by Josh Lanyon
The ring of my cell nearly sent me into cardiac arrest. I found the phone, verified the caller ID. Lisa. That could wait.
Time for another pit stop. I returned to the gas station convenience store. Resisting the lure of comic books and Jawbreakers, I gave Guy a call.
“I need your help,” I said. “Feel free to say no.”
He said dryly, “I think you know I’m not going to tell you no.”
“It involves doing something illegal.”
He was silent.
“The thing is,” I said, “if I’m right, then there’s a chance you can clear yourself with the cops.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“We could both wind up in jail or dead.”
He said at last, “I take it you’re going ahead with this plan whether I help you or not?”
“If you won’t help, I’ll try to think of another way.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he said. “What is it you need me to do?”
Thirty minutes later the Miata pulled into the convenience store parking lot, and I climbed in. After I had directed Guy where to drive, he said, “Why don’t we call the police?”
“We will, if I’m right. I want to make sure first.”
“Isn’t that for the police to determine?”
I didn’t want to explain to him that I’d pretty much used all my wild-goose-chase credits with the cops on Sunday.
I directed Guy to a hill behind the estate. We had a better partial view of the front courtyard, though trees effectively blocked the back of the house. I could see the glint of a pool through the greenery.
“I’m not sure what good this is doing,” Guy said. “We can’t see a bloody thing.”
“We can see who comes and goes. When it’s dark we can park back on the street.”
“If they were up to anything illegal, would they have cleaners in?”
“Maybe.” I wondered about that myself. “They’re obviously getting ready for some event.”
“The whole town is getting ready for some event. It’s called Christmas.” Guy turned on the radio, and as though to illustrate his point, Bing Crosby babababooed “White Christmas.”
We listened in silence to the music. The cleaning van departed. The blue sedan still sat in the driveway.
Guy cleared his throat, disturbing my thoughts. “This guy you’re seeing,” he began.
“That’s over.”
I felt his stare. I kept the binoculars trained on the house.
“But are you over it?” he asked finally.
I smiled. I knew I was not fooling anyone. “No.”
A beat.
“Any chance of reconciliation?”
“No.” I could hear the anger in that one tight word and figured Guy caught it too. That was probably just as well.
He let it go.
Silence fell between us.
“If you want to close your eyes for a bit, I’ll watch,” he said after a time.
“I’m not tired.”
“No?” His tone was derisive, but there was an undertone of gentleness. I studied him curiously. I wondered what it would be like to be with someone gentle. Civilized. Someone not afraid to be who he was — even if it was a guy with a fake English accent.
Dusk fell. Behind the tall gates and Sleeping Beauty brambles, Christmas lights winked on up and down the street — not at the Garibaldi estate, however — not even all red ones. There was no sign of life at all.
“Let’s drive down.”
Without comment, Guy started the engine. We drove back and parked a few yards down from the Garibaldi estate. I opened the car door — remembered that I had left my gun back at the gas station in the glove compartment of the Forester.
“What is it?” Guy asked. “You have a weird look on your face.”
“Huh? Uh…nothing.”
I wasn’t crazy about walking in there unarmed. If I was right, these people had very little to lose by adding one more body to the count. On the other hand, if I was wrong — and let’s face it, my batting average was not high these days — and I ended up getting picked up by the cops with an unregistered gun in my possession, it was going to complicate things.
“I think I should go with you,” Guy said abruptly.
I shook my head. “No. For two reasons. One, you’re the only person who knows I’m in there. Which means, if I get into trouble…”
“I take it you’ve decided to trust me.”
“And two, you haven’t done anything illegal yet. So, if I do get myself arrested, at this point, you’re still clean.”
“How long will you be?”
“If I’m not back in forty-five minutes…no, make it an hour…call the police.” I fished out a card. “Call him.”
“Riordan? That asshole!”
“He is an asshole, but he’ll come, and he won’t waste time getting here.” If simply for the pleasure of killing me himself.
“You’ve got forty-five minutes,” Guy said. “Too much can happen in an hour.”
I nodded, slipped out of the car, and started walking quickly toward the house. As an afterthought, I reached into my pocket, turned my cell-phone on vibrate.
The dusk had deepened to indigo as I slipped through the gates, sticking to the fence line and the blade-shaped shadows of the trees.
There was a long pool, the water as still as black glass in the twilight. A row of cypress stood like spear points. At the far end was a strange, flat-topped marble slab. An ugly piece of modern sculpture, I thought. Then I re-thought. I moved from tree to tree till I was close enough to kneel and examine the slab. It was hard to tell in that light, but it looked like the milky white stone was flecked and veined in black — as though ink had spilled into the cracks.
No way, I thought, against the wave of revulsion.
But as I stared at the surrounding wall of trees — and considered the distance to the nearest house — I realized that it was possible. I closed my eyes for a moment. Shaking off the sickness, I got up and headed for the back of the house.
Two bulging trash bags sat at the top of the stairs. The door stood ajar. No light was visible from outside.
I tiptoed up the steps, eased the door open, peeking in. An incongruously cozy light shone from the stovetop, illuminating a long chef’s kitchen with an embossed tin ceiling. Stainless steel appliances gleamed dully. The granite-topped center island was big enough to support a double sacrifice.
Several cans of baked beans sat on the island.
Per Chan’s info, the house was supposed to be empty. I crossed to the stainless steel fridge, opened it. Bottle upon bottle of champagne nestled there.
Champagne and baked beans? Talk about perversion.
I almost didn’t hear the rubber-soled approach of footsteps in time.
Just as the kitchen door swung open, I ducked into the pantry. Betty Sansone strode into the kitchen carrying a tray. She lowered the tray to the granite counter, set a bowl and glass in the sink. She walked out again.
I stole out of the pantry and took a look in the sink. Baked beans residue. I sniffed the glass. Not champagne. Water with something medicated.
Cautiously, I swung open the kitchen door and gazed down an empty hallway. I listened. My watch ticked away in the silence.
I had about thirty-nine minutes left.
I crept down the hall, freezing when a floorboard creaked underfoot. It sounded as loud as a shot to me, but nothing happened.
The hall opened onto an elegant dining room. A chandelier sparkled overhead, but the velvet draperies were drawn so that the light could not be seen from outside. A banquet-length table was covered in black linen and set with crystal, china, and silver. Tall black candles stood in ornate sterling candelabras. Don’t ask me why black candles seemed so creepy, but a shiver slithered down my spine at the sight.
I counted thirty chairs and thirty place settings.
And canned baked beans for supper? I thought not. So there must be a caterer coming.
Could I somehow use that to my advantage? Like how? Dress up as a waiter and search the house while balancing a tray of hors d’oeuvres?
Voices at two o’clock, approaching fast.
Damn, damn, damn.
I scrambled under the table and pulled the chairs back in position.
The thud of my heart in my ears was so loud I could hardly hear over it.
“How is that my fault?” a young male voice inquired. I thought I recognized the voice.
“I didn’t say it was your fault. Why does it have to be anyone’s fault? I’m just saying I’d like to get my nails done.” That voice, I definitely recognized. Betty Sansone: She-Devil in training.
Betty and Wilma — er, Wilmer, I thought. And all I needed now was for Fred and Barney and Dino the Dinosaur to show up.
Wilmer said, “Somebody has to stay here. We can’t leave the caterers wandering around the house.”
“Why would they?”
I watched twin pairs of Levi’s-clad legs stroll past. That’s all I could see of them. They passed down the hallway toward the kitchen, continuing to argue.
Crawling out on the other side of the table, I darted through the opposite door. Herringbone wood floors and an elegant white fireplace. No furniture. A giant inverted pentagram had been painted in blood-red at the center of the room.
That ought to give the caterers something to talk about.
I deduced from the conversation I’d overheard that those two were the only ones in the house — or at least the only ones officially in the house. All the same, I kept an ear tuned as I crossed the room and entered the next hall.
A large staircase rose before me. I ran lightly up.
When I got to the top level, I hesitated, trying to figure which direction to go. I started to the left, then remembered that now that I was upstairs, there was strong possibility my footsteps could be heard from below. I tiptoed into the first room, wincing at each creak of the floor.
In the failing light I could barely discern that the room was carpeted in cream-beige tones and empty of furnishings. A large window overlooked the pool. I peered down at Betty, who was still arguing with Wilmer. He stood out of my line of vision.
Thatta girl. Don’t give up without a fight.
I proceeded through a lavishly appointed bath — as the real estate guides say — into the next room, also empty. It was getting too dark to see. Another reason to hurry.
There were six bedrooms and four baths in all, each of them empty. By the time I’d finished my search, Betty and her companion had disappeared from the garden.
I crept to the head of the staircase and looked down. Nothing to see. I listened. Hello darkness, my old friend…
Damn. Where were they?
How much time did I have? I peered at my watch in the gloom. I’d used up thirty minutes already.
I needed to search the downstairs floor, but I was out of time. The longer I spent prowling these rooms, the higher the odds that I would be discovered. Besides, I couldn’t believe that they would stash a prisoner on the ground floor with caterers and cleaners on the premises. Even the upstairs had been a stretch.
I’d been wrong. Again.
I crept down the main staircase, tiptoed along the hall that led back to the kitchen. I made my way across the slick tile floor like I was treading a mine field. Every second, I expected to hear someone raise the alarm.
At the door leading onto the garden I hesitated, listening. I didn’t want to stroll outside and run into Betty or Wilmer. My gaze fell on an unobtrusive door to the left of the pantry. I had assumed it was a broom closet. Now I wondered.
I left my post at the door and sneaked back, easing open the door, expecting a wall of brooms and pails and mops to come crashing out like in the cartoons.
But the closet was empty. In fact, it felt too big for a closet. I felt around for a light switch. The dull overhead light came on, and I was staring down a flight of steps to what was most likely the basement.
Just like that, I knew I’d been right.
I tiptoed down the stairs and found myself on the outside of a door with an old-fashioned handle. Very cautiously, I turned the knob. It was locked. Big surprise.
I rattled the knob. Someone spoke on the other side. I couldn’t make out what he said, but he wasn’t yelling for reinforcements, which was probably a good sign.
With an uneasy glance over my shoulder, I pulled out my pocket knife and undid the screws holding the old-fashioned escutcheon in place. I didn’t have time to be subtle. The door knob fell out.
I opened the door.
The room was a store room. Junk was piled from floor to ceiling. Enough space had been cleared in the center of the room for a cot. A man lay on the cot. He was talking to the ceiling.
It was Gabriel Savant.
“Hey,” I whispered.
He continued to hold forth with the shapes in the plaster ceiling.
I walked over to the cot and stared down. He stopped talking and gazed up at me with bloodshot, dilated eyes.
“Savant,” I said. “Can you walk?”
“I know you,” he said. “I remember you.” He began to hum the melody to the old Johnny Mercer song, “I Remember You.” Off key.
“Shhhhhhhh!” I squatted for a closer look at him. One look at his eyes told me all I needed to know. He was drugged out of his skull. No way could I waltz him out of there on my own.
Savant smiled at me.
“You’re the bookseller. Avery. Avery…I’ve forgotten your last name.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. I flicked open my cell phone, relieved to see I had a signal. I rang Guy.
“Where are you?” he answered. “There’s a catering truck pulling into the gates.”
Keeping my voice low, I said, “They’ve got Savant locked in the basement. He’s totally stoned.”
“You need to get out of there,” Guy said vehemently. “Now.”
“Did you hear me?”
“Yeah. I’ll call the police. Get out of there now. Go!”
“I’m going to try to —”
“No!”
His panic silenced me.
“…a distant bell…” crooned Savant.
Fiercely, Guy said, “If they find you, they won’t let you leave. They can’t. Don’t you realize what today is?”
“Friday?” Then it hit me. “December twenty-first.” Winter Solstice.
“Yule,” agreed Guy.
“Is the blue sedan still parked out front?”
“What? Yes! GO!”
“I’m on my way. Call the cops,” I said and rang off. So I still had both Betty and Wilmer to contend with. The arrival of the caterers wouldn’t help, if we got ourselves locked up in this soundproof basement — or taken to another location before the cops arrived. I smacked Savant’s gaunt cheek lightly. “Savant? Gabe, wake up!”
He stopped singing. Peered at me. “Wah…wha?”
“We’ve got to get out of here. Can you walk?”
“Wha — where?”
“Not far.” I wasn’t sure I could get him up the stairs, and I was damn sure I couldn’t get him across the yard without being seen. Frankly, I doubted I could get him across the yard at all, but maybe I could stash him somewhere safe on the grounds. Just until the cops arrived. I was afraid to leave him in the basement in case someone decided practicality was preferable to ritual and dispatched him when they heard the sirens.
I draped his arm around my neck, levered him to his feet. He hugged me.
“Always liked you,” he said.
“Yeah, not now.”
“When my life is through…” he sang.
“Shut up, for God’s sake,” I told him.
He chuckled, then rolled his head back on his shoulders and bellowed, “…and the angels ask me to reeeecaaaaaaaall…”
I slapped my hand over his chapped mouth. “Shut. Up.”
He began to laugh. His whole body shook with gusts of giggles. His eyes ran. Snot blew o
ut his nostrils on my hand.
It wasn’t easy, but I got him up the stairs, one lurching step at a time. I half-dragged him through the kitchen, hauled him out the back door, expecting every moment to hear shouts of discovery behind us. We stumbled drunkenly along the cobblestone walk until I spied the half-shed where the trash bins were kept.
I unlatched the gate, lowered Savant behind the battered bins. He stretched out and prepared to go to sleep.
I got out from behind the bins, eased shut the gate, and started back across the yard. There was no hint of sirens in the chilly night’s breeze. Maybe Guy couldn’t get hold of Jake. Maybe Jake figured this was one way of eliminating a potential leak in his private life.
Or maybe Guy hadn’t called.
I ran past the black and silent pool and the spectral white marble slab.
Rounding the corner, I came face-to-face with Harry Potter.
No, it just looked like Potter in the gloom. It had to be Wilmer aka Peter Verlane.
Verlane was as startled as I was. “Hey!” he cried out after a second. I took advantage and shoved him into the pool.
He went in yelling and splashing, making waves and racket enough for a Sea World main attraction. Lights flared on around the pool courtyard.
“Hey!” shrieked Betty from somewhere behind me.
I ran for the front, past the bewildered-looking caterers with their trays of stuffed shrimp and crab puffs.
Peter Verlane squelched after me.
As I reached the tree-lined driveway, headlights slid along the banks of rosebushes, and a car rolled silently through the tall gates. A black Mercedes. For a moment, I froze in that spotlight.
The driver braked for half a second, then accelerated.
I jumped to the side. I landed lightly in the grass and picked myself up, ready to run.
The car turned sharply, braked, and reversed, heading back my way.
Peter Verlane materialized out of the darkness, sprinting past me. He reached the gates, swinging them closed. They clanged shut before I could reach them.
“Are you nuts?” I panted. “The caterers are right over there.”
He glared at me defiantly.
The Mercedes purred up behind us. I turned, and Oliver Garibaldi got out of the car. He wore a red-lined cape. Maybe he thought it was Halloween. Maybe he’d planned on doing magic tricks. He stared at me with eyes like black holes in his face.
