From the end of the block, the town houses and condominiums were black and jagged against the sky.
Lee thought of the Griffith Park Planetarium, where he had gone for field trips as a boy; there the false horizon around the curvilinear wall was a cut-out diorama of a suburban skyline at sundown. But the silhouette he now saw through his windshield was not generic. The largest condos jutted up severely behind the security fence, roofs with unexpectedly sharp angles, even the occasional satellite dish. There were tall pine trees with conical tops pointed spearlike at the first star of evening, there a high hedge that could have been the boundary of a maze, and there a sentinel line of giant palms swaying under the moon. He had never noticed until now just how baroque the complex was with its looming asymmetry, next to the conventional housing developments on either side. If this was its true shape, then it only showed itself by night.
Lee suppressed the feeling and turned down to the protected garage, then entered his code on the keypad and waited for the gate to open…
Ed Lawseth, his parents' mechanic for so many years, had checked their car thoroughly the day before the accident. It was something he did every time Jerry and Adrienne took a trip. New plugs and radiator hoses, air filter and oil change, even a brake inspection. The man was adamant. There had been nothing wrong with the car.
At least not until the next morning.
What could have caused the brakes to fail? Ed had no idea. In fact he said flatly that it was impossible, unless someone had tampered with the lines.
And it was apparent now that someone had.
Sometime during the night—about three A.M., if Simon Bogen was right. Lee had no reason to disbelieve their neighbor. The accident only confirmed his suspicions. An unknown saboteur had parked out of sight up the street, walked quietly to the Buick at the curb and, working under cover of darkness, made a small cut in each of the brake lines leading from the master cylinder. Not all the way through, but enough to cause the pressurized fluid to leak out after a few miles.
A woman?
Lee found that part hard to swallow. But whoever it was had an easy job. The Buick was always parked outside, since his father had turned the garage into a makeshift workshop and storage area. They did not even park it in the driveway; Lee's mother worried about oil spots on the cement.
It was barely a lead, but it was all he had.
Mr. Bogen had not seen a license plate and could not even provide a meaningful description for the police. If the police would be interested. Which was not likely. It seemed that their prime directive was something other than the pursuit of justice. It was their job to make arrests on demand, to provide closure for society following a crime. But what if neither society nor the police noticed that a crime had been committed?
The gate opened, and he swung the car down the ramp.
The first problem would be convincing the police that there had been sabotage. For them to admit the possibility meant opening up one more investigation. Why should they bother? They had their version of the event. An elderly couple lost control of a vehicle and went off the road. A heart attack or stroke; who knows? Who cares? Why go looking for a crime when there was already a perfectly reasonable explanation?
So Lee would have to solve this on his own.
He could go back to Mr. Bogen again, with a tape recorder, in case the man remembered any further details. He could interview the other neighbors; maybe someone else had seen the woman in black, too. He could take possession of the brake assemblies with the cut hydraulic lines, for evidence. He could check his parents' letters and papers, to see if they had any enemies. As unlikely as that was….
He slipped into his parking space at the far wall of the security garage.
Most of the other spaces were filled, now that the residents were home for the evening. There was Jenny's car next to his. He opened his door carefully; the way she was parked, with the concrete pillar on one side and only his space on the other, she would know where any new dings or scratches came from. He locked his car and headed for the stairs that led up into the walled complex.
There was work to be done here, too, even if he turned the whole thing over to a private investigator. He needed to check on the wreath of black roses. It should be easy enough to locate the florist who filled the order and made the delivery. Perhaps the clerk would remember who placed it. There couldn't be that many requests for dead flowers. And there was the wreath itself. Jenny had thrown it out, but was she absolutely certain that it contained no card or other clue?
With any luck it would still be in the dumpster.
He came up into the grounds near the rec room. Inside, two young men with short hair and baseball caps were playing Ping-Pong. As he passed, the ball went wide and struck the soft drink machine in the comer, then bounced away into the shadows. The young men laughed hoarsely. Lee did not recognize them, and walked on.
No one was in the pool tonight, at least not that he could see. The weather had turned and there was a breeze in the trees and shrubbery, shaking the branches gently but gaining momentum. Was a storm coming? He had not bothered to watch the news for several days. Now the surface of the water rippled, as if something were thrashing at the near side of the pool, under the concrete lip, sending out shock waves. Were the waves getting stronger? He glanced through the wrought-iron bars of the gate and saw only empty deck chairs, a forgotten towel and a stained life preserver. He kept walking.
He could almost make out his house from here. It was on the far side of a grove of Dutch elms that ran parallel to the stone path. At right angles to the path was a row of condos, these only single-story, attached units, and beyond them a building containing two-room studio apartments that the owners subleased to students from the community college. He and Jenny had bought the last of the two-story model homes on the western perimeter, with a patio, a small backyard and a functional balcony. It was better than renting until they could find and furnish a proper house. That would depend on their income, of course. Liz would be their ticket out. Meanwhile this was a way of establishing credit….
Was there a light in his upstairs window?
It might have been a reflection from one of the lampposts along the path. He stopped walking and waited for another glimpse through the moving branches of the elm trees.
The breeze touched each tree before passing on. He saw finally that the white circle in the window was the round face of the moon, cut across with thin strands of drifting fog so that the face appeared to.be wrapped in a flowing white scarf. He could not see the first-floor windows from here. Another breeze entered the grounds from the east, this one forceful enough to shake leaves down onto the path.
Jenny.
He wanted to be home, to see her. She had been so supportive during these difficult days, even meeting with Walter and perhaps the network underlings on her own, without him, if he knew her as well as he thought he did. He was sure she had done well. If anything she knew the material better than he did, and she was quicker on her feet. He wanted to hear how it had gone, and to hold her in his arms and tell her that he was through grieving. He would get back to the negotiations tomorrow, along with his investigation. There was no reason to say anything more about the accident for now. That would only make her more nervous than she already was. As soon as they got their deal, he would explain everything. By then he might have enough answers to start making sense.
He neared the last of the elm trees and the path that led to his house.
A hundred feet or so farther, another path led down to the trash bins behind the buildings.
Was the wreath still there?
Once he was inside with Jenny, it would be hard to find an excuse to leave again. But it would be on his mind. He would be thinking the whole time about those damned blackened roses.
His footsteps echoed around him, reflected off the facades of the town houses.
He slowed, considering which fork to take.
The sound of his footsteps did not slow.
He stopped.
The footsteps continued on at an even pace.
He looked back. The path was empty, except for the regularly-spaced circles of light from the lampposts.
He looked ahead.
And saw a large shadow fall across the front of his house, spreading like an inkblot.
The sound of the footsteps came closer.
From far down the smaller path, someone was approaching. A security spotlight threw a silhouette against his house, magnified to several times its normal height. Lee could not tell who it was, only that the figure appeared to be very tall, moving with a shambling gait.
The silhouette had something in its hand. Something long and thin, with a sharp wedge at the end.
Lee could have turned away. He could have gone up the sidewalk to his home and let himself in.
Instead he waited.
As the figure shifted course, Lee caught the full glare of the spotlight behind it and was temporarily blinded. He shielded his eyes.
"Señor Marlow?"
It was the gardener.
"Hello, Paulino," said Lee. "Working late, huh?"
Paulino paused, and the footsteps stopped. He brandished a shovel.
"The dogs," he said. "They sneak in again, for the garbage cans. I dean up their mess…. Señora Marlow told me of your sad news." He came doser, touching his chest. "I am very sorry."
"Thank you, Paulie."
"It is a terrible thing."
"Yes." He looked past Paulino, down to the end of the smaller path, where the dumpsters were. "Listen, do you know if the trash men have been here?"
"Trash men?"
He tried to remember what day it was. "Do they still come on Saturday?"
"Oh yes, Saturday. Tomorrow. You have something for me to carry?"
"No, that's all right. I was just wondering. Good night."
"Good night, Señor Marlow."
As soon as Paulino was gone, Lee went down to the dumpsters.
There were only two steel bins. The sides were battered and dented, as if something large and powerful had been trapped inside under the heavy lids and had kicked the interior walls repeatedly, struggling to get out.
He lifted the first lid and peered inside.
Except for a layer of mottled newspapers on the bottom, the dumpster was empty.
He opened the second one.
It, too, was filled with nothing but darkness. Lee smelled the lingering stench of garbage and dropped the lid. It clanged hollowly, nearly catching his fingers and flattening them into pulp.
How could the bins be empty? Tomorrow was pick-up day. Paulino had said so.
Lee remembered now. There were always several bins here. That meant the full ones were already outside at the curb, ready for tomorrow morning, when the sanitation trucks would hook them with their forklifts.
That was where the wreath was, in one of the full dumpsters outside the complex.
He followed the grooves in the cement, where the heavy dumpsters were wheeled out once a week through an access gate used only by the maintenance crew.
The gate was locked.
Lee found a pressure plate in the cement, where a sensor was embedded below the surface. When a car or truck—or the dumpsters, presumably—rolled over it, the weight sent a signal to open the access gate.
He stepped on it, rocking back and forth, but his weight was not enough to complete the circuit.
Well, he thought, that's it. Either I climb over the fence, or I go all the way back to the main entrance and walk around the block….
Then he saw the control box. It was mounted on a short pole to the left of the driveway, so that Paulino and the other workers could open the gate manually from the inside, if necessary.
Lee found a button and pressed it.
The iron gate creaked and began to slide open.
The other dumpsters were at the curb.
He went to the first one and pried the lid up a few inches. As it lifted, the smell was overpowering. A stinking clot of garbage and trash moldered inside, coffee grounds and eggshells and rotten vegetables and God only knew what else.
If the wreath was here, buried under the decomposing mass, he would never find it.
As he moved to the next dumpster, a car passed on the street, catching him in its headlights.
"Hey!"
The car slowed. A cop, probably. What must I look like? A bum scrounging for discarded food. I'll tell him I'm looking for my wife's wedding ring. She dropped it in the waste basket and—
"Lee? Is that you?"
He knew the voice.
He took his hand away from the lid and faced the street. A Porsche 944 hovered at the opposite curb. The passenger window was down and a familiar face leaned across the seat, glowering at him.
"Hi, Walter."
"How the hell do I get in? I've gone around the block three times."
Walter had never been here before. But he had decided to stop by tonight. That must mean he's got some news, Lee thought. It's good news, or he would never have left the comfort of Marina del Rey.
Lee motioned toward the service driveway.
"Over here."
The headlights swept the gate as the car made a J-turn.
The gate was already closing after Lee's exit. He watched, unable to stop it. Walter's car nosed into the driveway and idled noisily as the bars clanged shut.
"Would you mind opening it?" said Walter gruffly.
"I can't," Lee said. He pointed to an electronic keypad outside the gate. "I don't know the code."
"You don't? How long have you lived here?"
"I use a key. Anyway, this is the service entrance."
"What if you don't have your key?"
"Then I punch in the residents' code. But it's only for the parking lot."
"You're sure about that, are you?"
Lee tried the only numbers he knew. They did not work. He looked at the tinted windshield, at the approximate area where he thought Walter would be, and held out his aims in a helpless gesture.
Walter gunned the engine and backed out, screeching to a halt in the street. Then he jackknifed the car around and tucked it against the curb. He got out, slammed the door and immediately used his beeper to arm the car's antitheft device.
"We have to talk," he said.
"What about?" Lee started walking. It was too much to ask Walter to disarm the car alarm, get back in and drive them both to the front of the complex. This would give them a chance to have their talk, anyway. "Come on. I'll show you—"
"Are the police here yet?"
"Police?"
"I thought I'd better come by. Haven't you seen the news?"
"Not yet."
"Jenny didn't tell you?"
"I just got here myself. What are you talking about, Walter?"
"My God. You really don't know."
"Know what?"
"Where are we going?"
"To the front gate. Walter—"
"We'd better talk about this inside."
"Don't fuck with my head, all right? I can't take it tonight. Now what—?"
"Tip's dead."
"Who?"
"The new V.P. in Charge of Programming. He was murdered this afternoon. It was like something out of a goddamn horror movie…."
Jenny rewound the tape and her mother's voice became a high-pitched chattering. In reverse it sounded even less human. She shuddered and reset the answering machine. Soon the voice would be erased as new messages replaced the old, messages she wanted to hear.
Unless her mother called again.
She pressed the OFF button and the red monitor light winked out.
There, she thought. That will stop her. I can't take any more of her psychotic ramblings. Not now. Maybe not ever again.
She left the kitchen and went down the hall to the living room.
Outside, it was already dark. That was almost comforting. It meant that the day, this grotesque sequence of events might finally come to a close.
She did not need to turn on the lamp. The stairway was directly ahead, to the right of the fireplace. For now, she wanted to go upstairs and peel off her clothes and take a scaldingly hot shower. That was all.
No, not all….
Lee, where are you?
There was no way to reach him. She did not know where he had gone. Probably to his parents' house in Pasadena to sort things out. If so, he would be even more depressed tonight.
She could try calling him there.
No, let him do what he needs to do.
Come home, she thought. We'll crawl into bed together and start fresh in the morning. A new beginning. Things will be clearer then. Just come home.
Now.
She climbed the stairs easily in the semidarkness and entered the bedroom. She undressed quickly and crossed to the bathroom and reached out for the light switch on the wall, when she heard a movement in the vicinity of the bed.
She froze.
"Is anybody there?" she said too loudly.
No answer.
Of course not. It was absurd. If someone were hiding in the room, an intruder, a burglar, he was not about to announce himself. An animal, then? A bird? She had not left a window open. And the flue in the fireplace was closed, she was sure.
A mouse. Or worse, a rat….
She flipped the light switch.
And saw a clawed hand outside the second-floor window. As she watched, it scratched repeatedly at the glass, trying to get in.
It was only the elm tree. The end of a long, crooked branch swayed as the breeze outside became a wind and a small, gnarled twig moved like a crooked finger, beckoning her to the window.
She tiptoed across the carpet in her bare feet and looked out.
The horizon was black and invisible against the sky; only the branch was illuminated by the spill of light from the bathroom. Below, rows of trees swayed and shook, separating this house from the rest of the grounds. At regular intervals along the path soft, misty lampposts could be seen between the trees.
Was that a dark, hunched figure walking slowly from one circle of light to the next?
She stood closer to the window, then drew back, startled, as her breasts made contact with the glass. There was the silhouette of her body reflected in the pane, edged in yellow light from across the room. Only one side of her face was visible, the other half in shadow, with a lingering residue of condensation where her mouth should have been. Mist still clung to the glass, fogged by her breath.
She focused through her own translucent reflection. Whoever had been on the path was gone now. Or had she only disappeared momentarily into the darkness between the lampposts?
She?
Why did I think that? It could be a man, couldn't it?
She stepped back from the window, suddenly aware of her nakedness.
He can see me, she thought.
She crossed her arms over her chest and shivered.
Then she closed the drapes, and went to take her shower.
By the time she finished and turned off the water, steam filled the bathroom, occluding the mirror, dripping in rivulets down the walls, billowing out in a low mist over the bedroom carpet.
Above the final trickling of the shower nozzle, she heard a distant buzzing, like an insect attempting to communicate.
She shook the water out of her ears, but it did not go away.
She wrapped a towel around her head, slipped into her terrycloth robe and leaned out into the bedroom. A fog rolled out before her, gathering at her ankles, white as ectoplasm against the darkness.
The buzzing came from somewhere downstairs, she realized.
The intercom by the front door. It had to be. That meant someone was outside the complex, calling her house to be let in.
It could be Lee.
She left her slippers to the shadows under the bed.
Before she got downstairs, the buzzing stopped.
She hurried through the living room, cursing when her knee struck the edge of the table. Where was the lamp? She lunged for the intercom, found the button and leaned close.
"Yes?"
All that came out of the speaker was white noise.
She held the button down.
"Is anybody there?"
Too late. She gave up, backed away and fumbled in the darkness for the lamp. There it was.
She was about to click it on, when she heard someone approaching on the walkway outside.
She waited, listening to the footsteps.
They did not pass by. Instead they stopped, hesitated and then started again. Growing louder. Coming this way.
"Lee," she whispered.
She waited for his key to scratch at the lock.
Instead the doorbell rang.
Lee would have used his key. At the front gate, as well.
She was not ready to deal with anyone else. She stood very still. If she left the light off, whoever it was would assume that no one was home and move on.
The bell rang again.
Standing in the dark, feet wet, steam rising from her legs, she did not know what to do.
There was a long pause.
The footsteps did not go away.
Then someone knocked on the door.
For reasons she did not consciously understand, her heart began to beat faster. Her temples throbbed. She felt a tightening behind her eyes and the first sharp jab of pain at the center of her forehead.
The knocking became a pounding fist.
All right! she thought. Anything to stop the pounding.
"Who is it?"
"Jenny?" said a muffled voice.
It sounded familiar.
She grasped the knob, unhooked the chain and opened the door. At the same time the wind gusted. The door blew out of her hand and banged against the wall.
With the wind in her eyes, it was hard to see who was there. She forced her eyelashes apart and felt her skin go cold under the robe as the air rushed up under it, encircling her body in an icy grip.
When she opened her eyes, a figure was standing there on the porch, a silhouette against the lamppost opposite the house. The shape seemed thick, massive, with wild spikes of hair flaying madly away from its skull.
Then the shape spoke.
"Let me in!" it said.