by Ted Dekker
This particular method of donning nylons proved to be less brilliant than he’d imagined. He had his leg halfway in before it occurred to him that things were going wrong. He started to fall forward, hopped once, tried to free his leg, and succeeded only in catapulting himself headlong toward the wall.
After betraying him so boldly, his masculine prowess came to his aid. He performed a duck/roll/flip and hit the wall with his back instead of his head. The whole house shook with the impact. A shelf full of knickknacks slipped off the wall and crashed over his head before he could get his arms up to protect himself.
Stephen lay on the floor, one leg still half-caught in the nylons, and took quick stock of the situation. Silence. No one banging on the door, demanding to know who was in there trying to get into a pair of pantyhose.
A broken plate lay in pieces a foot from his head—not unheard of with all the earthquakes that rolled through these parts. All in all, he’d averted any real setback.
Stephen rolled to his back and tugged on the second leg of the nylons. He felt as if he was being strangled from the ankles up. Why women quietly suffered in these contraptions, he couldn’t imagine.
The rest of the outfit slid on with ease—lime-green pants, lavender paisley shirt, lime-green jacket. His own shoes. No need for a bra, not with the jacket. See, that was smart too; judging by his battle with the pantyhose, he might very well hang himself trying to don a bra. Stephen slipped his shoes back on and stood in front of a full-length mirror behind the door.
Lime green was clearly not his color, but the lavender blouse actually brought a glow to his face. He tugged at the jacket sleeves and managed to extend them another inch, enough to cover what hair the gloves would miss.
The weakest link in the disguise was clearly the length of the pants, which flared wide and hung short, six inches above his ankles. Three-quarter-length pants—he was sure he’d seen a model or two wearing an outfit something like this. They might even pass for gauchos. His black shoes looked a bit out of fashion—maybe he would leave them in the car.
Now for the second reason Marjorie Stillwater was a brilliant solution— makeup. Even if he had bought a new outfit at Woolworth’s, he needed makeup and the dressing room to apply it.
He walked into the bedroom and glanced at the dresser clock. Seven thirty. Plenty of time.
He fished in her shower, found a razor, and shaved his face as clean as the dull blade would allow. Patted his skin dry with a towel. Face powder, lots of face powder. A touch of reddish stuff he found in her third drawer that he thought might be rouge or perhaps blush. He examined himself in the mirror.
More. More makeup.
Five minutes later, he pulled on the blond wig and stood back for a view. His image was actually quite frightening, with all the hair and the red lipstick. He looked like a stick of celery with blond leaves. But apart from the heavy eyebrows, there wasn’t a hint of man on him. The heavy eyebrows and the square jaw. And the shoes.
On the other hand, he imagined he might look quite sexy to someone who didn’t know. He would kick off his shoes before entering and walk light on his feet. In the dim light, he would easily pass for a city inspector. He cleared his throat and tried out a fitting voice.
“Hello?” Too low. Sounded nothing like a lime-green celery stick.
He tried again, leaning on his falsetto. “Hello. My name is Wanda.”
A door slammed. She was home early!
For one eternal second, Stephen froze. The bathroom drawers were open, his clothes were in a pile behind him, the fallen shelf and its broken plate lay scattered to his left. He tore himself from terror’s grip and flew about the room, scrambling to hide his tracks. The broken plate went in the laundry hamper; the fallen shelf went under the sink with a little brass elephant that had plunged with it; the lipstick went back in the third drawer down. Or was it the second?
No time. He scooped up his clothes and ran for the bedroom, slapping off the lights as he passed. He evaluated the bedroom window. Short of burning holes in garage doors, diving out windows was one of the best ways to enter and leave other people’s buildings unawares.
Unless they were covered with wrought iron.
So Stephen did what any man in his situation would do: he dropped to his hands beside the bed and rolled under the mattress in one smooth motion. Immediately, two problems presented themselves. One, his feet were sticking out of the bottom. This he remedied with an instinctive jerk/curl. His left knee slammed into the box spring, bumping the whole bed a few inches into the air. He reacted to the sharp pain up his leg by dropping his knee. The box spring thumped softly back to the frame.
The second problem he saw while the bed was momentarily elevated: he’d dropped his clothes upon rolling under the bed. They sat in a mound just beyond the bed skirt. He snatched them into darkness not a moment too soon.
The lights popped on. “Hello?”
Stephen held his breath in the stillness, but his heart was echoing down here.
Apparently satisfied, Marjorie hummed a few notes and walked into the bathroom. He couldn’t see her, which meant she couldn’t see him. He should slip out now.
Stephen began to execute his turn, but Marjorie walked back into the bedroom, still humming. At least she hadn’t discovered the evidence in the hamper. Or, for that matter, the shelf missing from her wall.
She tossed something on the bed and headed back for the bathroom. Stephen waited a few seconds and resumed his turn toward the foot of the bed, where he would roll/spring/run stealthily from the bedroom.
But Marjorie, who’d graduated from humming to opera, came back before he could get even halfway around. She sat heavily on the edge of the bed, opera voice now gaining volume.
Stephen knew that beds with poor frames and cheap springs bowed under weight, but he had an awful premonition that bow would be far too gracious a term to describe—
Marjorie catapulted herself into the air and slammed into the bed with a shrill, high-pitched vibrato. The mattress pounded into his chest, and he grunted. Her virtuoso halted abruptly. After a few moments of silence, she humphed, shifted her weight for comfort, and turned off the light.
Turned off the light? It was what—seven thirty? Who went to bed at seven thirty? This was not good. A celery stick with blond leaves pinned in the darkness under the body of a woman who went to bed before the sun did.
Stephen considered his predicament. Not even Gerik with all his talk of obsession would approve of this.
Did I say go stark-raving mad? he would ask the jury. No, I said we were created to obsess. Not to don women’s clothing and crawl under strangers’ beds.
Stephen waited ten minutes before a soft snore put him at ease. He put both palms flat on the springs and carefully pushed up. Like a bench press. How much? Felt like two hundred if it was an ounce. Dead, heavy, sagging weight that— Marjorie rolled over, and Stephen slid three inches to his right, masked by the motion. That was it! Move when she moved.
He waited a minute and then pushed up again. She lay like a log, so he pushed harder. She shifted, and he slid another inch or two. It was working. Five pushes later, he was free.
Stephen tucked his own clothes under one arm and crawled from the room on his remaining limbs like a thieving monkey.
The moment he stepped on the porch, he regretted his decision to park the car a block down. There were streetlights out here! He would be strutting his stuff down the sidewalk, exposed for the whole neighborhood to see. On the other hand, it would be an opportunity to practice. He needed a crash course on walking confidently, like a woman. This was nothing less than an unexpected gift.
Stephen headed out to the sidewalk. He tried several gaits and decided the short-step one, with cocked arms and a limp wrist, did the trick as well as any.
A whistle cut through the air. He jumped. A man leaned against the streetlight across the road, staring at him. Her. Stephen hurried for the Vega.
By the time he slid behind the
wheel, Stephen was feeling quite buoyant. He was on a roll. His plan was going to work; he had a feeling about this. The dashboard clock read a quarter of eight—a bit late for a city inspector, but time wasn’t something he had to play with.
22
HE MADE TWO STOPS ON HIS WAY TO THE APARTMENT AND ARRIVED at eight thirty, later than expected, but he had the angle covered.
Stephen grabbed a black leather doctor’s bag, took a deep breath, adjusted his wig in the rearview mirror, and stepped out. From here on out, it was purely professional. Confident. Purposeful. He turned and strutted up the sidewalk, up the steps to the porch, and pushed the doorbell.
He cleared his throat and tested the voice he’d used for the duration of the ride. Sounded thoroughly male, but with a good half hour’s practice he managed to capture a decidedly female quality.
He quickly reached into the bag, withdrew a round plastic lemon, and squirted a shot of juice into his mouth. He’d bought the lemon juice with his other supplies, thinking it might help his voice.
Chains rattled. Startled, he tossed the lemon over the rail and did his best to ignore the waves of heat washing over his skull. From now on, he was a her. Remember that. Her, her, her.
The door parted a crack; the one called Claude stood in the gap. “Yes?”
“Alicia Ferguson with the city,” Stephen said in his practiced falsetto. “I’m here for the pest inspection.”
Claude’s eyes swept down his body. Her body. They stopped at her shoes. Stephen glanced down. He’d forgotten to take them off. They looked absurd, sticking out all black and gangly.
“Feet kill me on this job,” Stephen said. “I can’t afford to care about fashion.”
“It’s night,” Claude said. “I was told nothing about an inspection. We can’t accept any visitors at this hour.”
“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice; 5031CBB isn’t something we debate. I’ll need to come in and run a few tests, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
Five minutes alone in the basement was all he needed.
“We were told nothing of this.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Stephen said. “I spend half the day explaining myself to owners, which is one reason I’m so late today.” He pulled a sheaf of paperwork from the bag. “Had a guy on Thirty-fourth who made me call the authorities in. Set me back two hours.” He flipped open the pages. “Here it is, city ordinance 5031CBB. The city shall at its election inspect any building suspected for pest contamination within seven days of the sale of such property. It goes on, but that’s the gist of it. Ten, fifteen minutes is all I should need.”
Claude eyed the paperwork suspiciously and pulled a walkie-talkie off his hip. He spoke to someone in German. A dog barked in the garage. Two dogs.
Claude lowered his radio. “I’m sorry. You can’t enter at this time. Come back on Monday.”
“I don’t think you’re hearing me, sir. I will inspect the building now. If you refuse me, I will be back with the police and several colleagues.”
“It’s after eight o’clock. Why are you working so late?”
“I thought I told you why. I had another stubborn foreigner who forced me to call in the police. I don’t have a choice on this; they give me ten properties, I have to finish ten properties. Any less and it affects my bonus, and I’m not about to let you cost me any money.” Claude just stared and Stephen wondered if he’d heard. He spread his hands, careful to appear as delicate as possible. “Fine. I’ll be back in a few minutes with the LAPD.”
He turned to go. Claude spoke quickly into the radio. A static-filled response came back.
“Where do you need to run your tests?” Claude demanded.
“Five basic pest groups,” Stephen said. “I’ll have to take a look.”
Another quick exchange on the radio.
Claude pushed the door open. “Please be quick. We will be leaving soon.”
“Is that so? Don’t wait on my account. Go ahead and leave—I’ll be happy to lock up.”
“Just hurry your tests. Please.”
Stephen stepped in and looked around the huge garage. Two large dobermans growled at him from a spot halfway across the room, where they’d been tethered to a metal pole.
To the right, the stairs.
“Okay, why don’t you leave me to run a few tests,” he said. “Say, fifteen minutes?”
“I would rather watch.”
“Well, I would rather be home in bed, off these poor feet. I’ll tell you what, Claude, why don’t you sit down here and let me do what they pay me—”
“How do you know my name?”
Stephen blinked. “You are Claude, aren’t you? Associate to a Mr. Roth Braun, I think the paperwork said.”
Claude hesitated. “Yes.”
“Well, Claude, if you don’t mind, I’d rather do what I do without you breathing over my shoulders. Now, where are there pipes in this rats’ nest?”
“Everywhere—”
“Does this thing have a basement?”
“Yes.”
“Then I suppose I’ll start there. How do I get down?”
Claude motioned at the staircase.
Stephen gripped his bag and walked without further hesitation. Any luck, and Claude would stay put. No further hints necessary.
He reached the door and stepped into the stairwell. No Claude. A tremble coursed through him. He was going to make it! Just stay here, big boy. He ran down to the first landing. Just stay—
The door pushed open; Claude stood above him. Stephen felt his heart drop to his heels. If he’d had a gun, he might have pulled it and winged the guy then.
“Don’t you have something better to do?”
Claude descended the stairs without responding.
“Fine,” Stephen said, turning back up the stairs. He wasn’t about to lead the man anywhere near the safe. He’d have to regroup above.
He mounted the steps and walked up briskly, mind racing. This wasn’t the plan. “If you’re going to insist on badgering me, I’ll come back tomorrow with more help. This is absolutely ridiculous. I have to say, I’ve never . . .”
Cool air flooded the crown of his head. His hair suddenly felt liberated.
Stephen jerked around and saw that a few loose hairs from the wig had caught on a splintered wooden beam above. It swung by the strands, six inches from his matted hair.
For a moment they stood in silence, struck by the sight of the blond furry ball swinging in space above Stephen’s dark head of hair. Their eyes met.
Stephen threw the bag at Claude, hurled himself up the stairs, and slammed past him while he clutched the bag. The German yelled, stumbled, and came after him. Had Stephen elected to wear the heels, he would be dead now. But he had a head start, and he was dressed in pants. He flew across the garage, a streak of green.
The front door was still open. Stephen crashed through it and fled toward his Vega.
Claude stopped on the porch and yelled something in German, but Stephen could hardly make out the words, much less the meaning.
He threw the car into drive before his door was properly closed and squealed for La Brea. It took him two blocks to fully realize what had just happened.
He’d survived. This was good.
He’d failed. This was bad.
23
ROTH BRAUN DESCENDED THE STEPS ONE AT A TIME, FEELING destiny and purpose course through his veins like liquid gold. The man had played his cards as expected.
With this latest charade, the Jew had given away more than he had intended: he was after the basement. From the beginning he had been interested in the basement.
It was why he drew attention to the top floor. It was why he’d broken into the garage and then emerged out of thin air from below. It was why he had tried to descend the stairs then reverse course when Claude insisted on following.
The Jew’s heart was in the basement.
He stepped into the garage and stared at the dogs. Their eyes shone yellow in t
he dim light, but they didn’t move. They sensed something in him. They perceived his power, like a high-pitched sound inaudible to the human ear.
He tsked and was rewarded with their soft whines.
Roth opened the door to the stairwell and walked down, not bothering to turn on the lights.
In the basement he elected to flip the light switch. His breath sounded hollow and welcoming in the concrete chamber. The Jew had been here—he could feel the emotions in the air. Excitement. Fear. Hope.
The scent of the room reminded him of the basement in his father’s house at Toruń. Mildew and dirt. Not so different from a grave.
This was an unexpected little treat, wasn’t it? Here in America, so far from home, yet home after all.
Roth Braun felt compelled to sing. He shut the door behind him, stared at the gray room with its sealed steel doors and sang the German war anthem. His voice echoed with vibrato and he pumped his fist and sang louder, the whole song, just as he had as a child.
Gratified, he twisted his head, stretched his neck, and walked toward the door directly opposite him.
It was his third time in the boiler room. The other rooms were made of concrete and had no furnishings, so if anything had been hidden in the basement, it would likely be in the utility room. The previous two visits had been cursory, but this time he would look for evidence of the Jew.
The potbellied stove looked undisturbed. No sign of anything that . . .
Roth caught himself. The drum behind it had been moved. He could sense it as much as see it, although a thin line of dust a centimeter from the base confirmed the same.
Roth stepped forward and pulled the drum aside. A steel lid sat in the floor. It had been scraped clean.
A floor safe.
Rage overcame him. The Jew had beat him to it. In this delicate game, Roth had been outmaneuvered. By a Jew.
Just as his father had been.
The feelings that had warmed him while singing the anthem were gone. He tightened his fists and closed his eyes. Control.
