He didn’t have a specific plan. He hadn’t even planned to sneak into their house this morning. But his worrying out by the pool had given him too much free-floating energy. And then when it had occurred to him that Miriam was out working, he couldn’t not do it. It seemed as if one minute he was sitting in his backyard, and the next he was squeezing himself through the Weavers’ back fence.
Martin went through the living room to Hal and Miriam’s bedroom and stood in the doorway, looking around, taking it in. He walked over to the bed and ran his hand along the sheets—nice and soft, a high thread count. They were white, which Martin was relieved to see—no cheesy red or gold or anything like that. And no absurd mirrors on the ceiling, or Hawaiian sunset wallpaper. Though he did notice that the bureau located across from the foot of the bed had a nice big mirror.
He climbed onto the bed and sat down, swinging his feet up, crossing his legs at the ankles and resting his back against the headboard, which had a bamboo weave. He looked at himself in the bureau mirror. He didn’t smile at himself. He just sat there staring—staring at himself staring. Then he raised his right hand in a feeble, uncertain wave. It was proof: he really was sitting on Miriam’s bed like this, and the person he saw in the mirror was actually him, rather than some ghost self who’d followed him here and who was seeking to make the leap from the two-dimensional space of the mirror into the three-dimensional reality of his world.
Martin swung his feet back down to the floor, and began to look around, pulling open drawers, stepping into the walk-in closet, looking on the shelves in there. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Once he located her underwear drawer he made the obligatory search through its contents, but really only so that later he wouldn’t regret not having done it. The next time he talked to her, he’d know he’d run his hands over the bra and panties she was wearing—and that was worth something, he thought. But he was actually more interested in finding out if she’d hidden something beneath her underwear. Sex toys, certainly—that would be very interesting. But he’d settle for an old photo that was important to her, or a note of some sort. Or a diary. That would be a gold mine.
The idea of the diary set him on a new round of searching. He reopened drawers and looked under sweaters and T-shirts; he stood on a stool and peeked on the top shelves in the walk-in closet. And he got down on his hands and knees and ran his arms between the mattress and the box spring. Nothing.
Under the bed, though, it was a different story: there were at least half a dozen guns. He plopped belly down onto the carpet (it was an ugly olive green, but recently vacuumed) for a closer look. There were a range of shotguns, from a little .28 gauge up to a couple of .12-gauge guns. The rifle was a .30-06, he was pretty sure. There was a mediumsize pistol that said Colt on the side and that he thought was a .38—he was almost positive. There was another gun that was in a little yellow-and-black box labeled TP-70. It also said “.22 cal.” Martin took it out of the box. It was flat and light and small. The handle was black, and the barrel was a gray metal. He liked it. He saw that there was a little clip that you inserted into the handle, and that there were bullets in it. They were small, like baby bullets.
Jeez, he thought. He knew that Hal Weaver was a big hunter—did the whole duck-hunting thing out in the delta, got in some deer hunting on his property on Mount Diablo. Martin had even traded with Hal, salmon for duck. But it was pretty weird to put your guns under your bed. Not to mention stupid and unsafe—especially loaded guns. What were the odds that the kids didn’t know they were here, within easy reach? Martin thought he wouldn’t be surprised to hear someday that one of the Weaver kids had been killed in a home shooting, or at least in a hunting accident. It happened all the time. He was about to put the pistol back into the box, but then he thought better of it. Instead, after checking to make sure the safety was on (it was), he put the pistol into the front pocket of his pants. Then he put the lid back onto the box and set it back in the spot where he’d found it, up against the wall and in between two of the shotguns. Yes, it was stealing, but that’s what you got for having a loaded gun in your house, Hal.
He was just climbing to his feet when he heard the front door open. Open, then close. Then he heard the rapid click-click of shoes on the entry hallway tile (women’s shoes) and then coming down the hall, toward the bedroom, toward him. No hesitation, no trip to the kitchen for a glass of water or a Coke (he was suddenly thirsty). Did Miriam somehow know he was here? Was she marching back to confront him? He looked at himself in the mirror of the bureau as he stood there, still stooped over. He looked like a cartoon version of himself, eyes bulging and white with terror.
He had just enough time to crouch behind the bed and then lie down on his right side. If she came to her side of the bed, which was on the far side of the room, the farthest from the doorway, she’d see him. He wasn’t sure, but she might even be able to see him in the mirror. That, he thought, would be doubly terrifying. But of course it didn’t matter if she saw him in the mirror or straight on. Either way, she’d be completely horrified. He could imagine her scream, and her terrorstricken look when he sat up and faced her, sheepish, hands up and telling her it was all right, he could explain (“I lost something,” he’d say). He could also imagine himself from her perspective, lying there next to her bed, panicked-looking—not a robber or a rapist (the obvious first choices), but a freak. What the fuck are you doing in my house? she’d be justified in asking. He wouldn’t have an answer for her, though, because he didn’t have one for himself.
But she didn’t come around to his side of the bed (or her side, depending on how you thought about it—it was more hers than his, after all). Instead, he heard her walk right into the bathroom, adjust her clothing somehow, sit down, and then pee. He could hear the urine stream down and hit the water, and then he heard her sigh. She kept peeing for a long stretch of seconds, and he realized that she’d been rushing to get inside and use the toilet. Had barely made it from the car, from the sound of it. Linda complained about this; there were times when she almost didn’t make it to a bathroom. In fact, he’d been out places with her when she’d simply had to run behind some bushes and pee right there on the ground while he kept watch for her.
Of course, Martin wasn’t keeping watch for Miriam while she peed in her own bathroom and in her own house. He was an intruder, and if she saw him, he’d go to jail. He’d miss his trip to Mexico. He’d miss the big horse race at the fair. And he’d miss what was left of his children’s youth. They might come and visit him at whatever jail he was in, but it wouldn’t be much. Peter would look down at his feet and mumble, and Sarah would roll her eyes, eager to get out of there and back home so that she could make some phone calls.
His first instinct was to simply jump up and sprint right the fuck out the house—just blast out of there, hit the fence, jump into his car and drive off, the car fishtailing through the big dirt clods of the orchard, and then righting itself once he hit the frontage road and the freeway after that. He could even call from Mexico, and if it seemed as if Miriam had spotted him, knew it was him, he’d just never come home.
But she would be able to identify him, he was pretty sure. There just wasn’t enough space to make a clean break. And besides, he was so terrified, he wasn’t sure his legs would carry him out of the room, much less across the yard and all the way to his car. And so, as she unrolled the toilet paper and wadded it up and wiped, he rolled onto his back and tried to inch himself under the bed. But he didn’t fit. It was a pretty tall bed, but he just couldn’t do it, just couldn’t wedge himself under there. So, as she came walking out of the bathroom, he held his breath, willing himself to be small and noiseless. He willed himself to cease existing—tried to transform the scenario into the dream (the nightmare) when you were in an impossible situation (one exactly like this, in fact), and somehow you became invisible at the very moment you were about to be caught by your enemy, or flew away just as you were about to be hit by an oncoming car.
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nbsp; Martin heard Miriam stand in the space between the bathroom doorway and Hal’s side of the bed. She was talking to herself, but quietly, whispering, almost. He could tell that she was thinking about things she had to do. He could also tell that she was in a hurry. For him, though, things had slowed down, and he was able in the stretched-out pocket of time he’d entered to think with surprising clarity about his situation, and the options that remained open to him. For starters, he knew he had the option of killing her. He certainly didn’t want to do that. But he also knew he didn’t want to go down the path that getting caught (because he hadn’t killed her) would entail. He wasn’t sure how to do it. He could shoot her with the .22, of course; it was right there in his pocket. But that would be loud and risky. And could you actually kill someone with that gun? It was awfully small. He could also knock her down, strangle her, or maybe use one of the pillows to smother her. Then he’d tear the house apart, make it look like it was a robbery gone wrong. Stranger things had happened.
He thought, as well, about kidnapping her, forcing her to come with him to Mexico. But he wasn’t able to sustain the absurd notion of actually getting her into his car and then into a plane. Nor, therefore, could he muster the necessary energy for the related, extended fantasy of her eventual decision to love him and their new life in Mexico.
But of course he wasn’t able to sustain the fantasy of killing Miriam, either. He was pretty sure that he could have killed Hal Weaver in this situation—might have already done so, in fact, especially if he’d grabbed one of the shotguns from under the bed. Eliminating the Hal Weavers of the world wasn’t a moral dilemma as far as Martin was concerned. In fact, the brutal but mysterious murder of Hal Weaver might present advantages to Martin. He could become the caring friend and neighbor to Miriam, the one person to whom she could confide her secret fears and fantasies, the things she hadn’t been able to communicate to Hal because in fact their marriage had been over years before the murder. And maybe—inevitably—Martin and Miriam would have sex right here in this bedroom, in the very bed separating him from Miriam.
Martin heard a ringing sound, and suddenly time resumed its normal speed. Was it a home alarm, he wondered, finally kicking into gear and warning Miriam there was an intruder in her home? The bell sounded again, and he heard Miriam mutter, “All right, all right already.” And then he heard her walk out of the room and down the hall.
Someone was at the door. In fact, he realized, this was probably why she was home: she’d come to meet someone here. Seconds later, as she opened the door and greeted the person, he was able to glean that it was a repair guy of some sort. Something about the dishwasher or the garbage disposal, he thought he heard them say. Something in the kitchen, anyway. But at that point he wasn’t really listening. By that time he was on his feet. He felt for the .22 in his pants pocket, then scanned the top of Miriam’s bureau for something—anything—to grab.
And then he was pushing open the French doors that led out onto the back patio. He slipped out of the house and onto the crunchy-sounding brick, and then as quickly as possible down to the lawn and along the fence. Finally, and without looking back (in case he’d been spotted from the house, which he doubted: the kitchen didn’t look onto the backyard), he pushed himself through the gap in the fence and out to the orchard and then to his car, stumbling again through the big, frustrating chunks of dirt.
He was soaked with sweat. His heart was beating so furiously that it actually hurt. He caught his faint reflection in the driver’s-side window, but he ignored it. Instead, he opened the car door and sat down. He pulled the door shut and scanned the orchard. He didn’t see anyone. No one was chasing after him, apparently. After another couple of seconds he realized that he was giving off a sickly odor of fear—any cop stopping him now would drag him in on that basis alone.
Another minute or so later, still feeling the heavy beating of his heart, he looked down at his left hand, and saw that he was carrying a small jewelry box. A tiny jewelry box: it was about six inches long and maybe three inches wide, he guessed. He must have grabbed it from Miriam’s bureau. He didn’t even remember reaching out and taking hold of it, but he must have, because here it was, in his hand. It looked old, like a keepsake of some sort, he thought. It was pewter or silver or something like that, and it had intricate, swirling designs on the lid. The metal was black and oxidized in the crevices of the swirls.
He sat there for a second, looking down at it, and then he opened the lid. Inside, it was lined with a reddish felt, and nestled into the material were several small items, each of them probably important to Miriam in some way, and valuable looking. There was a pair of diamond earrings, a silver locket on a silver chain, and two rings. One of the rings had a large stone that looked like an emerald, and the other one had a lot of tiny diamonds set into it. The one with the diamonds looked like an old engagement ring; Martin figured it was her mother’s, or maybe her grandmother’s. She was probably planning to give it to her daughter someday—had been planning, that is, because it wasn’t going to happen now. There was no picture in the locket, which he found disappointing. He’d been hoping to see one of those old photos of someone from the 1920s, with the person stiff and formal but in a way that spoke to the greater seriousness and maturity of earlier generations.
Under the jewelry lay three coins. They were gold. One was a ten-dollar coin dated 1908. It had a picture of an Indian on it. There was also a twenty-dollar piece dated 1900, with some sort of Lady Liberty image on it. She was surrounded by a halo of stars. Last, there was a one-dollar coin from 1854. Like the one from 1900, it had a Lady Liberty image on it, and she, too, was surrounded by this semicircle of stars. Martin held them in his hand, as if assessing them. They were hefty, he thought. And pretty valuable—probably a couple of hundred dollars apiece.
He looked up again, scanning the orchard, and then twisted around to make sure no one was sneaking up on him, or that there wasn’t a cop slowing down, trying to figure out why that car was back there in the orchard. No one.
Martin put the coins back into the box, and put the box under his seat. Then, remembering the gun in his pocket, he took it out and slipped it under the seat, setting it next to the jewelry box. He started the car, swung it around, and started to drive slowly out of the orchard—no need to peel out fast, fleeing in a panic. He slowed to a stop at the edge of the road, waited for a pickup truck to drive past, and then pulled out.
As he drove toward the highway, it occurred to him that those coins were probably even more valuable than he’d thought. Gold prices had skyrocketed in the past year as oil prices shot up, and so these would fetch a nice little bit of cash. Not that he was stupid enough to try it—if Miriam noticed the jewelry box was missing, the first thing she and Hal would do is call the local coin dealers and pawn shops. Plus, it wasn’t like three gold coins would set you up for life (or pay off someone like Val Desmond). Still, it was exciting . . . and almost exactly what he’d hoped for when he decided to actually break into her house and snoop around. It was as if he’d stumbled onto a little bit of treasure back there in Miriam’s bedroom. And the best part was that now it was his.
CHAPTER FOUR
Val called a little over a week later and said he was ready to set up a run to Mexico. Ramirez was about to get another shipment, and, as planned, he’d offered to cut Val in. Martin didn’t know how much Val was making off these exchanges, but it had to be a fair amount if he could afford to forgive half of Martin’s debt, and then pay him five thousand dollars every time he flew down there.
Val wanted Martin to drive out to his house in Pleasanton and pick up the cash. “You should come and see Temperature’s Rising, anyway,” he said. “His morning splits have been great. I think he’s got a real shot at the fair.”
Martin said okay, fine, and half an hour later he was on the way. It was a Saturday, and he wasn’t up to much. He wondered if he should have acted busy, said it would be a few hours, but the talk about Temperature’s Ris
ing had made him too excited to bother. Being on the main card was a big deal, at least for the local racing community. No, it wasn’t going to get written up in the Daily Racing Form, but the area trainers and jockeys would know whose horses had gotten into the race and which ones had done well. Martin was more than a little pleased to think that he might become an owner the local people in the business might know and talk about.
“Oh, sure,” he imagined people saying as they sat at the track looking through a race program. “That’s Martin Anderson’s horse. He’s hooked up with Val Desmond, but he seems to be the brains of the outfit. His horses always run strong.”
In fact, of course, it was Val who suggested horses to Martin—Martin wouldn’t have known where to look, much less what to look for. And Val’s inclination was toward tall and lanky horses, rather than those that got by on raw power. A horse like Secretariat had both height and power, and certainly that was ideal. But that sort of horse was out of Martin’s league (out of Val’s, too). And so Val tended toward horses with the long stride, which could gobble up yards and yards of track with each gallop. They were better at longer distances—a mile and up, basically. None of this six furlongs stuff. Cloudy River and Uncle Jack had been in this general mold, and both had been pretty solid horses, each of them winning a handful of races in the couple of years that Martin had owned them. Martin wasn’t sure, but he thought he might’ve actually turned a profit with them. At the least he’d come close to breaking even—boarding and training included. Most people couldn’t say that about their racehorses.
As for Temperature’s Rising, he was like an exaggeration of the type. He was 16.2 hands tall and noticeably lean—skinny, almost. Only just over a thousand pounds. And as Val had explained to him, he had nicely formed withers. They were a little high, but not too high—not a problem for a saddle, but it seemed as if the vertebrae of his withers were quite long front to back, which meant (again according to Val) that he could really rotate his shoulders backward and increase his stride length.
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