be safe.
Carefully, he lowered the plastic shopping bag to the ground. His .38 was thrust into his belt, on the left side. The gun had a two-inch barrel, easy to conceal but useless beyond fifty feet, even in daylight.
By now the driver had seen Maranzano’s car, parked in the grass beside the fence. Had it been a mistake to park the car so far from the gate?
Soon he would know.
Because, yes, the car was slowing, stopping. The headlights shone for a moment after the engine died, then went out.
Revealing, across the car roof, a police patrol car’s light bar, plain in the pale light from the sky.
Slowly, the driver’s door swung open, and the driver laboriously climbed out. He was a big, slow-moving man who stooped, reached inside the dark car.
Aware of the risk—aware that, yes, he was going hollow at his center, beginning to tremble—he drew the envelope clear of the pocket. Still using only one hand, fumble-fingered as a child, he managed to open the envelope, take out the itinerary slip that accompanied the ticket.
Flight 235A to San Francisco, the printout read. And: Flight 87 to Sacramento.
In the margin of the itinerary slip, four words had been handwritten: Janice Frazer, Fowler’s Landing. It was Maranzano’s scrawl.
Carefully he refolded the envelope, returned it to the pocket, refolded the topcoat’s lapel. Then, drawing a long, shaky breath, he turned back to face the house, both hands resting once more on the steering wheel. Safe.
WEDNESDAY, MAY 21st
11:57 P.M., PDT
W ITH THE TINY FLASHLIGHT Maranzano shone a slim beam of light on the ground. With his free hand he carefully brushed the fresh dirt away from the newly laid square of sod. He switched off the flashlight, straightened, looked carefully around, slowly pivoting. The night was still, the sky overcast. Holding up his wrist, he checked the time: midnight. The whole job, from the time he’d arrived, had taken twenty-five minutes. It was longer than he’d estimated; the ground had been hard and dry, the digging had been slow. Lying at his feet, the plastic shopping bag rustled faintly in the gentle breeze. He stooped, picked up the small collapsible shovel, began to turn the large knurled nut that would collapse the shovel to backpacking size. He laid the collapsed shovel on the ground, picked up the plastic bag, upended it, shook out the dirt left from the sod. He put the shovel and penlight in the bag, used the paper toweling he’d brought to clean the dirt from his hands. Then, with time passing, each minute a risk, he picked up the plastic bag. He began walking to the gate. He’d left it closed but unlatched. His rental car was parked a few feet from the wrought-iron fence, perhaps a hundred feet from the gate. He’d parked the car on the grass in the shadows cast by a small grove of trees.
When he was still thirty feet from the gate, he saw headlights. The car was coming slowly, making steady progress down the narrow, uneven road that led past the gate. A large tree grew close beside the pathway he was on. He must move fast enough to reach the tree before the car’s headlights picked him up—but not so fast that the movement would attract attention. “In the dark,” Bacardo had told him once, “if you move too fast, they’ll see you.” He’d been only twenty when Bacardo had told him. He’d been the lookout when Bacardo and two others went in after Tommy the Cork. They’d found Tommy in bed—with a boy.
When he was five feet from the tree’s shadow, the oncoming car’s headlights dipped down, then bobbed up—and caught him. Instantly immobilized, he waited until the headlights dipped again. Then, two strides took him into the shadows, hidden behind the trunk of the tree. Safe.
Safe?
No, not until the car passed would he be safe.
Carefully, he lowered the plastic shopping bag to the ground. His .38 was thrust into his belt, on the left side. The gun had a two-inch barrel, easy to conceal but useless beyond fifty feet, even in daylight.
By now the driver had seen Maranzano’s car, parked in the grass beside the fence. Had it been a mistake to park the car so far from the gate?
Soon he would know.
Because, yes, the car was slowing, stopping. The headlights shone for a moment after the engine died, then went out.
Revealing, across the car roof, a police patrol car’s light bar, plain in the pale light from the sky.
Slowly, the driver’s door swung open, and the driver laboriously climbed out. He was a big, slow-moving man who stooped, reached inside the dark car.
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