Chapter Forty-one

Monday, October 30, 2:59 a.m.

On Monday, at three in the morning, Don drove down the block where the two women lived. He had spent all day yesterday watching the same four houses – but turning up no more possibilities than he had originally. Each time it came down to the pregnant girl as the only possible choice. He had watched her walk right past him three different times. There was a bounce to her step and her eyes were lively. Once she looked straight at the van, straight into his eyes, if only she had known it. Lucky for him, the neighborhood was often used by people who didn’t live there but who did want a cheap place to park ten minutes from downtown or Portland State.

At this time of night, all the houses on the street were dark. Good. He didn’t want to meet anyone else. For a while, when newsprint values had been high, a few enterprising souls had turned into scavengers, grabbing up the sorted newspaper from the curb before the garbage men could get to it. But prices for recycled newsprint had dropped, and Don didn’t expect to meet anyone else. Just in case, he tucked his Walther PPK into the shoulder holster specially tailored to fit the gun and its silencer. Carrying an unlicensed sound suppressor was a federal charge, not state, but he figured it was worth the risk. If he had to shoot, the sound would be little louder than a car door slamming. It had been so long since he routinely went armed that that he was acutely aware of the holster’s presence every time he turned the wheel.

Driving down the street, he saw lines of trash cans that had been trundled out to the curb, each with one or two yellow plastic recycling bins next to it. Portland prided itself on the percentage of trash that got recycled. Don just hoped that the two women followed the example of nearly all of their neighbors and put the trash out the night before.

His headlights picked out a cylindrical shape flanked by two squat rectangles. Behind it, the women’s house sat dark and quiet. He was in luck. Don turned off the dome light so he wouldn’t illuminate himself when he opened the door. He didn’t want to light up like a Christmas tree. He was wearing dark clothes and a black knit cap, so the light wouldn’t shine off his bald head. Aside from the dark clothes and his shoulder holster, he hadn’t taken any other precautions against being seen. Only the rankest of amateurs would blacken his face. You might as well get a sandwich board that said “Up to No Good,” and walk back and forth in front of Central Precinct.

Leaving the engine running, he eased open his door. He left it open for the same reason he left the car idling, because it was quicker and quieter. Working briskly but calmly, he opened the trunk and then picked up the garbage can and upended it. He had lined the trunk beforehand with a blue plastic tarp. He didn’t know where Barry had gotten this car, or if he planned on returning it, but Don figured it was probably better if he did what he could to minimize the smell. The bag of paper recycling he set on top of the garbage, with the bag of newspapers right beside it. He left the bin filled with plastic and metal containers. He didn’t rush, he didn’t cast guilty glances at the house, he didn’t drop anything. The trick was to act as if taking trash from the curb and stuffing it in your car was a normal routine.

Don gently closed the trunk so that the sound of the latch was almost inaudible, then looked at his watch. Less than a minute had elapsed since he drove up in front of the house. He smiled. Fifteen years since he had done any field work, but he still had the touch.

A woman’s voice made Don nearly jump out of his skin, although he managed to control his startle. “Excuse me, but what are you doing?”

He turned. The voice belonged to an old lady in pink satin house coat and foam rollers. A red hand-knit scarf was looped a million times around her neck. At her feet sat some kind of bored-looking mutt on a leash.

Uncertain of what to do, Don took a step closer toward his open door.

“I said, excuse me, but what are you doing?” The old lady’s voice was louder, more pointed. A light blinked on in the upstairs of the house next to the target’s. He couldn’t let this happen, let everything turn to shit because of some noisy old biddy. Slipping his hand inside his jacket, Don turned toward the woman. He had to get her to be quiet.