The shake shingles are slick with rain. The lower part of my body is already soaked. My jeans are now sodden, three pounds heavier than when I put them on. I lie silent for several seconds, waiting to see if lights will come on below in my neighbor’s house. The sheet-metal gutters and downspouts are dripping their metallic cadence; this seems to have covered the noise of my foot scraping the edge.
On my stomach I crawl toward the back side of the roof. It is a hip roof that rises from three directions toward a peak in the center. From there the garage roof runs a ridge until it joins the main part of the house itself and then cuts in valleys and angles in two directions, front and back. The valleys are all lined with metal flashing. Tonight they are running like rivers.
It is the reason I could not wait. I could not be certain that in the constant rain the bag would hold up. It would not take long for a curious neighbor to question the white flow, like a stream of bat guano, running through the downspouts of his house and out onto the lawn, every gardener’s miracle cure. They would be wondering why it is that they are driven to stand in the same place and rake the dust all day.
Around the back side of the roof I move into a half crouch and up toward the pitch, until I can see just over the top. From here, the street below is illuminated by the yellow glow of a vapor light on the pole several doors down.
In the opposite direction, under the branches of a young elm, I can see the curious dark van that appeared for the first time two nights ago. It has two round bubble windows, a vestige from the seventies, one on each side. It has been parked there, always in the same place when I get home at night, and still there when I leave for work in the morning.
Subtle they are not. If they cannot nail me for dealing, they want their drugs back.
It is the reason that I suspect Kline is not involved. Given the tail chewing he has already taken from Radovich, he would not dare to be this bold, to place my house under surveillance. Still, it is a measure of the lack of control that the authorities, both he and the chief, have over this faction of their own force.
I have taken the license number of the van and asked Harry to check DMV. I have also snapped pictures of the vehicle with a telephoto lens from the end of the block.
In the morning when I leave for work I put a light film of baby powder on the floor inside each door, front and rear, as well as in strategic places in the hallway in case they use a window. I check these for footprints each night when I return. So far, if my sign-reading skills are any good, they have stayed out. I think they have concluded it is not in the house. I have made certain that Sarah is never there if I am out. She is either with me, or with friends elsewhere. In all of this, she is my biggest concern.
There is no movement from the van. Still I remain low on the roof, always to the rear of the house. I work my way laterally, across my neighbor’s backyard, and then up a valley on the roof. I am beginning to think I could not possibly have thrown it this far when I see it wedged in a metal crevice around a skylight. The shine of clear plastic and the white radiance of the powder inside glimmers like a heavy cloud resting on the roof. The bag appears to be sealed, unbroken, and for a moment I think that perhaps it is safer here than back in my house.
I am about to make my way back down the roof toward the side yard when I hear the sound of a car door, not being slammed, but rather carefully closed. I inch my way to the ridge and peer over. Two guys are coming this way, crossing the street from the dark van. In the muted glow of the vapor light, at this distance, I can make out no features.
I duck below the ridge and lie completely still, prone on the roof. I scan for avenues of escape. It is a ten-foot drop, perhaps more, to a concrete patio in my neighbor’s yard. Part of this is covered by an aluminum patio roof that, if I had to guess, would not support my weight. Even if I could make the jump, they would certainly hear me when I hit the ground.
“I’m telling you I saw something.”
The words are whispered, but still audible in the still night air. It comes from in front of my house, where Sarah is sleeping.
“There’s nobody up there.”
“Not the lawyer’s place,” says the other voice. “Next door. Over there.”
They continue to whisper and the voices come closer.
I edge up the roof on my stomach. The rain is now coming harder. Near the skylight, where one edge nearly reaches the ridge of the roof, I peer around one corner for a look.
One of them has something strange wrapped around his forehead, two large protrusions like antennas jetting several inches out from his head.
“I know I saw something,” he says.
“Probably a cat,” says the other.
“No. Too big.”
He adjusts the item on his head, and brings it down, until the protrusions are over his eyes, and suddenly it hits me-the guy is wearing night-vision goggles.
I jerk my head below the ridge so quickly I nearly get whiplash. The motion causes me to slide nearly a foot on the wet roof.
“What was that?”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“Shhh.”
I am wondering whether the device on his eyes can possibly pick up the rising waves of my body heat over the ridge, images like a green ghost against the cold wet roof.
“I don’t see anything.” It’s the other guy’s voice. “Come on. Let’s get back in the car. It’s wet out here.”
“I told you we shoulda searched up there the other day.”
“We didn’t have time. I’m going back to the van. My ass is soaked. You coming?”
“In a minute.”
“Suit yourself. If some pain-in-the-ass citizen calls in a prowler, it’s your ass in the flames.”
“Why don’t you check and see if he’s asleep in bed?”
“Who?”
“The lawyer. See if you can see anything through his bedroom window.”
“You check. I’m going back to the van.”
I can hear soggy footfalls on my neighbor’s front lawn as one of them departs. Several seconds go by and I wonder if perhaps they have both left. Then I hear a car door slam, only one.
Suddenly there is movement high in the limbs of a bush, near the area of the fence where my front yard merges with the neighbor’s. I hear feet, the distinct sound of climbing against the wooden fence, then silence. An instant later, footfalls in the dirt. Someone has scaled the fence and is now on the path along the side of my house near the broken bathroom window.
I am stretched out on the roof with no easy avenue of escape. Behind me, off to the right of the patio roof, is a brick chimney. This would provide some cover from the rear yard, if the intruder were to go in that direction. But from a right angle, if his eyes were drawn to the roof he would easily see the bag and its white contents.
I rise to my knees and quietly work my way around the skylight, toward the valley. I grab the bag. It squishes in my hand, the texture and consistency of powdered sugar.
Soundlessly, I dodge down the roof toward the chimney, and crouch low in the V that is formed where it joins the edge of the roof rising toward the front of the house. There I brace myself in the shadows, knowing that this is a futile exercise if the man below has night vision. I am holding twenty years of hard time in my hand. Not even Radovich could save me.
It was a stupid move. I should have left it, but I knew I could not. Sooner or later someone would discover it and remember the futile raid on the house next door.
I hear him moving now near the back of my house. I push the bag and its contents into the groove formed where the chimney meets the edge of the roof on top of the metal flashing in order to free up my hands.
I can see nothing in my yard. It is pitch black. Here the glow of the vapor light is blocked by trees on the front street and the rise of roofs. I am wondering if at this moment he is staring back at me, peering through goggles from some shadowy hole in my own yard.