Deep into Highland Park now. The driver pulled over to the intersection. Danny gave him a fifty and told him to keep the change. Big spender.
Checked his wristwatch. 5:30 P.M. It was time. He turned and walked to Sergeant Street. Walked right to her house.
Dark, except for the light she always left on in the kitchen.
Go in now, or wait?
No hesitating now, go straight for the house key and get in. Standing around would draw attention. But it was doubtful anyone would be watching the street. The homes presented the posture of snowbound fortress, turned inward, hunkered around their hearths.
His tennis shoes went silent in the snow. The air shocked his Santa Cruz contact lenses. The sidewalk, front steps and driveway were cleanly shoveled. A flower bed ran along the side of the house, and at the back, where it turned into the backyard, a terra-cotta pot was turned upside down. He reached down and-shit, the damn thing was frozen solid. Danny kicked the pot, shattering it. The key ring caught the slick side door light.
No wasted motion now. Quick to the door. The key slid in, the tumblers turned. He was inside. He set his bags on the floor. Took off his shoes, so he wouldn’t track snow.
Then he went into the bag and took out the ski mask, slipped it on. Kept it rolled on his forehead for now. Put his stuff in the broom closet by the door.
A tidy cinnamon warmth circled his senses. The clean be-witching spoor of Ida. Everything in its place. Fighting off the memories, he crossed through the kitchen and entered the living room. Stepped on? One of her goddamn puzzles.
Pieces stuck to his socks. He kicked them free and continued to the all-season side porch where she kept her computer and writing desk.
The computer sat on a table like the family shrine. Motion on the screen lent a votive flicker. Her screen saver swam in the darkness. Coral, oranges, purples-a lazy, turning cyber jellyfish.
He tested the drawer on her antique writing table. Unlocked. Thank you, Ida. He eased it open and by the shifting light of the screen at his elbow, picked through the stacked folders. Underneath her 1997 income tax folder, he found the familiar black cardboard jacket. Squinting at the label he himself had immodestly pasted on the cover. “
As he closed the drawer, his hip jarred the computer table.
The screen saver jittered off and was replaced by a blue field on which huge hot orange type screamed:
Wanted for questioning in
the death of Caren Angland
Wonder-surprise-slowly withered into shock.
What the fuck?
Then disbelief. Right there, staring at him. His old face, shaggy hair, glasses, quiet smile, liquid blue eyes behind the glasses frames. Gushing sweat, growling, spitting; he noted the page’s address:
His eyes whipped down the screen, reading the copy block.
No, he thought. No.
Then.
Stealth deserted him. He kicked at the computer and, fortunately, only tangled his stocking foot in the chair, which spun across the room on casters and smacked against a tall, potted dwarf pine.
His heart pounded in his throat. Acid sweat burned his eyes.
Bright light pinned him to the wall. Shadows. Like jungle vines, flashing across the living room, his body. Headlights.
A car pulling into the drive. He dropped to a squat. Not ready. A muted sound of a car door closing. Not ready for this. Not now.
Needed time to…
Key turning in the door, the slight groan of the hinges, and he felt the draft of cold air as the door opened. He was moving, his veins seething with battery acid, muscles on fire.
“What the hell?” Her surprised voice, instantaneous with the flick of the kitchen light.
62
Ida froze, a bag of groceries in her arms, overcoat collar turned up, crushed tam cocked on her head. Shock made her long face into a noirish shadow-catcher. The whites of her oval eyes enlarged-processed-man coming at her-
“What have you done?” he hissed, bursting out of the dark living room, scattering puzzle pieces into the kitchen light.
She was halfway to a startled scream, dropping the groceries, reaching in her purse-then: “Oh my God.” Horrific recognition on her face. “Tom?”
Cans popped and rolled on the floor. Desperation took the chilly scent of damp celery, the skitter of burst coffee beans on waxed linoleum. He stooped, swept up a can and threw it, through the kitchen doorway, across her living room, into her porch. It slammed her computer table, shaking off the screen saver. The lurid wanted poster glowed in the dark.
He faced her, leaner than she’d ever known him, more dynamic. A force to be reckoned with. He pleaded, “I would have done anything for you. I would have given you a new face. And you betrayed me.”
After her first fear, seeing who it was, she stood her ground. Coolly assessing him, she fired back without miss 360 / CHUCK LOGAN
ing a beat. “You sonofabitch, you never called.”
He flipped the light switch off, then on again. “How do you want it, Ida, off or on? You always like it off. Let’s leave it on, okay?”
So she could look at him. He couldn’t help opening his wallet, showing her his new California license.
“I was right,” she said in a dull voice.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That it was you; I recognized you, because of your voice,”
she said evenly.
Danny puffed a little. “I look different, don’t I?”
“Yes.” Same even voice. Trying to put him at ease. Up to something.
He pointed to the computer. “Explain that.”
Still very cool, as if they were discussing a story in the office, she asked, “How did you get on to this?”
Danny grinned. “I hacked into the newsroom network with your password and read your e-mail.”
“Not bad,” said Ida.
“So what’s he up to?”
“He wants to talk to you. He thinks things like that”-she jerked her head at Broker’s Web page-“will make the FBI give you over. He thinks you took some money…”
But she was just making conversation to throw him off.
Look at her, backing against the sink, inching toward her purse.
“Uh-uh.” His hand shot out, faster than hers and stripped the purse from her grasp and-holy shit-closed his hand around the small compact pistol with the recessed hammer, jammed it in his belt.
“Tom, it’s me,” she stated. He wanted her to be more scared.
“Don’t call me that,” he said emphatically.
“Okay, Danny.”
“That’s better.”
“Did you take some money?”
