The room was huge, with high ceilings, one of the walls almost all glass. A side door opened into a bathroom: stall shower, separate tub with Jacuzzi jets, a phone set into a niche in the wall within easy reach. A double sink with an elaborate makeup mirror surrounded by tiny lights. All pink marble with a faint white vein running through it. The floor was the same motif in glistening tile.
'Here,' he said, opening a walk–in closet full of enough clothes to stock a small store. Just past the door was a control panel, a small round speaker set into the top, a double row of buttons beneath it, each button numbered. He pushed one of the buttons. The string music from the stereo flowed out of the speaker.
'See?' he said. 'She has the whole place wired.'
'Every room.'
'Yes.' Something in his face, couldn't tell what in the reflected light.
'Is this the only control panel?'
'Yeah.'
'So if I stay over there, how will you…'
'I'll sleep in here tonight,' he said, his face down.
I shouldered my duffel, headed back across the yard alone. Climbed the wood stairs along the side of the garage. The door to the apartment had a glass pane next to a dime–store lock. A clear message to burglars about what was inside— either nothing worth stealing…or Rottweiler who hadn't been fed in a while.
I used the key the kid gave me, stepped inside and flicked on the lights. It was nicer than I expected, the living room furnished with substantial, expensive–looking pieces that had aged out of chic. Even the living room carpet was deep and decent, a muted blue with a thick pad underneath. Against one wall was a stereo–tape–CD combo with bookshelf speakers. The kitchen was small, but all the appliances looked serviceable. The bathroom was small too, a plastic curtain turned the tub into a shower on demand. I crossed over to the bedroom, which was dominated by a heavy, carved wood frame for the double bed and a matching dresser with a mirror.
I kept looking. The refrigerator was empty except for some bottled water, but the kitchen cabinets had a good supply of canned goods. Pots and pans too. The pilot light was working on the stove. The hall closet had towels and sheets. No security system that I could see. I spent another fifteen minutes searching the living room for the microphone that would connect to the house intercom. No luck. I finally found it in the bedroom, a thin wire with a bulb tip running under the base of the window frame. The window looked out over the back area— the three and a half acres the kid had been bragging about. It slid open easily when I shoved. Maybe twenty feet to the ground. Okay.
I poured myself a glass of cold water, lit a smoke and sat on the couch. A white telephone sat on an end table. Probably recycled from the main house too. I checked the number— it was different from the one over there. I picked it up: dial tone.
Okay.
I was up at first light the next morning. Made myself some prison–tasting orange juice from powder I found in a kitchen cabinet, walked around inside a little bit, getting a daytime feel for the place.
I shaved and took a shower. When I got out of prison the last time, I took a bath every chance I got— something you couldn't get inside the walls. After a while, the pleasure wore off. After a while, a lot of pleasures do.
Whoever lived there before me left some stuff behind. An old leather jacket on a coat stand in the living room, just past the door. A stack of magazines:
I left the drawer the way it was. Unpacked my own stuff. Hung the jacket Michelle gave me in the bathroom, letting the steam run to refresh it.
I went downstairs, opened the garage doors, started the Plymouth. I pulled out quietly, then I cruised in increasing circles, smelling the wind, making notes inside my head. I found some of the things I'd need: a bank of pay phones in the parking lot of a mini–mall, a deli with a coffee shop up front that was open at that hour, an underpass to the highway where I could pull the car in, make it disappear.
It was a little past ten by the time I put the Plymouth back in the garage.
The kid was still asleep when I went through the back door to the main house. I found him in his mother's bedroom, face down, covers to his waist. I left him there, went looking around.
The basement was like an old–fashioned storm cellar, not the finished rec room I'd expected. Just an oil burner in one corner, some sagging wood shelves gray from dust, a collection of rusty old garden tools, some suitcases with stickers on them, a steamer trunk.
I prowled through the house, looking for whatever. Didn't find it.
He came downstairs a little before noon, wearing a red terry–cloth bathrobe, hair wet from the shower. I was in one of the leather chairs in the living room, having a smoke, thinking.
'Anything happen last night?' I asked him.
'No. Not really.'
'What?'
'Phone calls. Hang ups, that's all. Just somebody playing with my head.'
'They do that a lot around here?'
'I…guess so. I don't know.'
'When does your mother get back?'
'Around Labor Day. That's when she always comes back. When school starts.'
