“Grab as many as you can find before you worry about the wood. Batteries, too.”
I made the rounds of all doors and windows again, paranoidly rechecking locks. I couldn’t imagine that I’d slept so soundly that I wouldn’t have heard someone tampering with them, especially since the dogs would have surely barked. But I didn’t place too much trust in the idea that the phone’s being out of order was mere coincidence, either.
“Charlie! Charlie—quick!”
Rachael’s voice came as a muted shout, far within the depths of the garage, as I’d just finished checking the lock on the upstairs balcony door leading to the hot tub. I raced through the master bedroom, down the two sets of stairs, and into the kitchen. She met me at the top of the garage stairs.
“You didn’t go down there and do anything with the balloon, did you?” she said, her breath coming in bursts.
“No, what’s happened?” I nearly shoved her down the stairs as we hurried back down.
At the far side of the garage stood the wicker gondola, the inflator fan, and box of accessories, just as the crew had left them. But the heavy canvas bag sat away from the other items, the top cinch-strap undone, spilling red, white and blue fabric onto the floor.
“The crew didn’t leave it like this,” Rachael said. “I know they didn’t.”
“No . . . I’m sure you’re right.” I looked around the open bag, noticing scuffed footprints in the dust on the concrete floor. Then something gleamed in the glow of the overhead bulb. I knelt to check it out.
A knife.
My hand reached toward it but pulled back. Fingerprints. My automatic response kicked in.
“Rachael.” I waved her over. “Recognize this?”
She knelt beside me and stared at the shiny blade. It looked like a hunting knife, perhaps, with a nicely carved wooden handle and a wickedly curving inch-wide blade that gleamed in its sharpness.
“No. I’ve never seen Sam carry anything like this,” she said.
“We better leave it here until Ron can take a look. Maybe he can get prints off it.”
“What’s it doing here? Charlie, what’s happening?” She’d unconsciously moved over to the balloon bag and began caressing the fabric of Lady Liberty.
“Looks to me like someone intended to damage the balloon to keep you from making your flight tomorrow,” I said.
“But . . .” She didn’t have to say it. We were both wondering who knew the balloon was here, in this garage. And how had they gotten in?
I tugged upward on each of the garage doors, testing, but they were both firmly in place. Then I noticed a small side door that must lead outdoors. I crossed to it quickly and tried the knob. The one door in the whole place I’d not checked and it was unlocked. Shit.
I yanked it open and stepped out onto the pale gray gravel path. It stretched on my left to the driveway and to my right it passed the kitchen window and eventually wound around the back deck. Ahead of me a small clearing contained a tire swing and wooden picnic table, barely visible now in the fading light. Beyond that the forest had become thick and black.
“I don’t see any damage,” Rachael said, as I stepped back inside and carefully twisted both the deadbolt and the lock on the doorknob. She stood over the canvas bag and had pulled out several more yards of fabric. She was running her hands over the panels, one at a time.
Why, I wondered. If someone had gotten this far—standing over the balloon, knife in hand—it could only mean that we’d somehow interrupted them in the act. Perhaps with Rachael and me asleep they hadn’t realized anyone was home. They could have fled when they heard clattering pans in the kitchen. But wouldn’t they have made a few decisive cuts in the nylon before they ran? The thought that Rachael had frightened the intruder away just now, when she switched on the garage light to go for the firewood, was way too close for comfort. We better have a weapon, and I remembered with a sinking feeling that I’d left my gun with my things at Rachael’s house. A fine bit of planning.
I found an old towel on Sam’s workbench and tacked it over the half-panel window on the side door. We were now in the only place in the house where I didn’t feel the eyes of the outside world could see us.
“We may have to spend the night here, in the garage,” I told her, keeping my voice barely above a whisper. “Does Sam have any guns?”
“I don’t . . . I’m not sure,” she said, matching my tone.
I strode to the spot where the knife lie. Screw fingerprints. At this point we had to think about defending ourselves. I picked it up and looked it over. On closer inspection I saw that the blade could be folded into the handle. A small button released it. Another catch extended the blade, whipping it into working position with a suddenness that startled me. I practiced working the mechanism several times until I’d figured out the right way to hold it without danger of taking off three fingers as I did so. Folded, it didn’t feel quite so deadly, and I slipped it into my jeans pocket.
“I think we can safely leave the garage light on,” I told Rachael, “but nothing in the house, not even a nightlight. Once it’s completely dark outside, we can’t afford it.”
I figured that gave us about another thirty or forty-five minutes of half-light before we’d risk stumbling around and breaking our necks on some random piece of furniture.
“We better round up some food, warm clothes, and any weapons we can find.”
“What’s going on with Sam and Ron?” she asked. “Why aren’t they back by now?”
Yeah, well, I wanted those answers, too. Especially since my loving brother had gone off, leaving the two of us miles from anywhere with no vehicle, no working telephone, no weapon and not a hell of a lot of hope. I indulged in a short fantasy about wringing his neck before I roused Rachael into action.
“We better plan for this night on our own. If they get back, great. If not, well . . . we better be ready.”
If there’s anything I can’t stand it’s a helpless female who goes frantic in the face of danger. A hysterically screaming woman brings out in me the urge to slap. Fortunately, Rachael wasn’t that woman and I gained a small measure of confidence when I watched her go into action.
“Okay, then,” she said. “There are some sleeping bags on a shelf out here. We’ll find them in a minute. I’ll get extra blankets and pillows; I know where they are in the house.” She caught my expression. “Well, we might as well be comfortable, right?”
“Where would I find winter jackets? Bedroom closets?”
“Probably.”
“What about a gun?” I asked the question without much hope. She’d already become fuddled with that one. “Never mind, I’ll look around. You gather some food—anything we won’t have to cook.”
“Got it.”
We started up the garage steps cautiously. A spring closer had snapped the heavy door solidly closed when I came down, and I couldn’t hear a thing on the other side. I pulled out the hunting knife and snapped it open. One couldn’t be too careful. I drew the door open as quietly as possible and scanned the greatroom. Nothing looked out of place. Rachael followed me and we assessed the situation like a Special Forces team entering enemy territory. Once we’d ascertained that we were alone she took the kitchen and I headed upstairs.
Where does a guy hide a gun? Near his bedside, if I’d learned anything from my months of firearms discussions with Drake. I headed for the master bedroom and went for the side of the bed nearest the bathroom. That bit of reasoning doesn’t need explanation for anyone, does it? The nightstand yielded nothing but a paperback book on top, a nailclipper, box of condoms, and two issues of Playboy in the drawer. Those and the pair of dirty socks in the open space beneath the drawer convinced me that Sam was one-hundred percent normal guy. So where did he keep the weapon?
Patting the carpet under the edge of the bed, at least as far as my forearm would go, netted one more pair of dirty socks and about forty-five dustballs, although I didn’t stop to count them. The fact that I even took ti
me to wonder about it was surely a sign that the tension was getting to me. I brushed my arm off on the bedspread—hey, it was Sam’s fault I was having to do this anyway—and began a patdown of the pillows.
I had to give Sam credit in the vigilance department. The gun was under the pillow on the other side of the bed, positioned so he could merely stretch in his sleep and put his right hand on it. Unfortunately, I had to mark him down for lack of firepower. The pistol was a .22 revolver and of the six potential shots it offered, only three were left. He’d be lucky to kill a cat with those teeny bullets, much less a full-sized human being. But one never knows. If my life depended on it, at close range and with the right angle, I might use the thing. I stuck it into my waistband, berating myself again for not bringing my Beretta.
I’d hoped that the nightstand on the other side of the bed might offer up additional ammunition, but no such luck so I went on to the closet. I debated breaking the restriction about turning on lights, but a quick glance told me that at least four windows would expose me to anyone lurking outside. I pawed around the upper shelf in hopes that a box of .22 shells would fall into my hand, but that didn’t work.
So, warm clothing. I knew Rachael pictured a cozy pajama party with our sleeping bags on the floor while we munched popcorn and cookies all night, but I had a feeling that the reality might involve more. I wanted a heavy coat and warm boots if I could find them. Mountain temperatures in the autumn could likely fall into the thirties, possibly even the twenties, not a place to be overnight in your street clothes.
My hands came across the reassuring feel of a sheepskin jacket and I pulled it off its hanger. If it came right down to it, I knew I’d offer Rachael the heavy coat, so I better find two of them. No other sheepskins offered themselves up but I did find another roomy parka whose fabric felt like that windproof all-weather stuff and the padding seemed adequate.
“Charlie?” Rachael’s voice came tentatively up the stairs in the dark.
“In the main bedroom,” I said. I heard her feeling her way up the remaining steps.
“I’ve put a bag full of snacks beside the garage door,” she said, “and here are some gloves that I found on top of the fridge.”
I showed her the two coats, which she inspected mostly by feel. I also told her about finding the pistol, but didn’t elaborate on its inadequacies. We’d deal with that if the occasion arose. We edged our way back down the two short flights of stairs. The light at the windows now consisted of barely discernable gray rectangles. Another thing you never realize when you live in a city—just how dark absolute dark really is.
We’d left the light on in the garage, which I now realized was about to be a big liability. There would be that moment in time when we’d expose ourselves and our plan by opening it and heading down the stairs.
“Where is the switch to the garage light?” I asked.
“Top of the stairs. I think it’s a foot or two away from the doorjamb.”
“Okay, here’s what we better do. Open the door as little as you can and still get your hand through. Reach through and switch off the light as fast as possible.”
She followed instructions well, and I could only hope that whoever had come in once had either left the property entirely, or hadn’t been near the back of the house where he’d easily observed our moves.
“Now, take the food sack with you and feel your way down three steps. That should give me room to get in.” I edged the toes of my right foot over the step, then two more times, then pushed the heavy door closed. The light nearly blinded me when I hit the switch, but at least we didn’t have to keep feeling our way down the steep stairs.
Rachael, in true pajama party fashion, proceeded to build us a cozy nest. She located some thick waterproof tarps and spread them out. Followed this with blankets—I had no idea where those came from—then the sleeping bags, pillows, and our sack of munchies. I half expected her to pull out fuzzy pink jammies with feet and begin changing into them.
“Can you work by flashlight? I’m not sure we should have the bright light on.” I asked. I’d been in here less than ten minutes and was already anxious about what might be happening outside.
“Sure.”
I switched off the overhead light and risked lifting one corner of the towel I’d tacked over the one window. The view showed me absolutely nothing. Pitch dark. I dropped the curtain and joined Rachael on the pile of bedding. Cold had begun to seep through my jeans, so I wrapped the insulated bulk of a sleeping bag over my lap.
“Cracker Jack?” she offered.
“One of my favorites.” I rummaged through the provisions and also discovered two packages of cookies and a large airy bag of cheese popcorn. “Anything to drink with these?”
A blank look came over her face and I could see an uh-oh forming. “Oh, wait, there are sodas out here.” She made her way over to the stairs, where cases of pop were stacked in an alcove. “Room temperature, but better than nothing.” She brought each of us a canned Coke.
I surveyed my supplies, making sure I could locate things on a moment’s notice. The cell phone in my purse still registered a ‘no signal’ which didn’t come as any surprise, and the portable phone from the house was still dead. I visualized Ron calling and getting no answer. He would know something was wrong, round up extra help, and be on his way here this very minute. Any time now, we’d hear vehicles pulling into the driveway and we’d all spend the rest of the evening laughing over this.
Except that Ron and Sam should have been back hours ago, the dogs should have raised a ruckus when someone entered the garage, and the feel of that folding knife still lay heavy in my pocket. Nothing about this whole situation felt right.
Another hour passed. No vehicles arrived and we’d run out of small talk. Rachael wandered over to the stack of equipment she’d accumulated for her altitude flight—parachute, oxygen tank and mask, super-thermal flight suit. She checked everything, I imagined for the hundredth time, then drifted back to the sleeping bags, pulled off her shoes and burrowed into the downy cocoon. Despite the afternoon nap, I also felt my eyelids getting heavy. I allowed them to close for just a second.
The sound, when it came, was tiny. The merest scrape of something on gravel, the smallest metallic chink as the doorknob twisted. In my half-asleep state it could have been part of a dream. I roused slightly.
Every bit of sleep left me in the next second, though, as the door’s glass panel crashed inward.
Chapter 23
Rachael let out a little shriek and sat up, pulling her covers tightly around her shoulders. A dozen thoughts flew through my mind, from defending ourselves with the three shots left in the .22, to close combat with the knife, to getting the hell out. The latter seemed like the best choice.
The flashlight beam swung wildly as I thrashed against my sleeping bag restraint.
“We gotta get out!” I rasped. “Grab the coats.” I re-tucked the gun into my waistband and patted my pocket where the knife lay. “And your shoes!”
Something in the back of my mind told me we should be quiet, not let the intruder realize he’d nearly caught us, but the reality wasn’t so easy to achieve. Rachael crashed into the paper bag of food as she lunged for the jackets and I nearly went headlong across the room when I stepped on the cylindrical metal flashlight and it rolled. Shadows rose and fell like malevolent spirits against the walls. A gloved hand came through the broken window pane and patted the door frame in search of the knob.
“Quick! Up the stairs,” I called to Rachael in a stage-whisper.
She bolted, arms full of sheepskin, her shoes dangling in her right hand. I followed right on her heels. The abandoned flashlight cast most of its light toward the workbench on the opposite wall, giving the stairwell only the slightest dim gray illumination.
“It’s locked from the inside!” Her voice edged toward hysterics.
“What!” How had that happened?
I heard the knob downstairs rattle. No time to think. I ripped
the pistol from my waistband and faced the door.
“Move over,” I ordered.
Her eyes grew wide at the sight of the gun and she pressed herself against the wall. I aimed at the lock and pulled the trigger. Shreds of metal flew outward. I felt flecks of it hit my face.
A male voice cursed downstairs, closer now. I yanked the door open and shoved Rachael through.
“Go for the back door,” I ordered.
She dashed through the dark house, fumbled momentarily with the lock on the door, and flung it open. I followed her tracks, doing my best not to stumble over furniture in the unfamiliar place. Behind me I heard heavy feet on the garage stairs. A second person pounded on the front door.
Rachael paused on the deck, waiting for me to catch up.
“Go! Go!” I shouted. “There’s at least two of them.”
She leaped the deck railing and bolted for the woods. The hillside climbed steeply. I barely managed to keep her in sight as I followed. At one point my foot dislodged a rock and I went down hard on one knee. Pain shot up my leg but the sounds of two men on the deck spurred me on.
Rachael raced over an unseen path. Thick layers of pine needles and brown oak leaves coated the ground and obscured all tracks. I followed faint white movements and realized she was running over the rocky ground in her socks. We covered a couple hundred feet before she slowed. I looked back and couldn’t see the house at all.
“I’ve got to put shoes on,” Rachel said, huffing to catch her breath. She sat down and brushed spiky needles from her socks. I kept watch below as she tugged her shoes on and quickly tied them. “Here, take a coat,” she said. “I’ll move faster if I’m not carrying them.”
I reached for the parka. “Which direction are we heading?”
“Right now, basically east,” she said. “Sam’s land extends up here quite a ways. In fact, there’s a gazebo on the highest point.”
Balloons Can Be Murder: The Ninth Charlie Parker Mystery Page 18