“Teri… what else has been going on out there? Anything?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I think someone’s been watching the house.” His voice fell into something just above a whisper, and she remembered that voice. It was the voice of a man who was frightened. It was the voice of a man who wasn’t sure what was going on or how to deal with it. It was a voice she had heard often after Gabe had disappeared.
“How long?” she asked.
“Just the last day or two, I think. At least that’s when I first noticed it. I woke up late last night, not feeling quite right, and I noticed this van parked across the street. There were two men sitting in it, just sitting there, doing nothing. And then this morning, they were still sitting there, like they were waiting for something to happen.”
“Call the cops, Michael.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Tell them that out in California your wife and son had someone stalking them the last couple of days and now there’s someone watching your house.” Teri rubbed her eyes, suddenly reminded of how complicated everything had become lately. “Christ, that won’t do any good. Not if they check it out.”
“What the hell’s going on, Teri?”
“I’m not sure, but whatever it is, I think it’s dangerous.” She let out a breath that seemed to take away some of the pressure, at least momentarily. “Can you sneak out through a back door?”
“Yeah, I suppose so.”
“Then do it.”
“Jesus, Teri, is it that bad?”
“Stay in a motel for a few days. Move around. Call in sick at work.”
“What are you saying? What the hell’s going on?”
“I’m not sure, Michael. I think it has something to do with the boy, but right now I’m not sure of anything. Just play it safe for awhile, okay? Will you do that?”
“Sure,” he said. There was a touch of unease in his voice now, and she was glad to hear it, because that meant he was going to take her seriously. “Where can I reach you? At the house?”
“No, I think they’re watching the house.”
“Are you sure you and Gabe are all right?”
“We’re fine.”
“I can take a flight out and be there tonight.”
“No, that’ll only make things worse.” In the background, the boy’s singing fell silent. She heard the shower go off in the bathroom and the curtain drawn back. He would be toweled off and ready to go in a matter of minutes. “Look, leave a message with Uncle Henry and let me know where you’re staying. I’ll do the same, and maybe we can get back together over the phone in another day or two.”
“You sure you don’t want me out there?”
“Not right now, Michael.” Absently, she had wound the telephone cord several times around her index finger, and like Chinese handcuffs, the cord began to tighten as she struggled to free herself. In some ways, she thought she hadn’t been free in a good many years now. Not from her nightmares. Not from her loneliness. And surprisingly, not even from Michael. “Uncle Henry’s, all right?”
“Sure.”
“Gotta go, Michael. You be careful.”
“You, too.”
[42]
“Any luck?”
“Don’t know yet.”
The man, who was tapping a pencil against the edge of the countertop, sat back in his chair and waited. They had been waiting for three days now, two men crammed into the back of a van, listening, watching, coming up empty until Mrs. Knight had finally made the mistake of calling her estranged husband.
“How long does it take, man?”
“It takes as long as it takes. Just hold your water.”
Fifteen seconds ticked by.
“They didn’t get it, did they?”
Twenty seconds.
“I don’t know.”
Twenty-five seconds.
“Jesus.”
“At least we have a lead to the uncle.”
Thirty seconds.
Finally, the phone rang. Gene, the man with the nervous pencil, sat up in his chair, and grabbed the receiver. “Did you get it?”
“We got it.”
“Great!” He copied down the phone number, hung up, and immediately dialed the CNA operator. “I need one on 916-555-3743.”
“Just a moment.” The operator disappeared momentarily, then came back on the line. “That number is listed to the Royalty Motel.”
“The billing address?”
“Yes… it’s 2399 Cypress Avenue.”
“Thanks.”
[43]
Michael Knight hung up the phone in the kitchen, crossed to the dining room and peered out through the window. The van across the street had not moved in three days. It was parked in the Halloman driveway and Michael knew that Mr. Halloman, a retired Army colonel, was in Florida visiting his sister. He wasn’t expected back for another two weeks. Michael also knew that Mrs. Bradley, who lived two doors down, had reported the suspicious vehicle the first day it had arrived in the neighborhood. The police had come to check it that same day. Afterward, they had stopped by to assure Mrs. Bradley that she had nothing to worry herself about. The van, they had told her, was there on official business.
“Just what kind of official business?” she had wanted to know when relaying the story to Michael.
It was a question still in need of an answer, but the picture was becoming clearer. It was official business having to do with him.
Michael dropped the curtain and went down the hall to the master bedroom, where he got a suitcase down from the top closet shelf. He packed two changes of clothes, some socks, underwear, a couple of white shirts, some ties, and brought along an extra suit in a garment bag.
Gabe.
Could it really have been Gabe?
After it had become evident that Gabe wouldn’t be coming home again, that something unthinkable had probably happened, Michael had learned to cope by keeping it out of his mind. Like a ghost that only comes out at night, the tragedy had never been far, but it had taken on a less vivid, less real aura over the years. He thought, in some ways, he had put it behind him.
Gabe.
Michael went out through the back door, locking it behind him and standing on the cement patio a moment to soak up the sun. The day was bright, the air crisp, the temperature holding just under sixty. It was the kind of day that once, a long time ago, he would have taken Gabe over to the park to play catch.
Now there’s an aura that hadn’t lost its realness, Michael thought as he tossed the luggage over the back fence. He followed it over, and slipped through the side gate onto Remington Drive. This was a quiet neighborhood. He had bought the house two years ago, after growing tired of living in an apartment. And he had bought it precisely for that quiet. Now, he supposed, he was going to be living in a motel room for a night or two, until he could make arrangements to get back to California and hook-up with Teri.
Teri and…
…and Gabe.
The taste of his son’s name was bittersweet, and Michael didn’t allow himself to hold onto it long. As much as he wanted to believe that Gabe had returned, there was a part of him that didn’t want to risk the hurt if it turned out it wasn’t Gabe after all. Michael didn’t think he could survive losing his son again.
Across the street, two blocks up, and half-a-mile down the boulevard, he found a phone booth and was fortunate enough to also find a quarter in the coin return. He used the quarter to call a cab, then sat on a nearby bench, and watched the faces of the children who rode by on their bikes while he was waiting. Just like he had stopped thinking about Gabe all those years ago, he had also stopped looking at the children. It had been easier to keep them faceless, to look past them without trying to find Gabe in the way they combed their hair or smiled or the color of their eyes. But he caught himself looking again as he sat on the bench. Looking… and wondering.