He moved along the windows, peering in at different angles to try to pick out a light, and then searching for objects that had not been in the living room on his last visit-a coat or a magazine or a coffee cup-but he saw none of those things. He moved from the big windows to the garage, and looked in the window. Emily Kramer’s car was still inside, but that meant nothing except that she had not driven herself when she had left. No cop would use it as a chase car. He moved back along the wall to the living room again, trying to decide.
Emily Kramer was not here, and that was as he had expected. He had intended to terrify her on his first visit, and he had never doubted that he would succeed. But he wasn’t sure how to interpret the apparent absence of other people. Could the police have listened to Emily Kramer’s story and not known that Hobart would come back? He had told her what he had come for, and she had seen him leave without it. The cops should be in this house waiting for him. He thought of electronic surveillance again. They could be keeping watch on both the office and the house from somewhere else.
Hobart moved to the side of the house and looked up, traced the power line from the pole at the street to the corner of the house, and moved toward it until he found the meter and the circuit box beside it. He moved his face close to the meter and saw the wheel inside turning. Power was being used, but the wheel was turning very slowly. It was the sort of power that ran the refrigerator and a few electric clocks.
Hobart looked around and chose a spot in the back corner of the yard where there were two trees with thick trunks that appeared to rise from a single spot. He flipped the main switch to turn off the electricity. The click was loud in the silence, and the sound made him move more quickly to the hiding place he had chosen. He stood behind the forked trunks, rested his pistol arm on the nub of a pruned branch, and waited. From here he could see through the rear windows into the living room, and he could see the circuit box. If someone was here, Hobart would probably see him either coming to find out which of the circuit breakers was flipped, or sweeping the back yard with a flashlight.
He waited fifteen minutes. Then he moved to the sliding door where he had entered the house the previous night. He could see the residue of the police technicians’ fingerprint dust all over the area near the lock. Nobody had made any attempt to clean it, or their wipes and smudges would have shown up, too. Hobart used his knife to push up the door latch, then closed the blade and put it away while he watched to see if any of the shadows in the house changed shape. He slid the door open a few inches and listened. There were no footsteps, no creaking floorboards. He entered.
Hobart sidestepped away from the sliding door so his back was to a solid wall and his silhouette would not stand out. There were still no sounds, no lights. He slid the door shut.
If there were surveillance cameras or similar devices in the house, they would be run off the house current, so he was confident he had killed them. He was in, and he was alone. Now he could begin his search. He had already formed a mental map of the house on his first visit. People usually hid things like papers and tapes in places where they would be out of sight, but where they could still reach them in a hurry. They didn’t want them in spots where a routine cleanup would uncover them, or a burglar would know something valuable was hidden-like a wall safe.
Phil Kramer had been devious. He had not been the sort of man who would put papers in a bank safe-deposit box and have to wait for business hours to retrieve them. He was the sort of man who would put papers in with other papers, or put tapes with other tapes, and Hobart already had a theory about where that might be. There was a hall that ran between the living room and the kitchen and then picked up past the kitchen, and led to a room. It must have been a maid’s room at one time, but now it was a den or office. He stepped to the hallway.
“Hold it!”
Hobart spun, dropped to a squat and fired in the general direction of the deep male voice. He didn’t pause, but sprang, launching himself in the direction of the sliding windows in the living room. He knew he couldn’t make it to the one he had unlocked, so he dashed for the other one. As he ran, he held his pistol in front of him and fired through the glass as quickly as he could, spreading his shots over the large pane and shattering it. He managed to get off six shots, crossed his forearms in front of his face and hurled himself through the curtain of still-falling shards.
In that instant, he was aware of shots behind him, but he knew that his best chance was to keep moving. He sprinted to the back of the yard, hauled himself to the top of the wall, and rolled over it just as somebody found the circuit box and a bright light came on, transforming the backyard of the Kramer house into a white glare.
Hobart dashed for the next street, ran across it and up the driveway of the house on the far side. He saw a wooden gate between the two houses, reached over the top to feel for a latch and release it, and ran between the two houses to the next yard. This time there was a chain-link fence with thick shrubbery growing on both sides of it, but he clambered over it to the sound of ringing clinks and breaking branches, and kept running.
He made it to the street where his rental car was parked. He was winded now, but he sprinted up the sidewalk to the car. As he got into the driver’s seat, he heard the growl of an engine. A car was accelerating somewhere nearby, as though it were driving up and down the streets he had just crossed.
Jerry Hobart had been hunted before. He knew he couldn’t stay here in his parked car and hope he wouldn’t be found, and he couldn’t hide in the shrubbery somewhere in the neighborhood. His only chance was to go. He started the engine and accelerated, trying to get out of this small grid of streets and onto one of the big boulevards that would take him to a freeway entrance. He built up speed as he reached the first intersection, then let his foot hover over the brake pedal while he glanced to his left to be sure nothing was coming toward him on the side street, then hit the accelerator again. He ejected the magazine from his gun and clicked the spare into place.
As he reached the second intersection, he looked to his left and saw another car flash across the side street one block to his left. There was somebody driving a parallel course to his. He turned to the left. If the driver was a cop, he would assert his innocence by following him out of the neighborhood. If the cop didn’t buy it, he would have the inevitable confrontation facing the cop instead of looking over his shoulder. When he reached the next street, he turned to the right to follow the speeding car.
What he saw wasn’t what he had expected. The other driver had seen him, too, and the car was swinging into a driveway on the left. He could see it was a dark green Toyota, not a model that cops used. Now it was backing into the street to come back toward him. Hobart pushed the button to lower his side window, gripped his gun in his left hand, and drove toward it. The other car backed quickly across the road to block him.
Hobart opened fire at the driver. He saw the driver’s side window shatter and saw one shot hit the edge of the car’s roof and throw sparks as it glanced off into the night. After that he couldn’t see the driver anymore, but he fired three rounds at the driver’s door, and then he was past the car. As he coasted into a turn at the next block to get away from the small residential streets, he looked into his mirrors, but he couldn’t tell whether he had hit the man or not. The car hadn’t moved yet. Then he turned left onto Vanowen, moving fast toward the east. He tore off his ski mask and put it in his pocket, and felt the cool air on his sweating face.