With both hands I buffed my eyes. When they opened, my gaze landed on a large bold heading in the book. I blinked at it, unseeing, trying to gather the energy to start the process of returning to Grove Landing.
Until the word filtered into my consciousness.
Disguises.
I tilted my head, staring. What was it Sid Haynes said?
The word that resonated within me?
Masquerade.
Disguises.
A thought bloomed in my head like a flower in the desert.
Wait. What if…
My finger reached out to touch the printed word as if to draw meaning from it. Barely breathing, I reread the short section on criminals and their disguises. Sunglasses and hoods like that of the Unabomber were only the beginning, it said.
Suspects had changed their hair color, grown beards and mustaches. They’d used makeup to create amazing alterations, changing the shapes of noses, eyelids, cheeks, and lips.
I leaned over the desk, thinking of my interview with Erin
… Sybee’s adamant assertions…Springer’s cynicism…the Face…the lack of leads from two different newspapers…
Pieces of conversations and facts skittered through my brain like tumbleweeds.
His hair…got messed up…it had come down his forehead…
The eyes are so blue, they don’t look real…
I’ve never seen this guy before…
The single brown hair found at Barry Draye’s house—A small cry escaped me.
I reached for my cell phone to call Chetterling but my hand stalled in midair. Why on earth would he listen to me now? He’d think this was another wild goose chase. And maybe it was. If he convinced his superiors to let him stay in the Bay Area and check this out, only to again come up with nothing, wouldn’t he find himself in real trouble—thanks to me?
Besides, I had no idea how to investigate my suspicions.
Chetterling was right—Edgar Sybee wasn’t likely to talk to him again. And I wasn’t about to try seeing him alone.
Plus I needed to get Stephen out of the Bay Area—soon.
But…
I had to drive over to Emily’s to pick up Kelly. Which would place me within one block of Sybee’s home. What if his wife, Crystal, could help? Maybe at some point she’d caught a glimpse of Tip. The dealer had sold her husband drugs. Maybe she would talk to me, mother to mother, for the sake of a third who now lay in the grave. If I showed her the composite—just in case she hadn’t read the newspaper.
And the notes of the interview between her husband and my father. If she could admit to seeing Tip in the past, yet like her husband didn’t recognize the Face…
If there was even the remotest chance…
I spun on my heel to leave the office.
Hurrying through the living room, I ignored Stephen and his music. With each step arguments crowded into my head like clamoring children. What was I doing? Hadn’t I concluded that my priority was taking care of my own children?
That I needed to get Stephen out of the Bay Area—now?
I told myself that what I planned to do would not delay our leaving for very long. Five minutes on the way to Emily’s house—that’s all I needed. Just five minutes.
Stepping onto the back deck, I thrust the sliding door closed behind me and launched into an animated explanation to Jenna.
“Wow, that’s amazing!” She tossed her novel aside.
“Sounds really good! Oh, and yes, I agree we need to get Stephen out of here. But right now—go see Crystal Sybee.”
“You sure? This isn’t crazy?”
“No, it’s not crazy. I’d do it.”
Of course she would. But she was Jenna.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
I hesitated. “Yes. But you can’t. You’ve got to stay here and keep an eye on Stephen. If we leave him alone, he’ll be out of here.”
She nodded. “Does he know we’re leaving?”
“No. And I don’t want to tell him until I get back. Less time for him to get mad and storm out.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” She raised her eyebrows at me.
“Good luck.”
“Thanks. I’ll need it.”
As I slipped out the front door without a word to Stephen, the raucous sound of rap music assailed my ears.
Chapter 41
The circular drive in front of Crystal Sybee’s house lay empty.
Three garages were attached to the left side of the house, all their doors closed. I drove up near the front walk and stopped, praying Crystal was home, half hoping she wasn’t.
On the drive over, I’d started thinking of all the reasons I shouldn’t be here. Now that I’d arrived, I dreaded knocking on the woman’s door. A confrontation was the last thing I wanted. And it now seemed possible that I would be anything but welcome.
Gathering my purse and the file folder containing Sybee’s interview and the drawing of the Face cut from the newspaper, I slid out of Jenna’s car and closed the door. The air seemed eerily quiet. Not the slightest breeze rustled the old oaks in the front yard. My eyes grazed over Sybee’s house, left to right. It was a modern-looking two-story stucco with wide steps leading up to a deep porch and recessed front door. Beveled glass graced the top half of the door, but I could not see inside the foyer, due to the shadowed porch.
For some reason my skin tingled at the lack of noise.
Atherton is a quiet and stately neighborhood, the massive homes far apart on large lots—worth a fortune in the Bay Area. The community is much like Hillsborough to the north, where Jenna and I grew up. I understood peaceful neighborhoods. Grove Landing was quiet, too. Except for the airplanes.
Maybe Crystal Sybee wasn’t home. After all, it was a Saturday in July.
Yet in the back of my mind a disturbing thought broke free: There is nothing normal about this silence. The air seemed pendent, heavy with some strange portent.
Oh, good grief, Annie. My active imagination was gearing up, that was all. Best pull the plug before it got started.
My anxiety increased as I walked around the car.
Strangers did not just drop in on people in the Bay Area, not unless they were solicitors. Crystal Sybee would probably answer the doorbell through an intercom, hear my spiel, and refuse to let me in. I started up the front walk, trying to gear myself up. I had to get in that house. Had to talk to her. Crystal was my last hope.
I would not listen to the voice warning me I was grasping for straws.
Mounting the five porch stairs, I focused on the door.
With each step I strained to see through the glass, to perceive some grayed motion suggesting a living presence.
Nothing.
A chill teased my arms as I moved from sunlight into shadow. I reached the ornately designed doors and pushed the bell—a lighted circle surrounded by a gold-filigree plate.
Rich tones of Westminster chimes rang through the house.
A wail from inside the house arose in answer—the high, frightened cry of a toddler. This was not good. I’d awakened the little boy from his nap. Crystal would not be pleased. For a second I considered leaving, fleeing like some salesperson before the wrath of a mother could descend.
The wail increased in intensity. Then it rose and fell like a lament at a funeral, wrapping around my head, reaching the very core of my being. My mind flashed a close-up of a child’s face, his
head tipped back and eyes squinched shut, cheeks ruddy, a flush on his neck. A few small teeth shining white with spittle against the redness of an opened mouth…
I waited. What should I do? Crystal would not immediately answer the door. She would go first to her child, calm him. Quiet him.
No footsteps sounded within the house. No door opening or closing. And the little boy continued to cry as if he could not be comforted.
I hunched forward, an ear toward the door. Part of me felt like an intruder, a voyeur. What would I think as a young mother, opening my door t
o some stranger who strained to hear inside my home? And yet the child’s cries were soul-searing, the wails licking at the back of my neck like tongues of fire. I waited and waited for some sign of their lessening, but the sounds remained tortured, without the least interruption. I found myself inhaling and exhaling, an audible whine in my throat, as if my own body were in tune with the keening. As if I could in some telepathic way soothe the quivering screams.
The child’s dirge rose and fell, rose and fell. What mother would allow her child to become so frenzied? Why wasn’t Crystal Sybee picking him up, consoling him? I closed my eyes, listening for some variation in pitch or projection, something to indicate that the little boy was being held, his hot little face pressed against a loving chest.
The fingers of my right hand cramped as they clutched the folder. The toddler’s howls pulsated within me, an energy begging to be dissipated.
And still he cried.
Anger flared next, my nerve endings prickling with a sense of injustice. Poor little boy. His father a druggie and a liar, and his mother so neglectful. I had a mind to turn on my heel and head straight for the Atherton Police Station, merely blocks away, and report what I heard. Most likely the mother wasn’t even at home. Who could sit in a house with that kind of racket and not try to stop it? It would take less energy to tend the child than to block out the ear-splintering sound.
Unless she was unable to help.
The thought rose within me like a rogue wave, fizzling out the heat in my nerves. Leaving me practically shivering.
What if something had happened to her?
I edged toward the center of the door, forgetting all etiquette. Tucking the file under my arm, I cupped both hands around my temples and leaned into the door, my eyes sweeping the foyer left to right. I saw a spacious hardwood-floor entrance. To the left a doorway led into an area too darkened to see. To the right was a staircase carpeted in light rose. The far side of the staircase ran along a wall. A banister lined the near side, ending at the bottom of the stairs in a snail-shell curve. Beyond the stairs stood another open doorway to what looked like a formal living room.
I turned my head from side to side, listening. Although I couldn’t be certain, it seemed the little boy’s cries were flailing down that staircase from the second floor.
Spine taut, I straightened, filling my lungs with air. I felt suspended, wanting to leave but afraid for the child. A minute or two must have passed as I hung there, undecided. The longer I wondered what to do—and the longer the little boy howled—the harder it became to force myself to leave, even though everything within me said, Go, get out of here, something isn’t right!
My imagination began filling in all sorts of scenarios. Crystal Sybee, lying on the floor, overdosed on drugs. Or she’d hit her head and lay unconscious. Or she’d left her little boy alone and he was hurt.
Of its own accord my hand veered to the doorknob. The metal against my palm had almost a numbing affect, stalling my fingers. After some hesitation I twisted the knob the slightest bit, expecting it to be locked.
It turned to the right.
I stared at it, feeling betrayed. Now I would have no excuse to leave the toddler wallowing in his misery.
Holding my breath, I pushed open the door.
The wailing assaulted me at once, like multilegged bugs crawling into my ears. The door had muffled far more of the sound than I would have imagined. I could hear the intake of breath between the cries, the staccato grinding of air in the little boy’s chest. And, piercing my heart, I could now make out the single word wrenching from his mouth.
“Mmmmmaaaaaa-mmmmmaaaaaa! Mmmmmaaaaaaaa-mmaaaaaaaa!”
I leaned across the threshold, scanning as far as I could see. “H-hello?” At my quivering voice I felt foolish. What was a half whisper next to the boy’s screams? If he could not make his mother materialize, I certainly wouldn’t.
In brilliant Technicolor, my mind flashed to young Erin Willit. All alone in her house, facing horror with no one to help her. Had I known the danger she was in, I’d have been by her side in a heartbeat. Because of her, no choice existed here. I could not leave this little boy to cry alone.
I stepped into the house and closed the door.
Illogical though it was, fear bade me make no sound. I tiptoed across the hardwood foyer until I reached the bottom step. Raising my chin, I allowed my gaze to travel up the stairs to what I could see of the hallway on the second level. Which wasn’t much. Apparently, one had to turn either right or left at the top of the staircase.
The unending wails were coming from the right.
Clutching the folder in one hand and the banister with the other, I placed a foot on the stairs. As I raised myself up the first step, my ankle shook. By the time I gathered the courage to take the second step, my knees were trembling as well.
Between the mind and body exists the most diaphanous of walls. In times of alarm— poof!— it disappears. Apprehension may start in the mind, but soon it starts to play with the body. Hands tremble. Palms sweat. The heartbeat sputters.
With the first shake of my ankle, I knew I was doomed. No longer would I be able to tell myself that this ill-begotten scene would end well. The projector in my head spun into frenzied mode, churning out disordered sequences from every movie I’d ever watched that included a misfortunate in stealthy movement through a house fraught with danger.
I climbed the third stair. Already my hand failed to glide over the banister, the wood sticking under the wetness of my palm.
“Mama! Mama!” The wails ululated until my pulse pounded in my head.
Leave, leave! The voice of reason echoed in my ears. Something isn’t right here and you know it!
I struggled for rational thought. I could turn around and go. Head for the Police Station, tell them what I heard. They could come back and investigate. Or I could go outside and call 911.
The idea chummed the waters of my brain. Arguments broke the surface like predatory sharks. I could practically hear the officers now: You mean you just left a kid alone in the house, screaming? You didn’t even go upstairs to see if he was hurt?
No. They wouldn’t say anything like that. Police officers would never advise someone to walk alone through a house that could hold danger.
Maybe so, if a child wasn’t involved. But this was a two-year-old, no less, completely unable to help himself.
I took the fourth stair. And the fifth.
My heart beat double time as I strained to listen for something, anything, other than the little boy’s cries. Footsteps in the entryway behind me. A door closing. Maybe Crystal had been out in her backyard and now finally heard her son’s torment. Perhaps she was doing laundry in a room off the garage and still couldn’t hear him at all.
Surely that was it. Crystal was here, safe and sound, somewhere. All I needed to do was pick up her child and take him to her. As awkward as that would be—coming upon her in her own home, her son in my arms—it was far more comforting than the alternative.
I wiped my left palm against my pants and climbed three more steps.
Only then did I see it.
A mark on the wall straight ahead. No, more than a mark.
It looked like a long smudge of something. Before I realized it, I’d taken another stair, focusing, squinting at that smear, knowing deep within what it was even as I could not let my mind believe it.
All I could see of the hall was that area at the top of the stairs. To the right and left it looked so dark, built as it was in the middle of the house. Why hadn’t they put a skylight in the hall ceiling? Why hadn’t they knocked out one of the front walls and just run a banister across instead, allowing light to filter up from below?
My chin raised. I sucked in my top lip and stared at the smudge on the wall. A vague thought made its way through my mind. This kind of hallway, though dreary, would be the safest for a crawling baby. A mother could wedge one of those portable safety gates at the top of the stairs. But a long banister with its
supporting posts was dangerous. A baby could get his head stuck between those posts.
A possibility blew across my mind like a thundercloud.
Maybe Crystal had chosen this home because of its safe design. If so, she was a careful mother. A mother who would not go off and leave her child alone. Who would not leave a toddler this long to do laundry in a far-off room.
Air dragged in and out of my throat. I dropped my jaw to pull in more oxygen. When I rose one more step, I saw another smear on the wall, below the first one. As if two fingers had trailed along, leaving the telltale sign of violence in their wake.
Blood.
The raw truth washed over me, weakening my knees.
“Ma-ma!”
I was over halfway up the stairs. So close to the screaming toddler. I knew I should sprint up the rest of the steps, tear down the hallway, and rescue him. Whatever evil had happened to his mother may have touched him as well.
Maybe he wasn’t just lonely and mad; maybe he was hurt.
My heart told me these things, begged me to run, to help him. But I could not move. I stared at the dual tracks of blood—darker on the right side, fading to the left. I tried to force my body into gear as my internal movie projector flashed one manic picture after another of the destruction down that hallway, waiting to be found.
Jesus, help me.
The name sounded in my head as if I had called upon it all my life. In that horrifying moment I could think of nothing else. I felt no strength within me to do what needed to be done.
A force outside myself pushed my legs into action. I mounted the rest of the stairs, heart in my throat, following the sounds of the terrified child. When I reached the hallway, my head turned left first, as if to put off the inevitable sight of what lay at my right. That end of the hallway ran about twenty feet, ending at a closed door. Another door about ten feet from me was also shut. If these were open, surely light from windows in those rooms would fill the hall. But I could not take the time to open them. The boy’s cries peaked and rasped, and I had to follow them— now.
Gathering my courage, I turned to the right.
In perfect symmetry the hall ended in another closed door twenty feet away. Halfway down, to my left, lay another room, the door wide open, light spilling through it to pool on the hall carpet, the walls. Like a mocking spotlight, one sunbeam aimed itself at a large blot of blood on the door frame, glistening a surreal red.
Brink of Death Page 21