She couldn't speak. He was a rugged-looking, handsome man, but he had a froth of curly white hair and he was probably in his mid-sixties. 'Can I help you, miss?' Irritation had sharpened his voice.
'Uh… uh…' Her brainwheels were jammed. 'Uh… are you… Nick Hudley?'
'Yes.' His brown eyes narrowed, and she saw them tick toward the Smiley Face button.
'I'm… lost,' Mary said. 'I'm looking for Muir Road.'
'That way.' He motioned to his right, farther along Overhill, with an uptilting of his chin. 'Do I know you?'
'No.' She turned away, began hurrying to the Cherokee.
'Hey!' Hudley called, coming out. He wore pajamas and a green robe with sailboats on it. 'Hey, how do you know my name?'
Mary slid behind the wheel, closed the door, and backed onto Overhill Road. Nick Hudley was standing in his yard, and two birds were fighting for dominion in the birdbath. Dogs howled, finding the alarm's note. Mary drove on, following her star.
A quarter of a mile from Hudley's house, Muir Road branched to the right. Mary took the curve. Marching toward the hazy ocean were green hills dotted with redwood houses spaced far apart and set back from the winding road. Mary looked for names or numbers on the mailboxes. She came around a long curve where pampas grass grew wild, and she saw the name on a box that had a blue whale painted on it: Cavanaugh.
A crushed-gravel driveway led twenty yards uphill to a redwood house with a balcony looking toward the Pacific. In front of the house was a copper-colored pickup truck. Mary guided the Cherokee up behind the truck and stopped. Drummer had started bawling, upset about something. She looked at the house, her hands clenched on the wheel. She would not know for sure until she knocked at the door. But if he answered, she wanted him to see their son. She put the bag over her shoulder, picked up Drummer, and got out.
It was a pretty, well-kept house. A lot of labor had gone into it. A sundial stood on a pedestal in the yard, and red flowers that looked like shaving brushes grew in beds around it. The air was chilly, a breeze blowing from the distant sea, but the sun warmed Mary's face and its heat calmed Drummer's crying. She saw a sign painted on the driver's door of the pickup: YE OLDE HERITAGE, INC. Below that, in script, were the Cavanaughs' names and the telephone number.
Mary held the baby tightly, like a dream she feared losing, and she climbed the redwood steps to the front door.
There was a brass door knocker in the shape of an ancient, bearded face. Mary used her fist.
Her guts pulsed with tension, the muscles like iron bands across the back of her neck. Sweat sparkled on her cheeks, and she stared fixedly at the doorknob as Drummer's hand found her Smiley Face button and plucked at it.
Before she could knock again, she heard the door being unlocked.
It opened, so fast the movement made her jump.
'Hi!' A slim, attractive woman with long, light brown hair and hazel eyes stood there. She smiled, lines bracketing her mouth. 'We've been looking for you! Come on in!'
'I'm… here to…'
'Right, it's ready. Come in.' She moved back from the doorway, and Mary Terror stepped across the threshold. The woman closed the door and motioned Mary into a large den that had a vaulted ceiling, a rock fireplace, and a grandfather clock. 'Here it is.' The woman, who wore a pink sweatsuit and pale blue jogging shoes, unzipped a satchel that was sitting on the den's beige sofa. Inside was something in a lustrous wooden frame. 'We wanted you to see it before we wrapped it,' the woman explained.
It was a coat of arms, two stone towers on either side of what resembled a half horse, half lion against a field of flames. Across the bottom, in the same ornate handwriting as was on the pickup truck's door, was scrolled a name: Michelhof.
'The colors came out very well, don't you think?' the woman asked.
She didn't know what to say. Obviously the woman – Sandy Cavanaugh, Mary presumed – had been expecting someone to come pick up the coat of arms that morning. 'Yes,' Mary decided. 'They did.'
'Oh, I'm glad you're pleased! Of course, the family history's included in the information packet.' She turned the frame around to show an envelope taped to the back, and Mary caught the glint of her wedding and engagement rings. 'Your brother's going to love this, Mrs. Hunter.'
'I'm sure he will.'
'I'll get it wrapped for you.' She returned the coat of arms to the satchel and zipped it up. 'You know, I have to say I expected an older woman. You sounded older on the phone.'
'Did I?'
'Uh-huh.' The woman looked at Drummer. 'What a precious baby! How old?'
'Almost a month.'
'How many children do you have?'
'Just him,' Mary said, and smiled thinly.
'My husband's a fool for babies. Well, if you'll make out the check to Ye Olde Heritage, Inc., I'll go downstairs and get this wrapped. Okay?'
'Okay,' Mary said.
Sandy Cavanaugh left the den. Mary heard a door open momentarily, and the woman's voice: 'Mrs. Hunter's brought her baby. Go say hello while I wrap this.'
A man cleared his throat. 'Is it all right?'
'Yes, she likes it.'
'That's good,' he said. There was the noise of footsteps descending stairs. Mary felt dizzy, and she placed a hand against the wall in case her knees buckled. A TV set was on somewhere at the back of the house, showing cartoons from the sound of it. Mary limped toward the foyer. Before she could get there, a man suddenly walked around the corner into the room and stopped just short of running into her.
'Hi, Mrs. Hunter,' he said, summoning a smile. He offered his hand. 'I'm Keith Cava -'
His smile cracked.
6: Castle on a Cloud
Under the blue morning sky, an alarm was shrieking in Freestone.
Laura followed the noise. She turned the Cutlass onto a street named Meacham, and found a green and gray police car parked in front of a brick building whose sign brought a gasp from her. A garbage truck was nearby, two men talking to a policeman. One of them pointed along Meacham, in the opposite direction. There were a few other onlookers: a trim elderly couple in sweatsuits, a teenaged girl wearing an MTV jacket, and a young man who wore a Day-Glo orange jersey and skin-tight black bicyclist shorts, his bike leaning on its kickstand as he talked to the girl. Laura could see that the front door of Dean Walker's foreign car dealership had been shattered, and a second policeman was walking around inside.
Laura stopped the car across the street, got out, and walked to the group of bystanders. 'What's going on?' she asked the young man, the alarm echoing across town.
'Somebody broke in,' he answered. 'Just happened about ten minutes ago.'
She nodded, and then she drew the piece of Liberty Motor Lodge notepad paper from her pocket. 'Do you know where I can find these men?' She showed him the three names, and the teenage girl looked too.
'This is Mr. Walker's place,' the young man reminded her.
'I know that. Can you tell me where he lives?'
'He's got the biggest house on Nautica Point,' the girl said, and she pushed her long, lank hair away from her face. 'That's where.'
'What about the other two?'
'I know Keith. He lives on Muir Road.' The young man pointed toward the northwest. 'It's over that way, maybe five miles.'
'Addresses,' Laura urged. 'Do you know the addresses?'
They shook their heads. The elderly couple were looking at her, so she moved to them. 'I'm trying to find
