The small joke made her frown. There wasn’t going to be any mug shot. Everything would be fine, and there was no reason, absolutely none, for her hands to be trembling.
They trembled anyway as she rummaged through the trash bin and found someone’s gooseneck lamp, the cord badly frayed. She hefted the lamp experimentally. It seemed sturdy enough to do the job.
Leaning against the bin, drawing a slow breath to compose herself, she felt a hand on her arm.
“ Jesus.”
She swung around, instinctively raising the lamp as a weapon, and saw two green eyes staring at her from a foot away.
Cat’s eyes. An alley cat, that’s all it was, just an alley cat that had climbed atop the bin and touched her with its paw.
“Oh, God, puss, you scared me.”
The cat sniffed her clothes, unafraid. Annie realized the scent of her own house cat must have drawn the stray’s attention.
“His name is Stink,” she whispered. “He’s got green eyes like yours-and mine. Maybe the three of us are related.”
The cat appeared unimpressed with this hypothesis.
“Okay now, scoot. Scoot.”
Gently she brushed the cat away. It bounded off the bin and meandered a few yards down the passageway, then stood watching, a silent spectator.
Her conversation with the cat, one-sided though it had been, had calmed her somewhat. She always felt soothed in the presence of a feline, whether Stink or this mangy stray. Cats were good for the soul. Maybe if Harold had a cat, he wouldn’t A new worry froze her. How did she know he didn’t own a cat? Or worse, far worse, a dog? A guard dog, even, like that Doberman at the auto lot?
She might enter the apartment only to find herself pinned to a wall, fangs at her throat.
Then she shook her head firmly. “That won’t happen. Come on, girl. No more procrastination.”
A quick breath of courage, and she turned to face the window. Holding the lamp by its base, she jabbed the glass. The window cracked on her first attempt, crumbled to shards with a second, stronger thrust. Both sounds were largely swallowed by the wail of mariachi horns next door.
Carefully she swept the frame clear, using the metal neck of the lamp, then rolled the Dumpster under the window and climbed onto the lid.
A glance at the far end of the passageway revealed two green eyes still burning against the dark.
“Wish me luck,” she whispered to the cat.
Its answering meow heartened her.
Gingerly she inserted one leg through the window, then the other. Inch by inch she wriggled in, holding fast to the sill, her feet probing until they found a smooth, sturdy surface. Resting on it, she was able to release her grip on the sill and draw her upper body, her arms, and finally her head inside.
She found herself squatting on the porcelain lid of the toilet tank. For several breathless seconds she waited tensely, until she felt reasonably confident that no German shepherd was about to charge out of the dark and savage her throat.
Then she stepped cautiously onto the seat of the commode and hopped to the floor.
She was in.
It was a strange feeling to be alone in the dark in an unfamiliar home-uninvited, an intruder, a trespasser.
She listened for sounds of movement elsewhere in the apartment. Heard nothing but the Mexican music and, overhead, a creak of restless footsteps.
Had Gund’s upstairs neighbor heard the window shatter or glimpsed her sneaking in? Dialed 911? Reports of a prowler were given top priority; response time would be short.
The footsteps continued, back and forth, back and forth, registering no urgency. Annie decided the tenant was merely pacing.
It must drive Harold crazy to hear that all night, she reflected, before reminding herself that he might be crazy anyway.
Okay. Search the place. Fast.
She was in a hurry to get out. The apartment, closed up all day, was hot and stuffy; she found it hard to breathe. Or maybe it was fear that shut her throat. Suddenly her certainty that Gund would not return for hours seemed baseless, mere wishful thinking. For all she knew, he was on his way home right now. Might be outside the front door, inserting his key in the lock “Quit it,” she whispered harshly. “Get to work.”
Her hand on the wall switch, she hesitated.
Turn on the lights? It seemed dangerous. If Gund did return, he would see the lighted windows from the street.
But not this window. Only those in front.
She decided on a compromise. She would use the lights only in rooms facing the building next door. And she would turn off the light as she left each room.
She flipped the switch, and a ceiling lamp winked on, dazzling after the minutes she’d spent in darkness.
The bathroom seemed ordinary enough. Not as clean as it could be, some unpleasant smells. Towels on dented metal racks. Shampoo in the shower. Bar of soap in a porcelain dish on the Formica counter. Mirror over the sink, her reflection gazing back at her with frightened eyes.
Near the mirror, a medicine cabinet. Quickly she surveyed its shelves, looking for Erin’s Tegretol. If Gund had it, the bottle would tie him to her disappearance. Even Walker couldn’t dispute that.
There was no Tegretol. No medication of any kind except aspirin and antacids.
She switched off the bathroom light and emerged into a narrow hallway. Darkness in both directions. She turned left, groping along the wall until she found a door.
Pushing it open, she entered a bedroom in the front corner of the apartment. The glow of a streetlight through the curtains provided sufficient illumination as she explored the room.
Cheap bed with creaky mattress springs. Bedside alarm clock, the dial luminous: 8:20. Clothes in the closet, but none of Erin’s things. Her suitcase wasn’t there, either.
Nothing suspicious so far. She returned to the hall and found a doorway to the living room. Even in darkness she could see that the place was sparsely furnished-battered sofa, a single floor lamp, an ancient television set resting on an apple crate, a dining table flanked by unmatched garage-sale chairs.
The room was most remarkable for what it did not contain. There were no books, no record albums, no paintings, no family photographs, no souvenirs from excursions to the Grand Canyon or San Diego. There was nothing.
“Harold,” she whispered. “Poor Harold.”
For a moment she forgot to be afraid of him. He was just a lonely man without a life.
Unless he was something worse.
Searching the living room was the work of a minute; there was nothing to see. She moved on to the kitchen, in the northwest corner of the apartment, far enough from any windows to make it safe to turn on a light.
The overhead fluorescent cast a pale, glareless glow on soiled countertops and peeling linoleum tiles. Dirty dishes crowded the sink; the water had drained away. A beetle scurried behind the refrigerator, black carapace gleaming.
She checked the silverware drawers, thinking vaguely she might find some obvious weapon-a bloodstained knife perhaps. There was only ordinary cutlery, inadequately cleaned, particles of dried food sticking to tines and blades.
In a lower drawer there was a miscellany of household hardware. Cigarette lighters, manual can openers, a corkscrew, scissors of various sizes, and, lying carelessly atop the pile, a ring of keys.
The ring was tagged with a piece of masking tape marked SPARES.
Spare keys to the apartment? Or to whatever secret place Gund had been headed earlier tonight?
She examined the key ring more closely. Six keys in all, each with a bit of tape inked in the same careful hand.
FRONT DOOR. BARN. STAIRS. CELLAR.
And two smaller keys, probably for padlocks: GATE, REAR DOOR.
Not for this place, obviously. These were the keys to a farm or ranch with a barn, a cellar, and a padlocked gate.