by Lois Greiman
Time hung like a scythe over my head.
And then I heard the sounds of domestic satisfaction. A sigh. A shuffle. The jingle of keys being tossed onto the nightstand.
Holy crap. It was Solberg. I felt myself go limp, too limp to even consider the trouncing I had planned. Shimmying sideways, I prepared to reveal myself, but when my gaze skimmed the edge of the door, the first thing I noticed was a pair of endless shoulders. The second was the back of a full head of dark hair.
I jerked into the closet. That wasn’t Solberg. Solberg didn’t have shoulders, or hair.
I held my breath, waiting to be discovered. Nothing happened, except I think I might have wet my pants a little.
I covered my mouth with my hand, took a careful breath, and tried to think.
Okay, what did I know? Not much. The man with whom I shared the room was a big guy with . . . Salvaging every bit of courage I could muster, I leaned forward a scant inch and peeked through the space between the folding doors.
The only thing I saw was a gun.
Sweet Jesus.
Surely there was a logical explanation for this. After all, this was real life. My life. Christina McMullen, Ph.D. Four months ago, the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me had taken place in the back of Jimmy Magda’s Corvette. He’d been a world-class kisser, and . . .
A loud click brought me back to my new reality with a snap. Through the narrow opening in the closet door, I could see the intruder standing near the deck. Looking out. Why the hell hadn’t I gone onto the deck? Did he know he wasn’t alone? Had he seen me come in?
No. He couldn’t have.
This was all ridiculous. Some sort of unfortunate misunderstanding.
He was probably a friend of Solberg’s. It probably wasn’t a real gun.
Of course. That’s it, Chrissy. The Geek God had a six-foot-two friend with shoulders like a running back, who, on occasion, crept into his house in the middle of the night carrying a gigantic water pistol and searching the rooms for inhabitants. It was just something he did when he was bored.
What the hell had I gotten myself into?
I remembered how to pray then, with sincerity and piety, promising to floss after each meal and throw out the cigarettes I’d stashed in my purse and . . .
The mace! Did I still have a can of mace in my purse?
Much as I believed in prayer, I thought there might be a more direct means of intervention. I snapped my handbag to my chest.
My hands were shaking. Lip balm, checkbook, notepad, a half-eaten Snickers. Nothing. Unless I wanted to bribe him with a check and stick him in the eye with a pen, I was out of—
My cell phone!
It winked at me from the bottom of my purse. My mind scrabbled for possibilities.
I could throw it at him. Or . . . even better, I could call the police.
But he would hear me if I spoke, haul me out by the hair, and—I’d just gotten it colored, a rich mahogany that enhanced my eyes and—
He muttered something. I swallowed, mind scrambling as I tried to think of plan B.
The phone was in my hand. And then it came to me. I could call Solberg’s home phone. Wouldn’t the hairy gunman be curious who was calling at 3:07 in the morning? Wouldn’t he, ergo, trot downstairs to check the answering machine in the office?
Wouldn’t I die if I guessed wrong? Literally.
I opened the phone. What if my call didn’t go through? Sometimes they didn’t. The digits glowed blue. I jerked my gaze up, certain the numbers were shining through the open door like a newly discovered star. Maybe I could blind him with it.
I heard his shoes rapping against tile. He was in the bathroom. I could imagine him glancing about and prayed he would go inside. A shower might be nice. Maybe a Jacuzzi. But his steps didn’t click farther across the tiled floor. There were no clothes sighing as they wafted to the heated floor. No sound of running water or delighted splashing as he prepared to bathe.
In fact, I could almost hear him turn his attention toward the closet. It was now or never. I tightened my grip on the phone until my knuckles ached.
Solberg’s was the last number I had called. I poised my finger over the SEND button and froze. Did my phone beep when it dialed? Was I sure I hadn’t called someone else since trying Solberg? Could Hairy hear me hyperventilating in the closet?
Shoving the phone back inside my purse, I hunched over it to muffle the noise, jabbed SEND, then jerked my head up to the door crack and held my breath.
All I could see was the corner of the mammoth bed and a stretch of eggshell wall.
But I heard something, some indefinable noise. Had he spoken? Did he curse? Had he heard me? Was he . . . ?
The phone blared in the bedroom. I think I screamed, but maybe I was too terrified to actually make a noise. It took me a couple of lifetimes to realize I was still alive and was cupping my mouth with my hand.
An eternity scraped past, and then I heard Hairy turn. I cringed against the wall, but he didn’t reach in to drag me out by the hair, or even by the ankle. Instead, he strode out the door and down the stairs. A full twenty seconds creaked by before I realized the enormity of the fact that he was gone. Another ten seconds before my bladder was under control. But once I was on my feet, I knew what I had to do. One glance toward the doorway, and then I was off, racing across the bedroom, ripping the drapes aside, yanking open the—
The door to the deck was locked. I jerked around, muscles frozen, sure Hairy was already behind me, but the room was empty.
Noise sounded on the stairs. In my mind, I imagined him bounding up them, three at a time, gun in hand.
My fingers bumbled on metal. I think I was crying. The lock turned. I yanked the door open. I could hear footsteps on the landing in front of the bedroom, but I was already outside, flying across the deck, half falling, half flying down the stairs.
Don’t look back! Don’t look back. I looked back and shrieked.
He was following me.
I hit the ground running, stumbled to my knees, scrambled to my feet, and sprinted across the dark lawn. A gun exploded. Pain struck me square in the face. I screamed, but my legs were still working and I didn’t dare stop. Veering wildly to the left, I raced toward the Georges’ fence. It loomed above my head. I don’t know how I got over it. One minute I was panting in Solberg’s yard and the next I was over the top and running flat-out.
I heard a grunt behind me and twisted toward the sound. I thought I saw a figure perched atop the fence I’d just cleared. Were there two of them? Was . . . ? But suddenly the earth pitched away beneath me. I fell with a gasp, legs collapsing under my weight.
I was in a hole. A grave! Wild imaginings scrambled through my head. I tried to claw my way out of the abyss. My ankle screamed with pain. And then I heard footsteps thundering over the lawn above my head.
I cowered against the dirt. The footsteps kept running.
Except for the sound of my own breath rattling in and out of my lungs, the world went quiet. I crept up a half an inch.
No one pounced on me from the darkness.
I waited, breath held, trying to peer over the top of the hole. Liquid ran warm and steady into my right eye. I blinked. My vision blurred.
I could see no one, could hear nothing. Weak in the hazy aftermath of fear, I closed my eyes and sunk like a boneless chicken to the bottom of the pit.
7
Sometimes the truth’ll set you free, maybe. But sometimes it’ll get you six months to a year at juvie hall.
—Blair Kase
(Chrissy’s sixth-grade crush), explaining truth, justice, and the American way to Sister Celeste
I WAS STILL shaking when I reached my Saturn.
I had remained in the hole for what seemed like forever, and the journey across the Georges’ yard had felt like a death sentence, but I had remained unmolested. Still, unlocking the car was almost more than my wobbly fingers could manage. Once inside, however, I power-locked the doors and sped fo
r home, too scared to take a moment to assess my wounds.
My key bounced erratically in my front door, but I finally managed to shove it into the slot, then pushed inside and locked the door behind me. In a fresh wave of panic, I almost forgot to disarm my security system. It was relatively new, installed after the last attempt on my life. It’s nice to keep things fresh.
The memory made my stomach twist. I switched on the lights. They flared around me like fireworks. I pressed my back against the door and told myself I wasn’t going to cry.
Okay, I wasn’t going to cry anymore.
Stumbling into the bathroom, I turned on the light and stared breathlessly at myself in the mirror.
There was no blood. No gushing wounds. Not even a scratch. All my parts seemed to be in place, not misaligned like an inexplicably high-priced Picasso as I’d feared.
I touched my fingertips to my cheek. It was streaked with dust, and in that instant I realized the truth. I hadn’t been shot by some unseen sniper. I’d been struck in the face by a stream of water from Solberg’s sprinkler.
I stroked my face with reverent thanksgiving. Turns out I liked it better than I had realized.
Reality settled in by slow degrees. I was safe. I was home. I took a deep, shuddering breath and considered trying to do something mundane to shore up the feeling of normalcy. I could brush my teeth or clean my toilet. I could take a bath or wash my clothes. I glanced down at them. The mud was starting to dry in sharp clusters. Laundry might be a good idea. But it was almost four o’clock in the morning.
And there’s only one thing that’s truly normal at four o’clock in the morning.
Two minutes later I was fast asleep, the house lit up like Dodger Stadium.
You okay? You’re acting kinda funny.”
I snapped my attention back to my client. His name was Henry Granger. One did not want to be told one was “acting funny” by Henry Granger.
He’d told me during his first session that his friends called him Willy, and since then had regaled me with tales of the tea parties he’d enjoyed while wearing his wife’s garters and little else. I studiously refused to think about why I should call him Willy.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Have you decided whether or not you want to tell Phyllis?”
He cleared his throat and scowled at me. He was a big man, well over two hundred pounds, and seventy years of age. But maybe it’s never easy to tell one’s spouse you’ve been playing dress up in her undies.
“ ’Bout the parties?” he asked.
I wondered vaguely what else he had to confess. Then wondered if I would be ready to hear it anytime soon. I was still a little shaky from the previous night, but I tried not to wince as I broached the next question.
“Are there other details about your past that are bothering you?” I asked.
He cleared his throat again and glanced out the window. “Not really.”
That meant “yes” in psychology terms.
I braced myself. I hadn’t awakened until nine-fifteen. My first appointment was at ten. It was a half-hour drive to work if there weren’t more than three cars involved in the 210’s current fender-bender. I’d once tried taking the 5 down to Eagle Rock, but subsequently decided I’d rather make myself a cardboard sign and join the other panhandlers on the off-ramp downtown than brave that kind of insanity again.
My hair, when I’d finally glanced at it in the rearview mirror, looked as if I had undergone some sort of medieval shock therapy, and though I’d doused myself in enough Jivago to drown a killer whale, I was afraid my particular meld of body odor and terror might be wafting up from under the gallon of cologne.
Life didn’t look good on a fast five hours of sleep and the jouncing memory of a guy running me to ground like a grizzly after a field mouse. Was he simply a burglar or had he seen me enter Solberg’s house?
But wait a minute. He hadn’t been searching for something. He’d been searching for someone. I was sure of it suddenly. The gun was burning a hole in my mind.
“I don’t see how telling her’s gonna help things any,” said Mr. Granger.
“Well . . . ,” I said, and glanced at the clock. It was twelve-fifty. “That’s something for you to think about this week, But I’m afraid our time is done for today.”
He stood up. I bid him adieu.
The Hunts came next. Their weekend had gone better than mine. She’d made him waffles on Sunday morning, and he’d reciprocated by cleaning the bathroom.
She sounded fairly shocked when she told me about it, and gave him a smile for his efforts.
Maybe I wasn’t a total screwup, I thought later as they hustled out the door. From my tiny reception area down the hall, I heard murmured voices. I sighed, cupped my hand over my eyes, and tried to refrain from wilting under my desk like yesterday’s spinach.
“You look tired.”
I jerked up my head with a squeal of surprise.
Lieutenant Rivera stood in the doorway. He raised one dark brow, the cynic’s version of a smile. “You’re awfully jumpy,” he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “You getting enough sleep, McMullen?”
Memories of the previous night came filtering back to me. I’d been chased by a guy with a gun and a lot of hair, which might be a good thing to tell the police. Then again, the LAPD might still be holding a grudge about one of L.A.’s favorite football stars dropping dead in my office three months earlier. And certain members of law enforcement might consider my foray into Solberg’s house to be less than legal, especially since a few items may have fallen into my purse before my departure—including Solberg’s secret computer disk, which I still hadn’t had a chance to look at.
I glanced longingly toward the door, but I was pretty sure Rivera would notice if I tried to dash past him, so I tidied the papers on my desk and gave him a dignified glance.
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” I asked.
A hint of amusement frolicked around his eyes. He wore a soft burgundy sweater tucked into black pants. They were cuffed at the ankle and rode low on his hips. He looked good—a forbidden cross between Antonio Banderas’s smoldering sensuality and Colin Farrell’s lawless magnetism. But I didn’t care. I had dignity. Screw magnetism. Please.
“Shall I assume you look so tired because your little geek has finally returned?” he asked.
I straightened my back and entwined my fingers on the top of my desk. “By my little geek, I assume you mean Solberg?” I said.
He sat down across from me and stretched his legs out in front of him. His eyes were half-masked and his mouth lifted slightly at the scarred corner.
“Kind of an impersonal form of address for the love of your life, isn’t it?” he asked.
I gave him a gritted smile, letting him guess whether I wanted to kill him or laugh at him. “No,” I said.
“No, it’s not impersonal, or no he hasn’t returned?”
“You’re the investigator,” I said. “Doesn’t that make it your job to investigate?”
He shrugged. The movement was slow and languid. His eyes were the color of Scotch whiskey. I’d discovered early in life that I could get smashed on about two tablespoons of Scotch whiskey. I felt a little dizzy already. “So you haven’t been looking for him?” he asked.
I shifted my gaze back to my desk and shuffled a few more papers into companionable piles. I had reports to file. Clients to see. A heart attack to schedule. Busy me. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” I said. “But unlike some people . . .” I paused and gave him a Sweet’n Low kind of smile. “I have real work to do here. Unless you’ve come to accuse me of murder . . . again, I would appreciate it if you would allow me to do my job.”
He lifted one hand as if to indicate peace. “I don’t think you murdered anyone.”
“Whew.” I made a delicate swiping motion with my knuckles across my brow. “What a relief. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Just breaking and entering this time. Maybe burglary.”
/> My heart jolted to a stop. “And what far-flung fantasy are you living out now, Rivera?”
Something dark and perilous sparked in his eyes. Temper flexed his jaw. He straightened abruptly, leaning over my desk. “Someone broke into Solberg’s house last night.”
“Really?” I felt my heart bump to life like a Chinese gong. “That’s terrible. He wasn’t home, I hope.”
“You tell me.”
I forced myself to stay in my chair and meet his eyes. “I know you have some strange delusions about Solberg and myself,” I said, “but believe me, he’s not my type.”
“Really?” His eyes were like lasers. Scotch whiskey lasers. “Last time I checked, he was still breathing.”
I jerked to my feet. “You f—” I snarled, but I lowered my hackles and tried again. “Excuse me,” I said. My tone was stunningly gracious. My teeth ached with the Herculean effort. “I have clients to see.”
Rivera rose, too, slowly, holding my gaze the whole time. “What the hell were you doing in Solberg’s house, McMullen?”
I pressed my hands against the desk to keep the world from tipping me onto the floor like rotting sushi. “I wasn’t in Solberg’s house.”
“My sources say you were.”
Jesus God! Sources! He had sources? I wanted sources. “Well then . . .” I gave him a smile. Could be only half of my mouth still functioned. Maybe the heart attack would have to wait until I was done having a stroke. “Your sources are as deluded as you are, Lieutenant.”
“My sources are his next-door neighbors, who got a close-up view of you scrambling over their fence at threefifteen in the morning.”
I held my breath. In my mind I was blubbering apologies and confessions like a white guy on the soul train. But the truth dawned on me like a flash of glorious light. No one could have identified me. It had been as dark as hell in the Georges’ backyard, despite the stupid security lights. I’d been sprinting like a Kentucky Thoroughbred, and my car was parked well out of sight.
Rivera was just yanking my chain. Even if Tiffany Georges had pressed night goggles up to her patio door, she couldn’t possibly have known it was me. Could she?
