WITH TATE BESIDE HIM, Bernhardt turned onto the 2300 block of Noriega and saw a cluster of girls on the sidewalk. The girls wore matching red sweaters, white blouses, and plaid skirts, uniforms of a Catholic girls’ school. Across the street, a Chinese woman wheeled two babies in a double stroller. Farther down the block, in a driveway, two men wearing grease-stained T-shirts were working on a vintage car. Beneath the raised hood, both men leaned far into the engine compartment. It was a typical April afternoon in the Sunset District, where endless blocks of small segmented row houses rose and fell with the terrain that had once been a vast expanse of sand dunes.
In the next block, in a house like all these others, Paula and Angela were shackled to a water pipe.
“Pretty benign,” Tate said. “So far.”
In the 2400 block now, Bernhardt slowed the Honda, began checking house numbers. Yes, there across the street: 2420. It was a small stucco house painted pink with white trim. The architecture was fake Spanish, suggested by a few terra-cotta roof tiles and hand-hewn beams tacked to the stucco facade. The single large picture window was covered by white Venetian blinds. A few neglected plants were dying in the barren ground of a small front garden. Like most San Francisco houses, it was built on a narrow twenty-five-foot lot over a ground-floor garage. The overhead garage door had three small windows, all frosted. A few circulars littered the narrow concrete steps that led up to the front door. The tightly drawn blinds, scruffy garden, and yellowing circulars all suggested disuse.
Bernhardt parked the Honda so that it blocked the driveway. He switched off the engine, set the brake, turned to look at the house. Tate, too, was silently staring, both of them alert for signs of life from inside.
Bernhardt spoke in a low voice: “I feel like I don’t want to go in.” It was an admission of the ennui that had overtaken him, left him incapable of rousing himself to act. He could only struggle helplessly with the monstrous horror bursting in his imagination: Paula, shackled to the water pipe, eyes wide and empty, lying in her own blood. Dead.
“Yeah …” Tate nodded reflectively, an unexpected expression of rough-cut sympathy. “Yeah, I guess I know what you mean. Still …” He tripped the door handle, then waited for Bernhardt, moving woodenly now, to do the same. “Still, we came here to wind it up. So let’s get about it.”
Obediently, Bernhardt got out of the car, went around to join Tate, who stood on the sidewalk looking at the house. Then, in unison, both men scanned their surroundings: middle-class San Francisco on an amiable, secure Monday afternoon. Except for three small children playing on the sidewalk nearby, there were no Chinese to be seen. Carefully, both men verified that, of the dozen-odd cars parked at the curb of the 2400 block of Noriega, none were occupied. Only one car was in motion: an orange pickup driven by an overweight Caucasian male.
“Okay.” Bernhardt drew a last long, tremulous breath. “Okay, here we go.” He stepped forward, mounted the front stairs. Yes, there was the small rectangular planter on the porch railing that the voice on the phone had described. Like the shrubs and flowers in the front garden, the plant in the green pot was dying. With Tate beside him, a two-man crowd on the small porch, Bernhardt lifted the ceramic container, set it aside—
—and, yes, saw the keys: one door key, two small handcuff keys.
Was he offering up a small prayer of thanksgiving? Addressed to which deity?
Was there, after all, a beneficent God?
Soon—in minutes—he would know.
He handed the two handcuff keys to Tate, who carefully pocketed them, then stepped back. It was a deferential withdrawal, as if he’d just viewed a body lying in state, and was now stepping respectfully back.
Aware that his hand was trembling, Bernhardt managed to fit the key to the lock. He turned the key until the latch clicked. Then, slowly, he pushed the door open. He pocketed the key, opened the door wide, drew the .357. With Tate close behind, he stepped into a small, pastel-painted entryway. Had there been a sound from the garage below? Could there still be guards in the house, a failure of communication after the jewels had been handed over?
Bernhardt moved into a small living room as Tate swung the door closed behind them. The house had a shut-up, musty odor. Except for two chromium-plated kitchen chairs, a small coffee table with towels spread across it, and a threadbare couch, probably left behind by the previous tenant, the living room was unfurnished. The small Spanish-style fireplace was littered with refuse. The floor was bare, badly scratched and spotted. Bernhardt stood motionless in the middle of the room, listening. Standing beside him, Tate also stood motionless, staring into the hallway that led back to the rear of the house.
Bernhardt spoke in a whisper: “Let’s—”
“Shhh.” Holding a Browning automatic in his right hand, Tate raised his left, a warning. Then, silently, he inclined his head, his gaze fixed on the floor just ahead. The message: he’d heard something. But when Bernhardt listened, he heard nothing. Now Tate frowned, shrugged. Whatever sound he’d heard, the house was silent now.
“Did you bolt the front door?” Bernhardt whispered.
Frowning, Tate nodded abruptly. The message: of course he’d bolted the door.
Nodding in return, holding the .357 ready, Bernhardt advanced slowly, soundlessly into the hallway. There were four doors. One of the doors, Bernhardt knew, led down to the basement and garage, at street level. The first door on the left, opening out, was a closet. Bernhardt grimaced to himself. Of course, the basement door would open inward, not outward.
Holding his breath, he pushed open the second door—
—and saw the flight of rough wooden stairs leading down.
He looked back at Tate, who nodded. Yes, Tate was ready. As always, Tate was ready.
Slowly, step by step, Bernhardt was descending the stairs. Whoever was down there would see his feet and legs before he saw them.
One step—two—three. If they were there, handcuffed, they would—
A thump. Another thump. An incoherent voice, muffled.
Paula.
Four more steps down and he was in the basement. The garage was in the front of the house, the utility area in the rear. Paula and Angela sat close together on the concrete floor. They were handcuffed separately around a drain pipe that served two laundry sinks. Incongruously, both women wore identical raincoats and cheap white tennis shoes that looked new. Both were gagged with wide strips of adhesive tape. Above the tape, Paula’s eyes were enormous.
Without words, choking incoherently on his own rage, Bernhardt holstered the .357, dropped to his knees beside Paula, cradled her head close, an awkward embrace. Her eyes were streaming. “Goddammit,” Bernhardt muttered. “Goddam them.” He felt Tate’s hand on his shoulder.
“Here.” In his big outstretched palm, Tate offered the two handcuff keys. Bernhardt took one, grasped Paula’s handcuffs, turned them to expose the keyhole. Yes, the key fitted. A moment later she was free. On their knees, they were hugging each other fiercely, she mute, choking and sobbing, Bernhardt suddenly laughing half-hysterically. Beside them, also on his knees, Tate was freeing Angela. Now, still laughing incoherently, Bernhardt touched the adhesive tape covering Paula’s mouth. “You want me to do it? Or do you?”
Her response was a nod to him, signifying that he should tear the tape off. He pulled her to her feet, steadied her for a moment, drew a deep breath.
“Okay—here goes.” With his fingernails, he lifted the edge of the topmost strip, waited a moment, then ripped it free. Suddenly a childhood scene came back: his mother, ripping adhesive tape off for him, so many years ago. Ouch time, she’d called it.
Now he was working at the second strip, ripping it away. Awkwardly, with fingers still stiff from the handcuffs, Paula took a handkerchief from her mouth, threw it from her. Then, crying and laughing, she was kissing him. Never had he held her so close.