“Jean said there’s a nice area near a stream about half a mile from here.”
“The way she gives directions, it’s probably two miles.”
“We’d better get moving, then. Need to get there before dark.” Bert dug deep in a pocket of her shorts. She came up with a compass, held it flat in her open hand and studied it. “Trail should be thata-way,” she said, and pointed to the left.
Rick followed her past the front of the car.
“Ah-ha!” she said.
At the edge of the clearing, nailed to a short brown post, were two slats of wood with carved messages. She pointed to the left and indicated that Mosquito Pasture was two miles distant. The other pointed straight ahead. Dead Mule Pass was eight miles in that direction.
“Encouraging names,” Rick muttered.
Bert smiled back at him. “You’ll be glad to know we’re not heading for Mosquito Pasture.”
“Dead Mule Pass doesn’t sound like the Garden of Eden.”
Bert tucked a thumb under each of her shoulder straps. She flexed her knees and pulled the straps as if to adjust the fit of the pack.
The wet patch on her pocket was still dark.
She turned away and started walking down the trail.
Rick looked back at the car. Then peered into the deep shadows among the trees. Get a grip, Rick. There are no boogey men out there. Believe me
Hurrying to catch up with Bert, he began to sing. “Please Mr. Custer, I don’t wanna go.”
The parking area under Gillian’s apartment building was deserted. She slid her suitcase onto the floor of the car in front of the passenger seat, set down her purse, then went around to the rear and opened the trunk. Reaching inside a nylon satchel, she took out a pair of license plates. It was one of six sets she had removed, late one night last month, from cars parked along a secluded lane in Brentwood. She had used WonderGlu to fix strong magnets onto the back of each plate.
She covered her own plates with the stolen ones, and drove out.
She shivered as she drove. The tremors seemed stronger, less pleasant than usual.
Maybe this is too soon, Gillian thought. Maybe I’m pressing my luck.
Nothing to worry about, she told herself. You’ve never been caught, and there was only that one close call.
The “close call” had happened nearly a year ago. She’d been swimming in the pool at the Farnsworth house in Ran-cho Park when car doors thudded shut nearby. Thrusting herself out of the water, she ran dripping to the comer of the house. From there, she saw the roof of a van beyond the top of the gate. She heard quiet voices. The Farnsworths weren’t due home for two more days, but they must have cut their trip short. In seconds, they would find themselves prevented from entering the front door because of the burglar bar. When that happened, they were bound to come through the gate to try a back door. Gillian, choked with panic, raced around the end of the pool. At the rear of the yard, she sprang at the redwood fence, boosted herself up and squirmed over the top, scraping her thigh in the process. She dropped into the alley on the other side.
Fortunately, she’d left her car parked around a comer from the Farnsworth house, with an ignition key in a magnetized compartment under the rear bumper.
That wasn’t good fortune, she thought, that was good planning.
The good planning also paid off in that Gillian had taken nothing into the house that could be used to identify her. She lost her suitcase, clothes, security bars, purse and camera (along with a roll of film in the camera that must’ve given the Farnsworths food for thought if they had it developed), but nothing to give them any clues as to who the owner might be.
Still, it had been a narrow escape. She’d sworn off intrusions for good after that.
As time passed, however, the urge had grown. Three weeks later, she was inside another house. It had been scary for a while, but soon the fear of being discovered had faded and she’d had no more problems.
So why, tonight, was her usual anticipation tainted by a shadow of dread?
Gillian parked in front of the house. Light shone through the closed draperies of the living room, but that was normal; most people had timing devices to activate a lamp and make their homes look occupied while they were away.
She shut off her engine and headbeams, and got out of the car. As she walked around to the passenger door, she eyed the next-door houses. The one with the realtor’s sign was dark. The other had lights on, but no car in the driveway. The owners might be home, but there was a good chance they were out enjoying themselves.
Ten o’clock on a Saturday night was the ideal time for Gillian to make her entries: too early for most people to return home from movies or dinner parties; not so late that her arrival, if noticed by a neighbor, would draw much suspicion.
Especially not the way she was dressed.
Gillian opened the passenger door. She took out her purse and suitcase, and walked casually toward the front porch, confident that anyone who might spot her would assume she was a legitimate visitor. Burglars, after all, do not usually wear heels, a skirt, and a turtleneck sweater.
If questioned by a neighbor who’d been alerted that the owners were off on a trip, she would simply claim to be the niece who’d come to house-sit. That had happened a few times. Usually, they bought the story. If not, Gillian was ready to cover herself. “Uncle Henry insisted that I—”
“No Henry lives here.”
She would frown. “Sure. Henry Wadsworth.”
Assured that no Henry Wadsworth resided here, she would act perplexed and show the suspicious neighbor a slip of paper on which she had written Uncle Henry’s name and address. The neighbor would then explain that she was at the wrong address. “This is 8322, not 3822.” Grateful for having her error pointed out, she would depart.
Tonight, Gillian had no use for the slip of paper on which she had reversed the first two numbers of this address. Nobody questioned her. She saw no one on her way from the car to the porch.
The light above the front door was dark. She listened for a few moments and heard no voices from inside. Ringing the doorbell went against procedure. Though that was a good way to make sure nobody was home, the sound of a doorbell could sometimes be heard by neighbors. Also, it went against the logic of her cover, a niece coming to house-sit would hardly ring the doorbell.
Setting down her suitcase, Gillian opened the mailbox. It was empty except for a flier. She quietly lowered the lid.
The porch was an L-shaped concrete slab with a waist-high wall, and extended around the corner of the house. Its front was concealed from the street by a pair of geraniums. The house windows that looked onto the porch were dark.
Gillian carried her suitcase and purse around the comer and set them down. From there, she could see the high redwood fence that ran alongside the property. The next-door house had a single story, and only the very tops of its windows were visible above the fence. Lights shone through the windows.
It was all right, though. Not only were the curtains shut, but anyone inside would have to stand on a chair to see over the fence.
After slipping out of her shoes, Gillian stepped barefoot to the low wall and peered down. In the space between the house and the fence was a driveway that extended from the gate to a two-car garage. The porch was elevated leaving a drop of about six feet from the top of its wall to the driveway. There was no opening at the rear of the porch wall. She would have to jump.
Gillian opened her skirt and stepped out of it. She folded it, set it on the edge of her suitcase, then pulled off her sweater. Shivering in her gym shorts and tank-top, she opened her handbag and removed a small leather satchel. Then she climbed onto the side wall of the porch and pushed off. Her feet slapped the pavement, a quiet sound that could certainly not be heard inside the neighbor’s house.
