Cavanaugh, Keith and Sandy. 502 Muir Road.
Hudley, N. 1219 Overkill Road.
No home-number listing for Dean Walker, but she had the address of his auto dealership Hudley's wife had given her. Dean Walker Foreign Cars. 677 Meacham Street. Was there a map of Freestone in the phone book? No, there was not. She looked around for a street marker, and found one on the corner under the caution light. The street she stood on was Parkway, the cross street McGill.
Mary tore out the listings for Cavanaugh and Hudley, and returned to the Cherokee. "Going to find him!" she said to Drummer. "Yes, we are!" She got back on Parkway, and continued slowly in the direction she'd been going. "He might be married," she told Drummer, and she checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror. "But that's all right. See, it's a disguise. You have to do some things you don't like to fit in. Like at the Burger King where I used to work. 'Thank you ma'am.' 'Yes sir, would you like fries with that sir?' Those kind of things. If he got married, it's so he can hide better. But nobody knows him like I do. He might be living with a woman, but he doesn't love her. He's using her to play a role. See?"
Oh, the things she and Jack would teach their son about life and the world would be miraculous!
The next cross street was Meacham.
One block to the right, beside a Crocker Bank, was a brick building with a fenced-in lot that held a couple of Jaguars, a black Porsche, an assortment of BMWs, and various other imports. A sign with blue lettering said DEAN WALKER FOREIGN CARS.
Mary pulled up to the front of the building. It was dark, nobody at work yet. She took the revolver from her shoulder bag, got out, and limped to the building's plate glass window. On the glass-fronted door was a sign that told her the place opened at ten and closed at five. She decided that today it would open three hours and thirty-eight minutes early.
She smashed the door glass with the revolver handle. An alarm screamed, but she'd been prepared for that because she'd already seen the electric contact wires. She reached in, found the lock and twisted it, and then she pushed through the door. In the small showroom stood a red Mercedes. There was a couch with a coffee table where car magazines and brochures were stacked. On either side of a water cooler were two doors with nameplates. One said JERRY BURNES and the other said DEAN WALKER. His office was locked. The alarm was going to wake this sleeping town up, so she had to hurry. She was looking for something to batter the door open with when she saw a framed color photograph on the wall, above a row of shining brass plaques. Two men stood in the photograph, smiling broadly at the camera, the larger man with his arm over the smaller one's shoulder. The caption read: "Freestone Businessman of the Year Dean Walker, right, with Civitan President Lyndon Lee."
Dean Walker was big and fleshy and had a slick salesman's smile. He wore a diamond pinky ring and a power tie. He was black.
One down.
Mary limped back to the Cherokee, its engine still running. Dogs were barking, it seemed, all over town. She drove away from the car dealership, passing a garbage truck that had pulled over to the curb, two men getting out. She turned to the left at the next cross street, which was named Eastview. She went through a stop sign on the following street – Orion – but she hit the brake when she saw the next street marker coming up: Overhill Road.
Which way? She turned to the right. In another minute she saw she'd made the wrong choice, because there was a dead end sign and a stream that ran through a patch of woods. She turned the Cherokee around again, heading west.
She left the business section of Freestone and entered a residential area, small brick houses with neatly manicured lawns and flower boxes. She slowed down, looking for addresses: 1013… 1015… 1017. She was going in the right direction. The next block started with 1111. And then there it stood, in the golden early sunlight: the brick house with a mailbox that had 1219 Overhill on it.
She turned into the short driveway. Under the carport's canopy were two cars, a small Toyota and a midsize Ford, both with California plates. The house was similar to all the others in the neighborhood, except for a birdbath and a wooden bench in the front yard. "Trying to fit in," she told Drummer as she cut the engine. "Playing the suburban role. That's how it's done." She started to get out, but raw fear gripped her. She checked her makeup in the mirror again. She was sweating, and that fact dismayed her. The house awaited, all quiet.
Mary eased out of the Cherokee and limped toward the white front door, leaving Drummer and her gun behind. She could hear the faint, distant shrill of the dealership's alarm, and dogs barking. A couple of birds fluttered around the birdbath. Before she got to the door, her heart was beating so hard and her stomach was so fluttery she thought she might have to stagger to the ornamental bushes and retch. But she forced herself on, and she took a deep breath and pressed the buzzer.
She waited. Cold sweat slicked her palms. She was shaking like a girl on her first date. She pressed the buzzer again, miserable in her impatience. Oh God, let it be him, she thought. Let it be… let it be… let it –
Footsteps.
A latch was slipped back.
She saw the doorknob start to turn.
Oh God… let it be him…
The door opened, and a man with sleep-swollen eyes peered around its edge.
"Yes?" he asked.
She couldn't speak. He was a rugged-looking, handsome man, but he had a froth of curly white hair and he was probably in his mid-sixties. "Can I help you, miss?" Irritation had sharpened his voice.
"Uh… uh…" Her brainwheels were jammed. "Uh… are you… Nick Hudley?"
"Yes." His brown eyes narrowed, and she saw them tick toward the Smiley Face button.
"I'm… lost," Mary said. "I'm looking for Muir Road."
"That way." He motioned to his right, farther along Overhill, with an uptilting of his chin. "Do I know you?"
"No." She turned away, began hurrying to the Cherokee.
"Hey!" Hudley called, coming out. He wore pajamas and a green robe with sailboats on it. "Hey, how do you know my name?"
Mary slid behind the wheel, closed the door, and backed onto Overhill Road. Nick Hudley was standing in his yard, and two birds were fighting for dominion in the birdbath. Dogs howled, finding the alarm's note. Mary drove on, following her star.
A quarter of a mile from Hudley's house, Muir Road branched to the right. Mary took the curve. Marching toward the hazy ocean were green hills dotted with redwood houses spaced far apart and set back from the winding road. Mary looked for names or numbers on the mailboxes. She came around a long curve where pampas grass grew wild, and she saw the name on a box that had a blue whale painted on it: Cavanaugh.
A crushed-gravel driveway led twenty yards uphill to a redwood house with a balcony looking toward the Pacific. In front of the house was a copper-colored pickup truck. Mary guided the Cherokee up behind the truck and stopped. Drummer had started bawling, upset about something. She looked at the house, her hands clenched on the wheel. She would not know for sure until she knocked at the door. But if he answered, she wanted him to see their son. She put the bag over her shoulder, picked up Drummer, and got out.