Some of the screws were a little easier, some a little harder, but it all came out to the same; a quarter hour to remove all the screws. Then he pulled the plywood back, to show beyond it an ordinary kitchen door with four windowpanes in its upper half. The doorknob had been removed, because it would have stuck out in the way of the plywood.
The next step was to alter the screws to his own purpose. Turning the sheet of plywood sideways, he leaned it against the front of the railings and put all the screws back in place except for one low on the left side. He turned the screws in only partway, leaving less than a quarter inch of the head still jutting out. He then used the hacksaw to slice off all the screw points back flush to the wood before seating the screws completely into place as before. Now, when the plywood was in position, it would look the same as before, but a simple tug at the top would pull it free.
The screw he hadn’t put back he fixed into the upper middle of the plywood on the house side, turning it in only partway, so that it wouldn’t show on the outside. From inside the house, that would now be the handle to pull the plywood back into place.
Next was the door. He removed the glove, held it against the pane of glass nearest the missing knob, and hit it with the hammer. The muffled jingle of the breaking glass echoed mostly into the house. Knocking the last couple of shards out of the way, he reached in, found the knob still in place on the inside, turned it, and the door had not been locked; no reason to.
He pushed the door open and stepped in, feet crackling on the broken glass. Turning back, he picked up the plywood and moved it into position, guided by the iron railings that flanked the door. When he pulled the plywood upright against the wall by the screw he’d just added, it fit snugly into place, the shortened screws sliding into the previous holes just enough to hold.
Now the house. The plywood over all the doors and windows made the interior completely black. Switching on the flashlight, Parker saw the house had not been stripped. When the town fathers had sealed it up, they’d still hoped to find a buyer someday, so the plumbing was still here, and the electric fixtures, even the sink and a thirty-year-old refrigerator with its door propped open by a plastic milk box. The electricity and water had been switched off, but that was to be expected.
Parker moved through the dusty empty rooms and found nothing he didn’t expect to find. A coating of gray on the floorboards, walls faded to a dull noncolor, long cobwebs in the corners and around the blinded windows. No one had been in here since the plywood had been put up.
Back in the kitchen, he put the flashlight on the counter near the back door; if he had to come back, there wouldn’t be time to find some other light source.
There was nothing else here he needed to do or know. He left the house, pulled the door not quite shut, set the sheet of plywood in place, and went back to the converted garage to wait for dinner.
12
We’ve got a problem tonight,” Parker said, “getting to this track of yours.”
Lindahl put his beer can down. “What’s that?”
They were seated in the living room, eating acceptable pizza, Lindahl drinking beer, Parker water. Outside, full dark had arrived. The silent television set showed sitcoms, so nothing else had happened. In its cage, the parrot seemed mostly asleep, though every once in a while it swiveled its head and made a small gurgling sound and marched a bit in place.
Parker said, “They’re looking for two men. They don’t know if the two men are still together or if they separated. Once we get where your gun club card doesn’t count for anything, when we come to a roadblock and they see two men in the car, they’ll want ID from both.”
“And you can’t show any.”
“Nothing useful.”
Lindahl thought about that, chewing pizza. “The funny thing is,” he said, “once we get to the track, I can help you with ID, but not before.”
Parker frowned at him. “Help? How?”
“Every employee carries an encoded ID card,” Lindahl told him. “You wear it in a plastic sleeve hangs around your neck. I’m the one bought the machine, I chose it, I know how to use it. I could take your driver’s license, photograph it, change the information in the machine, print it out on one of our own laminated blanks. It won’t be perfect, but it’ll look a lot like the real thing.”
“But not till we get there,” Parker said.
“If my vehicle had a trunk—”
“No.”
“Well, it doesn’t, anyway. But the point is, if we can get you there, we can solve your ID problem.”
Parker thought about that. He saw what to do, but he didn’t like it. Lindahl was so unsure of himself, Parker needed to keep him on a tight leash, but now he couldn’t. If Lindahl had time off by himself, would he decide the hell with it, let’s call in the cops?
Whatever the odds, Parker would have to risk them. He said, “No, you don’t need me there. This machine of yours, it takes mug shots to go on the ID cards, right?”
“Sure.”
“There’s already a picture on my license. You’re going to keep everything the same on it except the name and the home address. You don’t need me there to make the change, you only need the license.”
Lindahl frowned. “You mean, go there by myself. That way, I’d have to go all the way there twice tonight.”
“The second time, I’ll drive,” Parker said. “It’s the only way we can do this, Tom. I can’t leave here without identification.”
“It’s over an hour, each way.”
“It’s up to you,” Parker told him. “We do it this way, or we don’t do it. Which do you want?”
Lindahl eyed his beer can. “I’d better switch to coffee,” he decided, and got up to go to the kitchen.
13
Lindahl drove off a little before nine. Ten minutes later a knock sounded at the door. Parker was seated in the living room, beside the silent television set, not looking at it, waiting a little longer before going out to explore, but now somebody was here.
Parker waited, not moving. The front door, and the window next to it, were fitted into the original garage door space so sloppily that sound came through from outside, one or two people talking low, somebody scuffing his feet. Then there was a louder, harder knock and a voice called, “Ed! Ed, you in there?” Very aggressive, pushing hard.
Ed? Not looking for Lindahl. No; somebody who had watched and waited for Lindahl to leave, then came over to knock on the door, because it was Ed he wanted to see.
The voice was slightly familiar, recently heard somewhere. Not Thiemann, somebody else.
“Goddammit, Ed, be sociable! Open up this door!” And whoever it was rattled the doorknob, but since the door wasn’t locked, he unexpectedly lurched into the living room, holding the knob to save himself, barking a laugh of surprise and embarrassment.
It was the one-eyed guy with the black patch from the meeting this afternoon at St. Stanislas, and coming in behind him, more cautious and wary, his coat holder, Cory. They both looked at Parker, who stayed in his chair.
The one-eyed man said, “What’s the matter, Ed? How come you don’t open your door?”
“It’s not my door,” Parker told him.
“You can answer,” the guy insisted. “When somebody comes along, polite, and knocks in a very polite way, and calls out your name, you can answer, can’t you?”
“I’m not in a mood for visitors,” Parker told him.
The one-eyed man was both surprised and offended. “Not in a mood! You hear that, Cory?”
“Cal,” Cory said, a small warning.
But Cal wasn’t a man to take warnings. Glaring around the room, he stepped over and dropped backward onto the sofa, facing Parker, saying, “Well, I feel like a visit.” Then he blinked with sudden delight and pointed past Parker, crying, “Cory, looka that!”