The house Gerald Spanning had purchased was the only residence on its block. There was a new post office across the street, an abandoned foundry on one corner. There were several vacant lots between the house and the foundry.
The house was completely dark, its exterior illuminated by a street lamp. There were no cars parked in the narrow, unpaved driveway, which led to a pair of old-fashioned, carriage-style garage doors. The garage was separated from the house by a short, cracked and weed-choked walkway. A low, rusted and bowed chain-link fence gaped open near one corner of the front yard it enclosed. The lawn had been mowed, but the flower beds were dry and empty. The dark paint on the house and garage was peeling. One of the screens on a front window was torn. If he was fixing the place up, Gerald was working on the interior first.
I noticed there were no trees on the lot. “Very out in the open, isn’t it?” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “Not much cover, but no neighbors to speak of-no one with a view of this place. Looks like there’s an alley in back. Let’s check it out.”
She drove around the corner and stopped the car just at the alley’s entrance, illuminating it. There were no cars parked in the alley.
We drove slowly down it, past the graffiti-covered, empty corrugated tin buildings of the foundry, along the backyard of the house. There was less light here, but we could see two more double doors on this side of the garage, and a cluttered yard. An old bathtub, a sagging clothesline, a broken swing set and other objects were surrounded by weeds. The back screen door was off, propped up against one wall of the house. The chain-link fence on this side of the house was slightly taller than the one in front; there was another short drive leading from this end of the garage to the alley, but it didn’t look as if it were much used; the weeds were taller, and a large padlock and heavy chain held a double gate shut.
We continued past the house; the opposite side of the alley was a high cinder-block wall, the back of a shopping center. The other end of the alley let out onto a street bordered by warehouses and a truck yard.
Rachel pulled around to the front of the house, parking on the opposite side of the street again. She seemed to be trying to make up her mind about something. She moved the car a few feet, and said, “This will give you a better view of the back gate, I think. If you need to move the car a little, do it when we first get out, okay? Otherwise you’ll start it up and we’ll be wetting our pants over nothing.”
We all got out of the car. I walked around to the driver’s side just as Rachel handed him the keys.
I was feeling uneasy, but when I looked at Travis, he seemed more worried than I was. He got into the car and rolled down the window.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yes. Be careful.” He looked over at Rachel. “Both of you.”
“We’ll be fine,” I said.
“Piece of cake,” Rachel said. “This shouldn’t take long.”
She never should have said that. Later I told her I thought she put the jinx on the whole deal right then and there.
33
We crossed the street quietly. Following Rachel, I could see that she was much better prepared for this adventure: she wore gloves, a holstered gun and an equipment belt that wasn’t bulky but kept her hands free -it held her flashlight and a few tools. Her dark pants had lots of pockets.
My pants were dark, too, but while my pocketknife was tucked away in one of the four pockets, I had to carry the flashlight. I hadn’t thought of the knife as anything more than a last-ditch sort of weapon; I brought it because it might come in handy as a tool. Rachel would have-quite rightly-counted my carrying a gun in the liability rather than the asset column. I hadn’t thought of gloves.
I whispered this last concern to Rachel when we reached the foot of the driveway.
“You won’t be touching anything-a lookout, remember?” She glanced down at my shoes. “Good-running shoes-that’s all you need. You see Gerald, just warn me and then get the hell out of here.”
At the corner of the building, she asked me to stay close to her. “Don’t get involved in watching what I’m doing, just keep your eyes moving on the local scenery.”
She checked each side of the building, then moved to a door on the side facing the house. While the double doors at each end of the garage were locked with heavy padlocks, this door was locked with a much smaller lock.
“Watch the windows of the house, too,” she whispered. “Just in case anyone is home.”
She had pulled out something that looked like an eyeglasses case. Less than a minute later, I heard a snick, and saw that she had managed to pick the padlock. She pocketed it, tried to open the door, and found the knob locked as well. This took even less time than the padlock.
“Stay out here,” she said. “If you hear or see anything, tap lightly on this door, then get yourself back to the car.”
She went inside, closing the door behind her. I walked a few feet, looked quickly down the alley, walked back. I kept watching the house. There wasn’t a sound to be heard from the garage. I heard the sound of a car, looked, realized it was on another street-the street at the end of the alley. I waited, but the car kept moving, didn’t stop near the alley or Reagan Street.
What the hell was taking so long? It should have only taken a few seconds to see if there was an El Camino in the garage, get its plate number and leave. Plates could be taken off or switched, though, so maybe she was getting the vehicle identification number instead. I moved around a little, checked the other side of the building, came back to the door. It shouldn’t be taking so long.
It was with more than a little relief that I saw her open the door again and step outside. I was relieved until I saw her face. She looked angry; there was a harsh determination in her eyes and the set of her mouth.
“The car’s not there?”
She had bent to open one of the pockets on her trousers, was pulling something from it. “The El Camino? No.” She straightened up, held out a pair of latex gloves. “Here, put these on. You think you can go in there without being bothered by-you know, the confined space?”
“I’ll be okay.” I took the gloves, started putting them on. “What’s in there?”
“I’ll show you, but we have to hurry. I don’t want to keep Travis wait-ing.
She stepped inside, I followed. She closed the door behind me. She turned on her flashlight. The garage was more orderly than the backyard, but was nevertheless crowded with lawn equipment, tools and lumber. A fixed wooden ladder led to a half loft above us, where more lumber was stored. I couldn’t see much of it, and wasn’t really interested in the supplies for the renovation. My attention was focused on the dusty, dark-colored Camry sitting in the middle of the garage. The front bumper was off, and on a workbench, but it was clear the car had been in an accident.
“The right headlamp has been replaced,” she whispered. “But the old one is in that barrel-he’s using it as a trash can.” She moved the light toward a large cardboard drum with a metal rim. “I had a look underneath. There’s blood, hair and fabric. It should be enough. You want to look?”
“No,” I said, feeling sick.
“Okay. We’ll lock up and call the local cops. I’ll refer them to McCain. He should-” She suddenly stopped talking. We had both heard it. The sound of the Volvo starting up.
And then, almost immediately, the sound of breaking glass.
34
Rachel’s eyes widened. She turned and reached the door before me, peeked out, motioned me to stay back. “Listen!” she said. “Hide in here. I’ll come back for you. If not, take that crowbar off the wall and pry the hinges off the door from the inside. Or smash your way out with a sledgehammer-whatever it takes.”