He returned at noon, five, and eight that evening—the last visit, a freebie. The mail he added to the two stacks at noon looked no different later on.
Next day, the last for sitting Zeus, his visits once again were ordinary. He hadn't planned to work in another freebie that night, but later, realizing it might be the last time he ever saw Zeus, he drove to the house at seven.
Still light outside, another pleasant June evening. Nothing seemed amiss, but when he opened the door, the alarm's beep did not sound. The mail on the island counter was obviously rearranged.
"Hello down there!"
Travis nearly gave himself whiplash, so suddenly did the rich, booming voice cause him to cock his head back and roll his eyes up toward the catwalk that spanned the top floor.
A light flicked on above, revealing an older man of indeterminate age, neatly dressed—white dress shirt, cuffs casually turned up at the wrists—forearms braced against the blond wood railing, smiling down at him. The smile was benevolent, full of flawless white teeth. He looked like an older version of Travis's senior high class president who'd been too confident to bother asking for his vote, oozing charm designed to win that vote in any case. Or same difference, he looked like one of those male models in catalogs marketed for distinguished older men; hair silver, close cropped; handsome face dimpled in all the right places, a healthy tan. He looked the type who frequented posh resorts, had his nails done, hair frosted, a guy who spent months lounging poolside in the Caribbean, sipping drinks out of glasses that had trinkets hanging off their rims, making the women around those pools wish he'd notice them. Despite his movie-star glow, he also looked familiar on a more local level. Travis wondered if he'd seen this guy on TV commercials.
Zeus nudged Travis's hip, as if the presence of this ultra-cool man was what Zeus had been trying to clue him in on all along. Travis choked, aspirating his own surprise. He held up a hand, stepped backward as if to excuse himself. When he found his voice, he asked, “Who are you?"
"Great view, up here.” The man was gazing out the cathedral-like window at the pool, still visible in the waning light. “Not to worry, I'm Jill's brother-in-law.” As he spoke, Zeus loped up the stairs and came to stand beside the stranger. “Good old boy,” the man said, patting his head. “This dog and me, we're longtime friends."
Zeus accepted the pat without enthusiasm.
Travis put his hands on his hips and felt his neck lengthen, as if he were turning into a fussy old-maid schoolteacher. “Jill didn't say anything about a visitor."
"Sure, sure,” the man said. “This was unexpected. To cut to the chase, I'm Steve Bonds, Jill's brother-in-law. A pilot with Delta. I had a layover here—as I do sometimes—and Jill said, why don't you stay at my new house if you ever come this way? Too bad, we're just missing each other—my timing's always off—but she wanted me to see the new place. Of course, this isn't as convenient as my digs near the airport, but she wanted me to come.” A rummy cologne scent wafted down.
Travis was nodding, trying to compose himself at the same time. “She didn't mention having a sister. You're married to her sister?"
The man laughed as he smoothed out his cuffs. “Actually, I'm her ex-husband's sister's husband, but that gets confusing, doesn't it? Even when Jill was still married to Allen, I was never sure what to call our relationship, technically, if you know what I mean."
Travis was still nodding, his thoughts bouncing around. No stranger had ever shown up during a job before. He wasn't sure what to do, what Libby would expect him to do. The idea of calling her struck him as wimpy. He could demand identification, a driver's license, but that seemed very forward coming from someone half this guy's age. Steve looked like he could be a pilot. All those models in men's magazines looked like they could be pilots.
Travis asked the next best question: “When're you leaving?"
The man who said his name was Steve straightened up as if he had a crick in his back, then once more let his forearms rest on the railing. “Well, looks like Jill and I will be passing like ships in the night. She's due tomorrow morning, I'm pretty sure, and I have to get to the airport by five A.M., some hours before that."
Steve encouraged Travis to go ahead and do whatever he had to with Zeus as usual. As for himself, he was beat, ready to get some “shut eye.” “Don't bother about me. I'll stay out of your way.” Then he offered to feed Zeus his breakfast in the morning, save Travis a trip.
"I'm not scheduled to come tomorrow,” Travis answered. “Miss Barth—Jill—said she'd arrive early. I'll call later tomorrow, of course, to make sure her flight wasn't delayed."
"Good idea.” Steve yawned. “Hey, I'm about to pass out. No need to put on the alarm when you go. I'll do it when I leave.” He gave the catwalk railing a push, then disappeared. Travis heard an upstairs door close. The light above the catwalk clicked off.
Zeus pranced down the stairs at the sound of Travis opening a bag of treats. After Zeus gobbled up a handful, Travis brought him outside and once more rested in the lounge chair. He needed to think about this latest event. Right now, he didn't give a rat's ass what this Steve guy would think of him sitting poolside with a beer.
Zeus gave the Night-blooming Cereus a sniff, causing Travis to notice that the plant had sprouted three pregnant-looking shapes at the ends of its flat, leathery leaves. Those bulbous things looked ripe. Perhaps tomorrow, after midnight, the primitive flowers would open and attract the moth Jill had mentioned—some exotic moth that would spread pollen and ensure a blooming next year.
Zeus bent his head to one of the closed blooms. Pricking his ears, he faced the huge back window as he'd done the day before and let out a single, emphatic bark. The bark brought the memory of the phone call back, and Marilyn's cryptic words: “Satyr, not satyr."
Though the June evening was far from cool, Travis shook off a chill. This Steve guy had told Travis not to set the alarm, that he'd do it himself when he left.
But what if Jill's flight were delayed? Steve knew the master code, right? That's the code he'd plug in when he left for the airport. Travis knew only the slave code. If Travis did have to come back to feed Zeus after all, his slave code wouldn't work. If he opened the door, he wouldn't be able to stop the alarm from going off.
He'd simply have to tell the guy before he left. After he gave Zeus a short walk under the streetlamps, he'd tell Steve, yell up the stairs if he had to—let him know he should plug in the slave code.
But what if Steve was sleeping? Travis didn't want to go up those stairs and knock. He didn't want to yell up the stairs either. He was having uneasy feelings again, of someone watching him. Felt it right now.
Was Steve really taking a nap, or was he up there on the catwalk, looking out the window at him this very minute? Was he really a pilot, or a serial murderer? Or an undercover police officer ready to pin some new crime on him?
What crime?
This was nuts, paranoia. If Steve was really a detective, why would he let Travis see him? Or if he was a murderer—the murderer—again, how stupid to let himself be seen. The real killer would have come later, much later tonight, if his plan was to get Jill Barth when she arrived home in the morning.
Steve had to be who he said he was. The other possibilities didn't make sense. As for the alarm code, instead of calling up to Steve and telling him, Travis would leave a message, write it out big and tape it to the back door so Steve couldn't miss it in the morning. “When you leave, please enter 2002-Off on the alarm pad—in case Jill's flight is delayed—so I can still feed Zeus."
Travis gave Zeus a walk, then wrote out the note and taped it to the door. “I'll miss you, boy,” he said, giving the dog a farewell pat on his blue-black head. “You take care.” He gazed up at the catwalk, not liking it that the man was up there in one of those rooms. Turning back to Zeus, he said, “You be alert. Don't be such a nice guy."
* * * *
Travis lived in a small apartment now, and that night he went home feeling lonelie
r than usual. In bed, propped against pillows, he couldn't concentrate on his book, a mystery set on a planet even weirder than Earth. He was still playing the what-if game.
What if Steve was a liar, a predator, lying in wait?
Travis assumed that Steve had used the master code to disengage the alarm because Jill had given it to him. But now he realized Steve could have disarmed the system another way—by using the same slave code Canine Experts used.
If this guy was lying about his identity, was really a killer, he could have hired his sister's pet-sitting service himself, before Travis had come on board—hired the other company, too, learned their secret code. No secret about it! Maybe this man hadn't plugged in the master code at all, didn't even know the master, but had used 2002-Off because he knew Jill Barth had hired Canine Experts.
But how had he come by a key?
Even if Steve was Jill's dear ex-brother-in-law, Travis doubted she'd mailed him one. Maybe she'd done as many others do, hid a spare inside a fake rock—something like that—and she'd told Steve where it was. How else could he get in? Travis had been alert enough to check the front and back doors before leaving. Neither had been forced. Of course, if Steve wasn't a relation but a bad guy, he could have entered through a window. Travis hadn't checked, had no desire to go into the other rooms, any more than he wished to scrutinize return addresses on Jill's envelopes.
He thought of another way Steve could have gained access. He might be a cop! This whole trip—Jill Barth included—might be a gigantic fairy tale, a setup. They could be waiting for him to make a move in the morning. If so, they'd be disappointed.
He considered calling Libby, asking her if she smelled a rotten fish here; but it would be so like a little brother, unsure of his own mind, asking big sister. Why couldn't he go with his own intuition?
He was making himself sick, hashing and rehashing the possibilities. He was back to thinking about the police again, and once more the idea occurred to him that no undercover officer would have shown himself either. But that could simply have been a misstep. They didn't know he'd begun adding a fourth visit, a freebie for Zeus. When he'd showed up late this evening, maybe that had put their guy off balance. Believing the dog might give him away, “Steve” came out of hiding, concocted the brother-in-law story as well as the flying-out-early-next-morning story.
Steve had been convincing. For all Travis knew, a platoon of cops might be waiting up there now, waiting to see if he'd return in the morning, ready to pounce on Jill.
"Won't be there,” Travis said, eyelids growing heavy. “No way.” His jangled nerves surrendered to sleep.
Travis dreamed. Zeus was leading him up and down and around a labyrinth, its walls made of tall box hedges. When Zeus reached the labyrinth's heart, he barked. That dreamland bark woke Travis up.
Five A.M. Steve should be leaving for the airport by now. He'd see the note beside the keypad on the back door and, before going, arm the system by entering the code used by Canine Experts.
That's what should be happening now, at least, if Steve was who he said he was. If Steve was a cop, he'd be in for a long wait, as would the backup crew who shared that monotony.
But if Steve was the murderer, he'd be preparing for Jill's arrival. This time he wouldn't be dealing with a helpless little yip-yip Pomeranian. When Travis entered Marilyn Finley's house the morning after her murder two years ago, Tweedy had had free run of the place. The murderer must have simply shut the door in Tweedy's face after he'd dragged Marilyn into that upstairs room. When he left, he'd merely brushed the dog aside as he made his escape.
Zeus would not be as easily brushed off. This time, the killer would have to think ahead. If I were him, Travis thought, I'd lock Zeus in the utility room just before Jill's due to arrive.
Travis hated the idea of Zeus being locked up.
Or something worse could be done in preparation. The Pomeranian's yapping had been ignored, but Zeus's barking could easily summon a passerby or let Jill know something was wrong before she even set foot in the house. To prevent that tip-off, the killer might slit Zeus's throat.
Travis jumped out of bed and began pulling on his pants.
If Steve was Jill's brother-in-law, he'd be gone by now. If he was a cop, Travis would catch hell, showing up the day Jill was due back. But if Steve was the guy who'd killed Marilyn Finley and that other woman—shit—he'd better get over there now to save Zeus and Jill both.
* * * *
He reached the house in half an hour. Six A.M., still dark out, he parked his Jeep in front of a greenbelt farther down the street.
Travis walked toward the house, his pace slow but steady, grateful that the neighborhood was thickly wooded, making it less likely that anyone would spot him. He took care to be quiet but also decided to enter the house no differently than he would any other morning. He wasn't some slinking cat burglar, after all, and didn't want to give that impression to anyone who happened to see him.
He was relieved when, reaching the back gate, he saw Zeus at his post, waiting on the other side of the glass-paned door. No lights were on inside that he could see. Steve must have been telling the truth and was gone now.
When Travis opened the back door, though, the alarm did not emit its normal rhythmic beeps. He didn't have to enter a code to turn it off because the alarm had simply never been set. The note he'd taped to the door was missing. Steve had seen it but left without arming the system.
So the guy was careless, a forgetful pilot. No harm. But Travis still felt nervous. Zeus, usually a paragon of calm dignity, seemed antsy too.
Travis flipped on the light and saw that all of the envelopes on the island had been ripped open, their contents scattered. Chilled, he stumbled backward. He'd seen a similar sight before. Could there be a logical explanation? Maybe Jill asked Steve to check her mail. She might be expecting an important bill, but that didn't make sense since she was due home today. Whatever the reason, he hoped that when Jill returned, she wouldn't think he'd done this.
Zeus pushed his nose against the small of Travis's back and jerked his head toward the living room. He pranced to the staircase and cocked his head, looking up its length.
Steve must still be here, Travis thought, feeling no urge to run upstairs to find out.
He tried to remember what he'd planned to do in case Steve was still around. Call the police. Might be a false alarm, and he'd look like a colossal idiot afterward, but better safe than sorry.
Now that he was poised to place the call, the idea of the police made him sick, considering what they'd put him through before. Instead of calling, he should simply round Zeus up and clear out. Yes, take Zeus out front and remain there until Jill arrived in the taxi. Then he could tell her about “Steve,” find out if that guy was the real deal.
Floorboards creaked overhead.
"Come on, boy,” Travis called. The dog remained frozen at the bottom of the stairs. “Zeus, heel! Let's go!"
The Great Dane would not budge.
"Damn.” Travis turned away, heading for the phone that sat in its cradle near the back door. There, beside the phone, on the narrow counter where Jill kept recipe books, he spied a pair of tan gloves placed next to a wicked-looking carving knife. He shuddered as he reached for the phone. That knife was meant for Zeus. He knew it.
"I thought you weren't scheduled for today."
Travis spun around, the portable in his hand. Steve's buttery voice betrayed no hint of worry. He wore a black T-shirt, black sweatpants. Hands in pockets, he entered the kitchen from the living room.
"Thought I'd show up anyway, you know. Feed Zeus. I'm afraid Miss Barth's flight's been delayed,” Travis said, aware that he was no good at bluffing. “And you? Thought you were leaving before five."
"Change of plans.” Steve smiled, shrugged. “My timing's off again, looks like."
Sure, Travis thought, remembering the gloves and the knife, set out at the ready. Travis only hoped this guy didn't know he'd seen. All he had to do
now was get Zeus safely out or call the police. Two chances. Just who Steve really was could be sorted out later.
Steve asked, “You heard that, did you? The flight's been delayed?” Still smiling his easy, excessively white, cosmetic-dentistried smile, he took another step forward.
"Yeah, well, not exactly. But better safe than sorry."
"You making a call?"
Zeus, standing just behind Steve, lowered his head and growled. The growl didn't seem to register with Steve, so intent was he on the phone in Travis's hand.
Travis hiked his shoulders. “Calling my boss. Forgot my feeding schedule. She'll tell me who's next on the list.” He chuckled, calculating how fast he could thumb in 911.
"Kind of early, don't you think? To call.” Steve's smile glittered.
"She's always up early. No problem.” Travis moved his thumb to the nine and punched it, then angled upward.
"I'd put that down if I were you, son."
Travis thumbed the one.
The man whipped his hands out of his pockets and lunged. In a blur, Travis saw a gun palmed in Steve's hand. The phone went flying. Steve shoved him up against the recipe desk, curled his left hand around Travis's neck, thumb to its center. He pressed like a machine programmed to keep pushing to the other side. At the same time, he cracked the gun against Travis's head, just above his right ear.
Zeus's growl became a roar. He sprang at the man's shoulders. Travis could feel his own eyes rolling back in his head. He couldn't see a thing, but he could hear the clicking, snapping, gnashing of Zeus's teeth. The dog must have clamped down onto Steve's wrist, for he heard the gun clatter to the floor and a moan of pain.
The pressure on Travis's neck ceased as Steve whirled around and threw his hands up to protect himself from Zeus.
Travis slid away from the action, guiding his lower back along the edge of the desk. Choking for air, he managed to keep on sliding, now in a downward direction to the floor. He grabbed the gun.
He didn't need it.
The fight had moved to the center of the kitchen, Steve now taking a defensive position, back pressed against the island. Zeus, reared up on his hind legs, towered over his opponent and beat his forepaws, backed by his full weight, against Steve's chest. Steve reached out with both hands, trying to grab Zeus's neck, but the dog, relentlessly pounding his chest, snarling and snatching at his face with bared teeth, was too much for him.
AHMM, January-February 2008 Page 18
