Gus is a tall, mangy mutt without much merit other than he is quiet and housebroken. The name came with the dog, and it fits. Dick adopted him a week ago. Kiley always wanted a dog, but Caroline was adamantly against pets. Kiley actually texted, “Awww,” when Dick sent her a photo of Gus. The first word she’s texted or spoken to him since their disastrous dinner four months ago. Despite his repeated efforts, she has stonewalled him, pretending he doesn’t exist. He won’t give up. Thirteen years was given to a lie, but his love for her is real as anything in this world. He hopes someday she realizes that. Until then, his only choice is to be patient.
Having company helps. Gus follows Dick everywhere and seems sincerely interested in whatever Dick is doing, his large ears perking up when Dick bounces ideas off him and his wiry-haired head tilting thoughtfully as if giving the ideas serious consideration.
A heat wave has descended on Southern California, and the last few days have been unbearable. Even with the Pacific breeze, the cottage becomes an oven in the afternoons. Unable to take it, Dick turns to Gus and says, “Let’s get out of here.”
Gus lifts his head from his paws and cocks it to the left.
There’s no place to go where Gus will be welcome that’s not stifling other than the car, so Dick drives around aimlessly listening to jazz. Though he doesn’t acknowledge it, he knows where he will end up. He has resisted the pull for days, but being in the car with nowhere to go and knowing PPR4 is so close is too compelling a combination. Now that Dick lives in San Clemente, Michael Cray, score of sixty-four, is only twenty minutes away.
One donut and two coffees after leaving the house, he finds himself pulling into a neighborhood of old ranch-style houses. Cray’s house is dark brown and unremarkable except for the strange hedges, which are shaped into sharp cones with chainsawed wedges carved from them.
He continues past without stopping, his heart not in it, being here reaffirming just how much he doesn’t want to start this again. He’s in a good place. He’s planted a garden. Dee is coming this weekend to turn his house into a home. Compound four, which he’s named RepAir, is nearly ready for submittal to the FDA for human trial. Jim is texting him almost every day. And Kiley said, “Awww.”
The last thing he wants is to stalk another creep and discover he is doing creepy things.
“What do you say we leave the superhero work to the superheroes?” Dick says to Gus.
Gus doesn’t bother pulling his head in from the window.
Dick’s halfway to the freeway when he groans and turns the car around.
He pulls to the curb, grabs one of the webcams from the glove box, and with a sigh, steps from the car. He follows the side yard to the back of the house. All the windows have blinds except the kitchen, so he attaches the camera to the sill above the sink behind a half-dead Ficus bush. He selects the motion-sensor activation option to conserve the batteries and leaves, hoping the effort is for nothing and that Cray’s life is as boring as it appears.
* * *
At five o’clock, the beaches open for dogs, so Dick eats his takeout Thai food with Gus on the sand as he watches the sunset and early evening surfers.
By the time he finishes, the weather has cooled, and he and Gus return home. He checks on the mice, twenty cages of four mice each. All are doing well. He’s been testing four different formulas on five different allergies—pollen, peanut butter, animal hair, dust, and bee venom. The mice’s immune systems are responding positively, and he estimates they should be able to be weaned from the drugs in a matter of weeks.
His laptop beeps, and he turns from the cages to see a video window open on the screen. The reception is surprisingly clear, far better than it was through Hamilton’s dirty screen and window. He is looking at a kitchen with dark wood cabinets. Beyond it is a dining room with black chairs. To the left of the frame, a large bald man in what looks like a mechanic’s uniform leafs through a stack of mail. He tosses it on the counter and walks out of view.
Dick watches a moment longer. With Cray out of the frame, he is able to see part of the living room—a box television on a scarred wood console and a gray couch. The house looks stuffy, hot, dark, and lonely. No ocean breeze. No Gus. A life sadder and lonelier than his own.
Cray returns, and Dick startles. He has changed out of his work clothes and now wears sweats and a T-shirt. His file said he is thirty-eight, and he looks about that, lines around his eyes and his thick brows threaded with gray. He served two sentences for identical crimes—kidnapping, rape, and sodomy with a minor. His victims were ten and eight. He was released seven months ago. His face is wide and pale, and his arms are covered with dark tattoos.
Dick doesn’t know if it’s the fishbowl effect of the lens, but now that Cray is in the kitchen and closer to the camera, he looks huge. Dick can’t remember what the file said about his size, but on the screen, he looks large as an NBA center. His T-shirt strains against the expanse of his chest as he grabs something from the fridge.
He walks again from view, and ten minutes later, the camera switches off.