Bonita Vista, vacation homes whose owners had not yet been by to discover the damage, and the sheriff was in the process of compiling a list of acts and addresses.
The man, Deke Meldrum , had some sort of grudge against the neighborhood, although the reasons for that remained vague. 'Probably a disgruntled handyman or something,' Chuck opined. 'Last year, the association contracted with a local maintenance company to provide all grounds keeping services for the green belts and communal property, and it ticked off some of the freelancers when we did that. I think this guy was one of them. There's something vaguely familiar under all that hair.'
'So what's going to happen? Has he been arrested?'
'Oh yeah.'
'He's not just going to turn around and get out...'
'Don't worry,' Chuck assured her. 'The association will press charges and make sure that he is prosecuted. He'll be in jail for quite a while.'
'Is there anything I need to do?'
'We'll take care of everything. You probably won't even have to testify. With so many Bonita Vista properties involved, the association will be the complainant, and the most we'll need from you will be a statement. Terry and I are going down to the sheriff's office right now, and we'll let you know if anything else comes up.'
'Keep us informed,'
'Don't worry. We will.'
Maureen thanked him for the information, said goodbye, and put the phone back down on the table, breathing an audible sigh of relief.
'Thank God.'
'What?'
'That was Chuck. He said the sheriff called and the guy who chased me is the guy who killed Barney and trashed our plants. His name's Deke Meldrum, and he's some kind of gardener or handyman. Apparently, he vandalized several other houses, too--vacation houses--and they're going to get him for all of them.'
'Do we have to go down and swear out a complaint or something?'
'No. The homeowners' association is pressing charges.'
Barry was silent.
'Come on. You can't have a problem with that. What, you think there's some sort of vast conspiracy and now that you and Ray are on to them they're trying to pin everything on a psycho gardener? That doesn't sound ridiculous even to you?'
He said nothing, but she saw the look of embarrassment on his face and pressed forward. 'The association is not the bad guy here. They're the ones going after the bad guy. Whatever else they do, however much they cramp your style, they're on our side in this case.'
'I just don't like them.'
'You can't admit that maybe you've been a little harsh and unyielding, that there's a slight possibility you might be wrong?'
He looked at her, took a deep breath. 'All right,' he said. 'I might be wrong.' She nodded. 'Okay.' 'I might be.' 'You are,' she told him. And she found that she believed it.
The Gordon Light foot album ended and Barry continued typing. He didn't like to write without music, but he was on a roll, and for once the silence didn't seem to affect his concentration. Ten minutes later, however, he hit a creative brick wall, and though he tried to keep going, leaving increasingly longer spaces between words with the intention of filling them in later, it was obvious that he was stuck, and he finally gave up, wheeled his chair back from the desk, and walked over to the stereo.
He sorted through his pile of vinyl and put on an old Joni Mitchell record, staring out at the view. There was something about those folkies of the late sixties early seventies that complemented nature, that understood the rural lifestyle. There was a wistfulness in the music as well, a tinge of melancholy that somehow bridged the hopes of that era with the reality of today and subtly pointed out the disparity.
This was music that spoke to him.
Of course, Joni Mitchell herself was no longer the Joni Mitchell of those early albums. The last time he'd seen her, on VH1 at one of those charity concerts, she'd been droning on in a cigarette-ravaged voice, stopping in mid song to lecture the crowd for not paying close enough attention to her lyrics. She'd seemed angry and bitter, a far cry from the open, giggly young woman captured on the live Miles of Aisles, and it had been depressing and dispiriting to realize how much times and people changed.
With the music on, his creative energy returned, and he quickly got back to work. He wrote for another hour or so, then stood and stretched. Maureen was gone, meeting with the manager of the only bank in town, trying to drum up some business locally and get to know some of Corban’s financial movers and shakers, and he was alone in the house. He walked upstairs to the kitchen and got out a can of Coke.
He'd been cooped up in here almost all week, and he felt more than a little restless. The writing had been going well, but being indoors so much was stifling, and Barry walked downstairs and outside, grateful for the fresh air.
He headed out to the end of the driveway and looked across the street at the forested lot next to the greenbelt. He glanced up and down the road, thought for a moment, then on an impulse went back inside, wrote a quick note to Maureen, and carefully shut the front door behind him.
Walking down the hill, he turned on the first street to the right and slowed down, looking for the wooden post that marked the entrance to the east bridle trail.
Even without the post, Barry would have seen the wide swath of open dirt that wound between the trees and away from the road, and he stepped happily from pavement to ground, feeling the delicious crunch of pine needles beneath his tennis shoes.
It was one of the things he liked about Bonita Vista, the fact that it had green belts and bridle trails, though he hadn't availed himself of their use until now. He should come here every day, he thought, an hour or so to get some exercise and stop the spread of middle-age paunch that had materialized since he'd become a full-time writer.
Maureen had been after him to walk with her, particularly after her run in with that lunatic, but she wasn't a hiker, she only liked to stroll up and down streets, and he found it boring and pointless to simply traverse their neighborhood. After a few obligatory efforts, she'd given up on him and had started going out with Liz and one of Liz's other friends each morning, leaving him to veg on the couch and watch The Today Show.
But he liked hiking, liked walking on trails and being surrounded by trees and brush and the earthy smell of nature. Hell, maybe if he could convince Maureen to come with him, they could walk together.
The trail curved down into what looked like a natural gully, following the contours of the land, winding between heavy copses of manzanita and a spread of wild holly bushes. The trees here were tall, much bigger than the ones on then- lot or next to the road, and since no homes were visible from this vantage point, he had no trouble feeling as though he were in the middle of some dense, unexplored woodland.
There was a sudden noise in the bushes off to his right, and though it was morning and a bright sunny day, a bolt of instinctive fear shot through him. He wasn't an outdoorsy guy, a nature guy, and unexpected sounds in unexpected places never failed to unnerve him. One of the hazards of 11 his profession. As a horror writer, he always thought of the || worst possible scenario: a mountain lion that would rip his lungs out, a bear that would tear him limb from limb. He wasn't the kind to ascribe benign causes or motivations to situations he encountered, and he stopped and looked around, listening, trying to determine where the noise had come from.
There was the rattle of underbrush.
And a sound.
He froze, and it came again. A moan that almost sounded like a word.
Whatever was causing it was definitely human, and the hackles rose on the back of his neck. He could not tell from which direction the sound originated, and it was not until he saw the movement of leaves and branches off to his right that he was able to determine how close the source was.
From under the bushes crawled an armless legless man, a dirty, tanned, and heavily bearded individual who pushed himself forward through spastic undulations of his disfigured form. The man's eyes were wild and
