by Lanyon, Josh
Blindly, he pushed Griffin away, feeling for the back of the wooden bench. He lowered himself awkwardly, bracing his elbows on the table and resting his forehead on his hands.
“All right,” Griffin said roughly after a moment. “So maybe you didn’t know that.”
“Go away,” Peter said from behind his hands.
“What does that solve?” The truculence in Griffin’s voice was undermined by something…defensiveness? Guilt? “If I go away, I just have to come back later.”
Peter struggled to control his voice. He managed, “Get out, will you?”
After a long pause, Griffin went.
Chapter Four
The grotto was at the bottom of the oldest section of the garden. It was man-made, although it looked natural enough—like a small cave covered in flowering vines. Outside the entrance was a koi pond. The red and gold fish lay quietly at the bottom of the green water as Peter stood beside the pool staring into the grotto.
There wasn’t much to see. Yellow and black police tape stretched across the open mouth. The interior was lined with tile and bits of colored glass that sparkled in the pale light from the solar lamps slowly winking on as the evening grew dark.
The ugly bare square where the mural had once hung was about ten feet long and six feet high. Not easy moving something of that size. It would take more than one man to get it safely down from the wall of the cave and carry it out of the grotto—and it would require a vehicle to transport it more than a few feet. The grounds were private and locked at night, so how had they done it?
Peter walked around the back of the grotto, passing through the grove of weeping willows, coming at last to a fence well concealed behind a bamboo wall. He followed the fence till he came to a padlocked gate marked EMERGENCY VEHICLE ACCESS ONLY. The gate opened onto a dirt road.
The thieves must have parked out here after the museum had closed for the evening and everyone had gone home. It was certainly quiet and deserted—even at this time of the evening.
The real question was, why wasn’t there more of a security system? Who, in this day and age, relied on a padlock and a single security guard—a guard who, if Peter knew anything about it, spent most evenings watching TV in the gatehouse?
Was the responsibility for the security of the museum and grounds his alone? Had it been his decision to leave the mural essentially unprotected? If so, no wonder the board was discussing his removal.
Assuming it was true—that it wasn’t something Griffin had made up to rattle him.
He’d like to believe that, but…
It had carried the ring of truth. Looking back, he thought that Griffin had probably regretted dropping that bomb. Something in his tone…some vast discomfort when he’d had to witness Peter’s reaction. You’d expect a cop to be pretty hardened, but Griffin hadn’t enjoyed seeing Peter poleaxed.
Which was interesting, because he didn’t mind baiting Peter about suspecting him of stealing from the museum. So what had been different about telling him his job was in jeopardy?
Peter turned away from the pasture and started back up the hillside. The garden smelled wonderful at night. The camellias had no scent, but the fragrance of the heirloom roses drifted on the warm breeze. He cut across the grass to the steps. The solar lanterns threw triangles of light across the bricks. In the jacaranda trees, a mockingbird was calling.
Chjjjj…chjjjj…chewk…
Peter’s steps faltered and he stood still.
He remembered falling on the steps, remembered the shock of seeing his own blood spattering the stones. He stopped and looked down, and sure enough there were little raindrop stains in the porous surface of the bricks. For an instant he was back there, the scent of mown grass and fresh blood in his nostrils and the call of the mockingbird in his ears.
And if he pushed a little harder…pushed past that veil of forgetfulness…what had he seen?
The glitter of stars beyond the pale flickering of the jacaranda blossoms. He had come outside for a breath of fresh air. He often walked down to the grotto at night. He liked the silence, the peace. But it hadn’t been silent. Not that night. Crickets…frogs… That was all right. But he heard voices…voices where no voices should be. The grounds were locked at night. Once in a while teenagers jumped the back fence.
That’s what he had thought. Kids. Kids—maybe vandals. He could hear them talking as he drew near the grotto. Talking…or arguing? He drew close and he saw oversize shadows looming against the glistening walls of the cave…
And already it was slipping away again. Like a door closing firmly in his face. This far and no further.
If only he could remember. If he could just come up with something he could give Griffin, some solid piece of evidence so that he would stop wasting time talking to Peter and start trying to find out who was behind these thefts.
There was a noise behind him. Peter whirled, ready for…he didn’t know what. It had sounded like the scrape of a shoe on brick. But there was no one behind him.
The shadow swaying on the grass was from the tree limbs moving in the breeze. Right?
He stood there for a moment, watching. Nothing moved.
And if something did move, what would he do? He glanced around for something he could use to defend himself…a fallen branch, a loose brick, a rock. One thing about Constantine House, the grounds were well maintained. No weapons available unless he was going to yank a solar lantern out of the ground and try to defend himself with it.
After a long, fraught moment, Peter began to feel foolish. The mockingbird seemed to confirm this opinion, chattering at him from high in the branches above.
He turned and went quickly up the steps.
When he reached the bungalow, he reheated the casserole left by Jessica and Roma. It was good, but he wasn’t hungry. He ate a few bites, dumped the rest into the trash, and settled for a glass of milk and a couple of pain pills. His head was aching again, mostly due to rushing back to the bungalow before the bogeyman could snatch him.
Well and truly disgusted with himself, Peter retrieved his book from the study and went up to read in bed.
His dreams were strange and troubled, and despite the tablets he’d taken before bed, he began to fight his way out of sleep—which was how Peter became aware of the faint but persistent gnawing sound from beneath his open window.
In his dream, the gnawing turned into rats chewing at the wooden siding of the house…and as rats were absolutely unacceptable, Peter woke and opened his eyes.
For a moment he lay there, eyes picking out the outline of furniture silvered by moonlight.
There it was again.
A muted scratching sound.
What the hell was that?
He rose, crossing softly to the window, and looked down. A bulky figure dressed in black stood on the crescent-shaped patio busily working at getting inside the back door.
For the space of a heartbeat Peter was rooted in place, disbelieving. Disbelief gave way to alarm. He crossed to the bed, fumbled the phone. He needed light to dial, and fuzzy with concussion and pain pills, he automatically switched on the bedside lamp.
From down below came the clang of metal on stone, and then a sound that was probably one of the large geranium pots getting knocked over—pottery hitting hard brick. Peter got back to the window in time to see the bulky figure—ski mask concealing hair and face—racing across the grass to the outstretched shadow of the trees in the back of the house.
Peter angled around trying for a better view, but he saw no one else on the terrace. He got back over to the phone and dialed 911.
The emergency operator assured him a patrol car was in the vicinity and would reach him shortly.
Peter thanked her, hung up, and began to dress swiftly. He would need to call down to the gatehouse and let the night watchman, Donnelly, know that they’d had another intruder and that the police were on the way.
As he dressed, he began to wonder. Granted, Constantine House wasn’t Fort Knox,
but it seemed to him that their security was being breached with alarming monotony. And why his bungalow?
Dressed, he sat on the edge of the bed and phoned Donnelly, but no one answered the gatehouse line. The old man was probably sleeping in front of his television.
Peter sighed, hung up, and went downstairs.
For the first time, he began to consider the thefts from the museum itself. He had assumed the items—all small enough to slip into a pocket or purse—had been taken during business hours. There was a security system, but it was outdated and it only encompassed the outside perimeter doors. But the fact that intruders were getting onto the museum grounds after hours opened another unpleasant possibility.
What if the thefts were happening after hours? What if someone was bypassing the security at the main house and getting into the museum that way?
Only four people had the access code for the outside perimeter: Donnelly, museum trustee Dennis Montero, Cole, and himself.
At least…only four people were supposed to have the access code.
He shoved his feet into a pair of Vans and went down to the kitchen, turning on the overhead light to examine the back door. Sure enough, a perfect circle had been etched into the glass pane beside the inside doorknob. The circle must have been ready to pop out, because as Peter touched the doorknob to reassure himself it was still locked, the oval of glass fell out onto the bricks and shattered.
It glinted like broken pieces of moon on the terrace.
The hair prickled on Peter’s neck. Close call. Very close. What would have happened if he hadn’t woken when he did?
But what sense did breaking into the bungalow make?
He let himself out the front and ran down the long camellia-lined drive to the gatehouse. A marked patrol car was already sitting outside the tall iron gates, exhaust turning red in the glare of its taillights. Donnelly was talking to two uniformed officers. He spotted Peter.
“They’re saying you called in a prowler, Mr. Killian?” he asked as Peter reached them.
Peter nodded, out of breath from his jog. “I tried ringing down here. Why didn’t you pick up?”
Donnelly looked taken aback. “I guess I didn’t hear the phone ’coz I was standing out here.”
Peter turned to the cop who was listening to their exchange. “He—the prowler—ran toward the back of the property.”
“Do you have a description of this prowler?”
Peter resisted the temptation to point out that the prowler would probably be the guy running like a bat out of hell. “Big. He was dressed in dark clothes and wearing a dark ski mask.”
The second cop nodded and said to Donnelly, “You want to open these gates and we’ll go check it out?”
“There’s a gate in the back leading to the old fire access road. He’ll have gone out that way.”
“I’ll take the front, Ramirez, you take the back,” the cop said to his partner.
Ramirez nodded and went back to the patrol car as Donnelly moved to open the automatic gates.
Peter stood shivering while the tall gates slid slowly open. “He tried to get in the back door of the bungalow.”
Donnelly said, “He must have thought nobody was home. Probably thought you were still in the hospital.”
“Probably.” Yes. That made sense, didn’t it? Peter wished he felt convinced.
The gates open, the uniformed officer came through and followed them to the little security cart that Donnelly used. Peter grabbed a seat in the back and they shot away up the road, the cart engine humming as though they were off on a pleasure jaunt.
They pulled up outside the bungalow so Peter could get out. Donnelly eased his girth out of the little cart and led the second cop, Officer Simon, across the grass and down the hillside to the grotto.
Peter let himself back in the cottage and put the coffeemaker on. If he was going to be awake for the rest of the night, he might as well be wide awake.
Donnelly and Simon returned within ten minutes, and Peter led them around the back to see where the intruder had broken the glass.
“The glass is on the outside of the door.” The cop was giving Peter a strange look.
“It fell out when I touched the doorknob.”
“Why would you do that, sir?”
It took Peter a few seconds to understand what Officer Simon was getting at. He felt himself change color in a wave of irrational guilt. “I wanted to make sure the door was still locked. It was…reaction. If I’d stopped to think, I wouldn’t have touched it, obviously.”
The cop looked noncommittal. He proceeded to take all Peter’s information. By the time they had finished, his partner had rejoined them.
“No sign of anyone,” Ramirez said.
“I didn’t fake a break-in,” Peter said. “Someone tried to get in here tonight.”
“No one is suggesting you faked a break-in, sir,” Simon said woodenly.
“What’d I say?” Ramirez looked around for enlightenment.
“Nah, no problem,” Donnelly said. In an apparent spirit of helpfulness, he added to the police, “No way is the boss trying to pull a stunt like this. He just got out of the hospital. It’s natural he’d be jumpy.”
This, reasonably, led to an explanation about how Peter had landed in the hospital to begin with, and by the time the cops finally drove away, Peter was sure they were convinced he was either a nut seeking attention or a criminal who had just outsmarted himself. Either way…not good.
Donnelly also departed, promising to patrol the grounds every hour, and Peter finally turned out the lights and returned to bed, where he spent the remainder of the night tossing and turning—and sitting up every time a floorboard creaked.
It was a relief to open his eyes to sunlight.
The morning was growing warm by the time Peter woke, still tired and a little groggy, and for a few moments he rested in the clean cotton sheets, listening to the sweet birdsong, the lulling rustle of leaves outside the open window, the hiss of sprinklers. Drowsily, his fingers fumbled with buttons of his pajama pants, reaching inside, touching the velvet warmth of his genitals. He comforted himself with the familiar motions, using the pearl of moisture at the head of his cock to slick his strokes.
Cole, he thought. Cole…
But, unsettlingly, it was Detective Griffin’s face that kept interposing itself between Peter and the fantasy Cole. He closed his eyes against the image of Griffin’s lean, hard face, the stormy blue eyes so different from Cole’s bright blue gaze. Griffin was the last person he wanted to think of.
Especially in this context.
So how weird was it that he couldn’t help wondering what it would be like with him? Did he have some hitherto-undiscovered kink for S and M? Because it was impossible to picture Griffin being anything but the most brief and brutal of lovers.
The weird thing was his increasing certainty that Griffin was gay. From where had that conviction arisen? Griffin had said nothing to indicate his sexual inclinations, had he? Did Peter have any reason to think Griffin was anything but heterosexual—and God help the woman involved with that bastard.
But…had he and Cole ever really done this? Done anything? The dreams were so vivid, so real, but…
A glance at the clock warned him he was going to be late. Punctuality being something apparently hardwired into him.
He moved his hand faster, just the right grip, the right angle…the quiet relief of his hand pumping in steady rhythm that was almost reverie…pumping…and then the fiercely sweet outcry—hot, wet ejaculation splattering belly and thighs, soaking into the thin cotton of his pajamas.
He closed his eyes, feeling that release echoing through his overstrung nerves and body, and then rolled out of bed heading for the shower.
It was when he opened the medicine cabinet looking for shaving cream that he spotted the small brown bottle of Zoloft. His name was on the prescription.
What the hell? Antidepressants? Maybe they made sense now that his life was fall
ing apart, but before he got whacked on the head?
For a second or two, he stared down at the bottle, trying to reconcile the drugs with what he knew about himself—what he felt he knew, anyway. In the end he was forced to conclude it was simply another mystery.
He dressed in a white tailored shirt—he seemed to have an endless supply of them—and brown trousers, breakfasted on Danish and coffee, and walked up to the museum.
The parking lot was empty, the building still locked. He let himself inside and stood there gazing in dismay at the blinking red light of the alarm system. And then, quite easily, the code came to him and he punched it in.
The green light flicked on.
The relief was almost as overwhelming as the previous panic. He was remembering. It was all coming back. First in bits and pieces, and now in greater chunks.
He unlocked his office and went inside.
Had anyone been here since the day before? It all looked exactly as he’d left it. Was this feeling of paranoia due to the remaining gaps in his memory or was there a reason for it?
He opened his laptop. The sign-in screen came up. He stared at it, frowning.
Then…he closed his eyes and just typed.
And just like that he was in—and blinking at a desktop background of himself and Cole. There were other people in the photo as well, but the center of attention was obvious—and embarrassing.
And all at once it was as though someone had splashed a bucket of cold water in his face. What was with him mooning over his married college roommate?
Was he really this lonely? This obsessed? Because from the strange perspective of an outsider looking in at Peter Killian’s life, this just seemed…pathetic.
The first thing he did was change the desktop background to a generic picture of woods. As the autumn woodland scene flashed up, replacing the photograph of his fatuous smiling face gazing at Cole’s profile, he felt an almost physical relief. Like a weight had been lifted off his chest.
