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Patrick Bullock's address was in the northeast corner of El Cajon, just before you moved into a neighborhood called Winter Gardens. El Cajon was always an area I'd made fun of when I was a kid. NO LIFE EAST OF I-5 was a popular bumper sticker and saying for those of us that had been fortunate enough to live close to the ocean. That area of east county had grown exponentially and yet El Cajon had retained its reputation for crime, white nationalism, and rednecks. It didn't hold completely true because multimillion dollar homes had exploded in and around the city, but El Cajon proper felt a bit like a community that didn't want to forget its rough and tumble upbringing.
Patrick's house was on a narrow street littered with broken-down cars. Hoods were propped open, sedans were up on blocks, and most looked to be sorely in need of a paint job. The homes and yards that lined the street didn’t look much better. Most of the lots were more dirt than grass, with a few homes trying—and failing—to coax grass to grow. Bars decorated some windows and multiple signs encouraged me to beware of dogs.
I found the address at the end of the block and pulled to the curb. It was a single-story ranch that had been painted yellow at one time and had faded to something more beige. There was a VW bug in the driveway, missing a rear wheel and lurched to the side. The miniscule front yard was a mixture of dried grass and weeds, and one of the two front windows had a crack dancing through the middle of it.
I got out and walked to the driveway. The interior of the VW was decorated with cobwebs and appeared to have been there for quite some time. Oil spills splattered the driveway, none of them fresh. There was a potted plant near the front door, with bright green and pink leaves. It was the only thing that seemed happy to be there.
I knocked on the screen door once, the metal banging against the actual wooden front door, then rapped on the door itself. I pushed the doorbell, but didn't hear anything inside. A police siren screamed by on a neighboring street, followed by a chorus of barking dogs.
I knocked again, but no one answered.
I let the screen door close and stepped back away from the house.
The driveway ran past the house on the far side and I followed it. It led to a detached garage painted the same color as the house, and a backyard that looked just as neglected as the front. Patches of weeds dotted the dirt, scraggly stems and leaves that looked like they were growing out of sheer determination. Several buckets full of cigarette butts sat near the rear stoop, with a few scattered on the steps themselves, falling just shy of their target.
I got up on the concrete stoop and peered inside the dirty glass in the backdoor. A small kitchen was on the opposite side of the door, with a round kitchen table and five chairs positioned in the middle of the room. Several bowls were on the table along with an opened box of Fruit Loops. More dishes were piled in the sink and more boxes of food—crackers, bags of chips, more cereal—lined the counters. It at least looked lived in.
I turned around. The lot backed up to another similar-looking yard and house. That yard had a swing set in it that leaned so far to the side, one of the actual swings, a faded yellow seat, rested on the ground.
I came down off the stoop and walked toward the garage, a large square structure set back away from the yard. The actual garage door was one of the old, wooden, single-piece doors that had to be lifted by hand. I tugged on it and felt a dead bolt holding it firmly in place on the side. I walked around to the side of the garage closest to the yard and found another door with a small window at eye level. It didn't appear to have been cleaned in fifty years, but I did my best to squint through the dirt and grime on it. I could see a couch and a desk and a guitar and a box of Twinkies.
And I heard music.
I turned my head and pressed my ear to the door.
Definitely music. It was too soft for me to identify, but I heard it.
I knocked on the door.
No answer.
I knocked again.
No answer.
I shaded my eyes and again tried to get a look through the glass.
The best I could tell, the garage had been converted into a studio or apartment. Not in a formal way, but it certainly looked as if someone was living in it. The couch, the desk, and the Twinkies confirmed it.
I knocked on the door again.
No answer.
I tried the doorknob, but it was locked.
So I had a decision to make.
Wait around and see if someone came home and could fill me in on who lived there and if they knew where Patrick was.
Or I could kick in the door to the garage-studio thing.
I'd never been patient, and in many ways, it was my impatience that led to my finding Elizabeth. It had gotten me in trouble on more than one occasion, but my lack of patience had ultimately never failed me.
I didn't think it was a good time to change old habits.
I twisted the doorknob and leaned hard against the door, hoping I could just force it open, but it held in place. I rocked my shoulder into it a couple of times. The door gave a little, but didn't come open. I jammed my whole body against it and the lock clicked, but still didn’t give way. I took a step away from the door, lifted my right knee, and slammed the bottom of my shoe into the wood next to the knob.
The door swung open without even splintering the frame.