couldn’t be, I guess.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah. Sure.” A sudden breeze shook the ficus tree that overhung the streetlamp, and leaf shadows swarmed like black butterflies across the windshield. “If they sell sangfroid at 7-Eleven, I should stop and buy a six-pack.”
Ten
T he residence in Anaheim proved to be a single -story structure dating to the 1950s. Pierced and scalloped eave boards, rococo carved shutters, and patterned Alpine door surrounds failed to convince that this California ranch house belonged in Switzerland, or anywhere.
Penetrating the branches of two huge stone pines, moonlight painted scattered patches of faux ice on the age-silvered cedar-shingle roof, but not a single lamp brightened any window.
Flanking Kravet’s house were a Spanish casita and a New England cottage. Lights were on in the cottage, but the casita appeared to be uninhabited, the windows dark, the yard in need of mowing.
Tim twice drove past the Kravet house, then parked around the corner, on a side street.
He compared his wristwatch to the SUV’s clock. Both read 9:32.
“I’ll need maybe fifteen minutes,” he said.
“What if he’s in there?”
“Just sitting in the dark? No. If he’s anywhere, he’s staking out my place—or searching it.”
“He might come back. You shouldn’t go in without a gun.”
“I don’t have a gun.”
From her open purse, she withdrew a pistol. “I’ll go with you.”
“Where’d you get that?”
“From my nightstand drawer. It’s a Kahr K9 semi-auto.”
The thing was coming, all right, the thing that was always coming for him, that could never be escaped.
At the tavern, he had been in a place that had always been right for him, where he was just another guy on a bar stool, where from the perspective of the front door, he was the smallest man in the room. But this evening it had been the right place at the wrong time.
He had found a way of living that was like train wheels on a track, turning on a known path, toward a predictable future. The thing pursuing him, however, was not only his past but also his fate, and the rails that led away from it also led inexorably to it.
“I don’t want to kill him,” Tim said.
“Me neither. The gun is just insurance. We’ve got to find something in his place the cops can hang him with.”
Leaning closer to see the weapon, he said, “I’m not familiar with that gun.” She didn’t wear perfume, but she had a faint scent he liked. The scent of clean hair, well-scrubbed skin.
She said, “Eight-shot 9-millimeter. Smooth action.”
“You’ve used it.”
“On targets. A shooting range.”
“There’s nobody you fear, yet you keep a pistol by your bed.”
“I said nobody I know would want me dead,” she corrected. “But I don’t know everybody.”
“You have a concealed-carry permit?”
“No. Do you have a permit to break into his house?”
“I don’t think you should go in there with me.”
“I’m not sitting here alone, with or without the gun.”
He sighed. “You don’t exactly have attitude….”
“What do I have, exactly?”
“Something,” he said, and got out of the Explorer.
He opened the tailgate and retrieved a long-handled flashlight from the shallow well in which the car jack was stored.
Together they walked to Kravet’s house. The neighborhood was quiet. A dog barked, but in the distance.
As iridescent as a snake’s skin, thin ravels of silvery clouds peeled off the face of a molting moon.
A wall defined the property line between the dark casita and the Alpine house. A gate opened onto a passageway alongside the garage.
Suddenly soughing through the stone pines, the inconstant breeze shook dry needles down onto the concrete path.
At the side door to the garage, Tim switched on the flashlight just long enough to determine that there was no deadbolt.
Linda held the extinguished flashlight while he slipped a credit card between the door and frame. He quickly popped the
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah. Sure.” A sudden breeze shook the ficus tree that overhung the streetlamp, and leaf shadows swarmed like black butterflies across the windshield. “If they sell sangfroid at 7-Eleven, I should stop and buy a six-pack.”
Ten
T he residence in Anaheim proved to be a single -story structure dating to the 1950s. Pierced and scalloped eave boards, rococo carved shutters, and patterned Alpine door surrounds failed to convince that this California ranch house belonged in Switzerland, or anywhere.
Penetrating the branches of two huge stone pines, moonlight painted scattered patches of faux ice on the age-silvered cedar-shingle roof, but not a single lamp brightened any window.
Flanking Kravet’s house were a Spanish casita and a New England cottage. Lights were on in the cottage, but the casita appeared to be uninhabited, the windows dark, the yard in need of mowing.
Tim twice drove past the Kravet house, then parked around the corner, on a side street.
He compared his wristwatch to the SUV’s clock. Both read 9:32.
“I’ll need maybe fifteen minutes,” he said.
“What if he’s in there?”
“Just sitting in the dark? No. If he’s anywhere, he’s staking out my place—or searching it.”
“He might come back. You shouldn’t go in without a gun.”
“I don’t have a gun.”
From her open purse, she withdrew a pistol. “I’ll go with you.”
“Where’d you get that?”
“From my nightstand drawer. It’s a Kahr K9 semi-auto.”
The thing was coming, all right, the thing that was always coming for him, that could never be escaped.
At the tavern, he had been in a place that had always been right for him, where he was just another guy on a bar stool, where from the perspective of the front door, he was the smallest man in the room. But this evening it had been the right place at the wrong time.
He had found a way of living that was like train wheels on a track, turning on a known path, toward a predictable future. The thing pursuing him, however, was not only his past but also his fate, and the rails that led away from it also led inexorably to it.
“I don’t want to kill him,” Tim said.
“Me neither. The gun is just insurance. We’ve got to find something in his place the cops can hang him with.”
Leaning closer to see the weapon, he said, “I’m not familiar with that gun.” She didn’t wear perfume, but she had a faint scent he liked. The scent of clean hair, well-scrubbed skin.
She said, “Eight-shot 9-millimeter. Smooth action.”
“You’ve used it.”
“On targets. A shooting range.”
“There’s nobody you fear, yet you keep a pistol by your bed.”
“I said nobody I know would want me dead,” she corrected. “But I don’t know everybody.”
“You have a concealed-carry permit?”
“No. Do you have a permit to break into his house?”
“I don’t think you should go in there with me.”
“I’m not sitting here alone, with or without the gun.”
He sighed. “You don’t exactly have attitude….”
“What do I have, exactly?”
“Something,” he said, and got out of the Explorer.
He opened the tailgate and retrieved a long-handled flashlight from the shallow well in which the car jack was stored.
Together they walked to Kravet’s house. The neighborhood was quiet. A dog barked, but in the distance.
As iridescent as a snake’s skin, thin ravels of silvery clouds peeled off the face of a molting moon.
A wall defined the property line between the dark casita and the Alpine house. A gate opened onto a passageway alongside the garage.
Suddenly soughing through the stone pines, the inconstant breeze shook dry needles down onto the concrete path.
At the side door to the garage, Tim switched on the flashlight just long enough to determine that there was no deadbolt.
Linda held the extinguished flashlight while he slipped a credit card between the door and frame. He quickly popped the
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