Deceit

some credit bureau.

I noted the three addresses in my HM file.

Backing up, I sent the Social Security number of 09/13/1987 through Skiptrace One’s search by SSN page. Four addresses appeared on my screen, the most recent dated just six months ago in Gilroy, “Garlic Capitol of the World.” Gilroy was only about fifteen minutes away, up Route 101.

Would Melissa stay that close to Vonita? She’d been a runaway from the social services system. To my knowledge she had no relatives in the area to whom she could run. You’d think she’d leave the area to make a new life. Maybe even the state.

But people can surprise you.

I now had a Melissa Harkoff in San Jose and one in Gilroy. Time for a Google search. If I got real lucky I’d find a picture, perhaps attached to a wedding announcement or business or church. I’d also check social sites like MySpace and Facebook.

The wind groaned like a wounded beast. Rain smashed against my house.

Just a winter storm. Nothing to fear. But my nerves zinged.

I turned up the volume on Aerosmith’s “Dream On,” shoved two Sizzling Cinnamon Jelly Bellies into my mouth.

At Google I typed in “Melissa Harkoff” + Gilroy. Hit enter—

The electricity smacked off, and my world plunged into darkness.

Somewhere in the distance a door slammed.

NINE

For a long piercing second I froze in the darkness, my fingers clawed above the keyboard.

The garage. That muted slam had come from the garage—the door leading to the backyard.

I pushed back my chair, heart in my throat. My mind spun through a terrifying scenario. Hooded Man was in my house.

Where was my cell phone?

My landlines wouldn’t work because they were on plug-in phone systems. My cell phone was…in my purse. On the kitchen table. Near the door an intruder would sneak through from the garage.

Rain and wind lashed the house. Their noise was loud enough to mask cautious footsteps, the easing open of a door. Even so, I cocked my head toward the kitchen and listened for a swish of clothes, a whisper of breath.

Nothing.

I stood up, eyes straining to see. Stillton is a rural road, no streetlights. When electricity goes at night, the house caves in on itself, hording the blackness. Usually the moon can lighten my way, the pinpricked stars. But they’d fled the broken sky long ago.

In the kitchen in a drawer lay Tom’s powerful flashlight—the kind he’d carry when we went camping. And candles and matches.

Had someone cut my electricity? Or had the wind knocked a tree into a power line?

Breath on hold, socked feet moving like an inward sigh, I crept from my desk and to the hall. At the threshold I placed a palm against the doorjamb and leaned my head forward, tilted toward the kitchen. In my mind I saw Hooded Man’s waxen cheek, the jagged blood. Heard his raw-toned voice. “Baxter Jackson will kill you if he finds out.”

The darkness was too thick to make out any movement.

I eased into the hallway, one hand trailing along the wall. My muscles balled up, ready to spring my body away, fight back. My ripping heart pulsed at odd points in my body. An ankle, the back of one knee, my left shoulder—as if my ribcage couldn’t contain it. I could taste my terror, a bitter sludge at the top of my throat.

I’d checked every door when I got home. Dripping wet and chilled to the marrow, I’d checked. Windows too.

One foot lifted, I then stepped toward the kitchen. I managed a second step.

Was Hooded Man there, smugly watching the hulk of my shape walk right into his grasp?

I pushed myself forward, chanting a mantra that I was being foolish. A power line was down, and wind had slammed my back door.

My locked back door.

A vision of myself flashed into my head—getting out of the car earlier that evening, carrying my purse. I’d headed straight for the entrance to the kitchen. Hovered my hand at the knob, too afraid to turn it.

I hadn’t checked that rear garage door. Of all stupid things. I hadn’t even thought of it.

Maybe I’d left it slightly ajar. The wind hadn’t been howling when I arrived home. When it rushed from its lair in anger, it had seized the door, swung it open, then slammed it shut.

The kitchen was five steps away. My legs shook, both lungs burning for air. I arched my shoulders back, giving myself breathing room. The wind bulleted rain against the kitchen windows and sliding door. Almost as if it were following me. Minutes before it had been attacking the front of the house.

I reached the threshold of the kitchen. My right hand trailed high on the wall—across Billy Bass.

I squinted into the maw of the kitchen. The flashlight drawer was straight across the room on my left. Heat singed my nerves. Every second was agony. I couldn’t stand to inch across the floor, waiting for arms to grab me.

My toes hit linoleum. A firework burst in my chest, and I stumbled as fast as I could toward the drawer, left hand skidding across cabinets.

A handle bumped my fingers.

I whirled left, yanking at the top drawer, no longer caring how much sound I made. The contents rattled and rolled. If Hooded Man had come, he knew where I stood. He was toying with me. If he came at me I’d rip off that mask, shine the flashlight into his face.

My hands scrabbled in the drawer, seeking the chunky feel of cool metal. I found it, and a small cry escaped my throat. I jerked out the flashlight, pushed the on button. A large, beautiful beam rent the blackness.

I turned, swinging the beam around the kitchen. It lit up the refrigerator, the sink, cabinets, the table, my purse. No Hooded Man. No Baxter. I yanked it toward the base of the door leading into the garage, checking the floor for footprints and water.

Clean.

I lurched toward my purse, pulled out my cell phone. It was still on. My hand clutched it, thumb arching in to hit 2, the speed dial number for Dineen. Not until the phone began to ring did I realize she was probably asleep. Dineen always went to bed early.

The phone rang twice. Three times.

“Joanne?” My sister’s voice sounded thick.

“Is your electricity off?”

She hesitated, as if her mind couldn’t catch this sudden conversation. “No. Is yours?”

“How do you know? Aren’t your lights all turned off?”

“My phone’s working.”

Oh. Stupid me.

She made a sound in her throat. “Besides, I see streetlights.”

“Mine’s off.”

“Oh. Probably the wind.”

“What if it’s not? What if somebody’s here?”

Sheets rustled over the line. I could visualize her bed, her room. So close-sounding over the telephone, yet so very far away. I wanted to crawl through the wire, come out in her house. I wanted to hide there from Vonita, the world. I hadn’t meant for the whole town to hear my accusations against Chief Eddington. And as much as I wanted