Civil Twilight

by Susan Dunlap

  Ah, pop psychology! “You kept doing that, new things every day?”

  “Not after I got into the kids’ pickup games. You know in Vegas people move into town, and in a month they’re gone. Schools barely know who their students are. A lot are illegal. Something like a third of a school class comes or leave in a year,” he said, straightening up as if transported back to being interviewed by some radio or TV reporter. “I saw some kids hanging around and figured: Why not some flag football? But Alison pushed me to do soccer—another new thing. It’s not like soccer is brain surgery, but still I had to learn the rules. You can’t coach or referee unless you know them cold. If you’ve gotta stop and think, you’re dead. So I set up simple soccer games, just so the kids would have something. And, you know, I had something. I was doing something. Just like Alison figured.” He almost smiled.

  Pop psych that worked.

  “Yeah. But see”—his mouth shook and suddenly he had the desperate look of one grabbing for a safe memory to forestall the truth—“the soccer games were low key, but then, somehow, I realized I could do more. I’d pimped myself, done golf weekends as the attraction. Turns out”—he shrugged—“I was more of a pull than if I’d played out my career and retired. Money guys were curious. Didn’t I know all along that the injections were illegal? Where’d the team doctors get the drugs? I mean, like I’d saved the insider secrets all those years just to whisper it to them on the seventh hole. My point is I knew the money types. Most of them coulda cared, you know, but a couple helped out with supplies. And then things got more organized and I made news as ‘reformed,’ and that meant more chances to raise more money. For kids’ sports.”

  “So you were good at fundraising?”

  “What?” he snapped. “What do you mean?”

  “Just asking.”

  “Never mind. It’s just that Alison kept asking that, like she didn’t believe it, like she kept thinking Graham Munson and the others were using me. Of course, they were. I knew that. I had my lights turned out a few times, but I’m not the idiot people think I am. I told her, but she still didn’t believe me. She figured I was blocking out something, like I’d done with the drugs.”

  “What would these guys get out of using you?”

  “Not much. That’s what I told her, too. Tax write-off and a bit of sleazy glory.”

  “But still she was suspicious?”

  “Yeah, makes no sense, does it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Anyway, that’s why she kept pressing me to move out of Vegas. She was worried about me being controlled. Graham lined up a feature writer to do a piece on us and the charity, and that did it for Alison.”

  “A piece on you and Alison and the charity?”

  “Mostly me.”

  “Mostly? But partly about her and she objected to that?”

  The front door opened. “This her, Matt?” he said.

  What was going on?

  The man yanked me up.

  I chopped his arm. “Don’t even think about touching me again!”

  He was nowhere near the size of Widley, but bigger than me. Behind him a woman, a discount version of Karen Johnson, was yelling, “Get out of here! It’s private property! You’re trespassing!” Matt Widley said nothing, continued to just sit there.

  “So, call the police!” I said to the newcomers.

  The man jolted back. Then he was in my face. “Out now!”

  “Don’t either of you care what happened to Alison?”

  “Alison”—the woman moved next to him—“is my friend. She doesn’t want to be bothered by vultures like you.”

  I moved back. “You’re her friend? Prove it! What’d she like to do?”

  “Like?”

  “What’d you do together?”

  “Shopped. We lunched. We picked up my kids. I don’t know, the usual stuff.”

  Karen Johnson had laughed at the idea of going shopping with me. “Where’s she from?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Shut up, Melia!” And to me: “You’re out of here!” Her husband reared back, like a wave about to break.

  “Munson!” Matt muttered, in a voice that said he should be concerned but wasn’t.

  “No marks, Graham, honey! Be careful! You’re going to leave marks on her.”

  “You’re right, Munson. I’m outta here.” I shook free again and strode through the hot night to Cass’s van, got in and gunned the engine. My shoulders ached and so did my head. Our voices had been loud but no neighbors had stepped out to help or to watch. I wanted to get clear of here; I needed to get the van back to Cass. But I couldn’t, not yet.

  The streets were darker now, but just as empty. I drove slowly, as if pacing, thinking about Karen. I kept trying to sketch, retrospectively, a good life for Karen, but this sure wasn’t it. Even if Matt cared as much as he said, even if he wasn’t a walking concussion now. These people, her friends . . . My hands were clenched. I made myself stop and take a long breath. Were they lying about knowing nothing? Or were they just that self-absorbed? Or, well, both? I’d been with her less than an hour and I knew more. They made it easy for her to hide her past.

  Where was I? I peered out the window for a street sign, not that that was going to be much help. I closed my eyes and reran the drive from the moment I’d followed Matt into this tract, the way I do after a new stunt—the first plant, so the next time I do the gag I’ll have a mental track to rerun. Now I could feel, rather than see, myself running the red light and hanging a left, then a right, then . . . what? Another left . . . I was going to have to find that signal and drive, doing the rerun all the while.

  It took two attempts, but that didn’t matter. When I got back to the house, the Munsons’ car was pulling away. The lights inside were off. I didn’t know if Matt had gone out to a bar with them, or gone to bed. I reached for the van’s door handle.

  Cass! I’d promised to be back by now. I pulled out my phone and punched in her number. “Cass, I’m sor—”

  “Are you okay? I’ve been scared—where are you?”

  “Sorry. I’m fine. Time got away. I’ll tell you when I see you.”

  “Which’ll be what, fifteen minutes?”

  “Longer.” Broder’d be plenty pissed I’d skipped. He’d be watching the airports, anxious to grab me as a snare for John. I couldn’t go back home empty. Not when all the answers had to be here, here where she’d lived. Who Karen Johnson really was, why she gave up this life, who killed her—it was all right here. Had to be. “Another hour, okay.”

  “It’s your neck.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ll try to get through to the police again, Darcy, but no promises. I shouldn’t have let you go after Matt Widley, not the way he was. When you didn’t come back, I waited as long as I could, then I called the cops. I couldn’t tell them you went off chasing him. So I reported the van stolen, maybe a hostage in the back.”

  “A hostage? Are you crazy?”

  “I had to tell them something to get them looking. A stolen vehicle might as well be litter in the street.”

  “Gotta go then.”

  “I’ll raise bail.”

  “Real funny.” I clicked off and headed toward the dark house where Matt Widley might or might not still be.

  Breaking and entering is one thing, burglary’s another. And breaking into a house when the homeowner’s there can get you shot.

  I’d compromise. I’d just go around back and see if there were lights on in the house. I’d do it quick before the cops might get lucky and spot the van.

  25

  I JOGGED ACROSS the street at the corner, down the pavement as if I was out for a pre-bed run, cut sharply up next to the driveway, on the dirt, and cut around back. Las Vegas is desert. There’s more greenery here than there should be, but not enough for good cover.

  A six-foot high wooden fence blocked the backyard. The gate was next to the garage. Gates can squeak; gates can have alarms. Fences can be topped wit
h rows of spikes. But not this one. I hoisted myself over and lowered, oh so softly, to the ground.

  The “yard” was almost all pool and pool house—the latter glassdoored and night-lit, showing a good deal less of the panoply of machinery I’d have expected of an ex-jock. Just the basics: Stairmaster, bike, free weights, and butt machine, the devices responsible for Karen—Alison—being in such great shape. The dim light gave the gym a funereal air; it sparkled on the wavering surface, not so much illuminating the pool as creating a shimmering shield over what might be hidden beneath. Water sloshed hopefully over the edges and oozed back in.

  On the other side of the pool, the house itself was black. Wind rustled in the distance, in the trees, grasses of far yards, perhaps. Gusts that might have been born in the Sierra crackled dried leaves, twigs, pebbles against stucco block, and cement. Matt Widley could be inside now, snoring softly. If I’d had a phone number, I could have called. Now there was no way to tell.

  Wrong. I grabbed a plastic chair and threw it in the pool. Water tsunami’d in all directions. Lights flashed on. I dropped to the ground and jammed myself against the gate, like a draft stopper. Metal clinked, plastic crinkled as I skidded over my fanny pack. Seconds ticked. Water slapped the pool edges. My breathing—slow—sounded like a steam shovel.

  The light went off, timed out. Widley could still be inside, waiting to launch his two-hundred-plus pound of muscle at me, but I didn’t figure it that way. My money was on him being out. Gone, if not for long.

  How to get in? A guy doesn’t install motion lights and leave his doors unprotected. I’d inherited a fine set of lock picks from Duffy’s former owner, but sadly, they don’t let you carry burglar tools on airplanes anymore. Anyway, I wouldn’t get near these doors or windows without setting off bells, and sirens going off all over the house. Or worse, at the police station.

  My eyes readjusted to the dark and I looked upward. Doors had to be wired, and windows, but maybe not the attic window, twenty feet up, when there’re no trees near the house to climb.

  I hoisted myself back onto the fence, sprang to the slanted roof, landing flat out. I’d have scrapes on my palms and bruises on my ribs from this one. Asbestos shingles are hard on skin but great for belly-crawling. I slithered up, tense for the feel of a wire, ready to turn, slide, and run if a light came on. But Widley must have done the protection on the cheap, or not at all. No wires here. I shimmied to the top and let myself down head first over the dormer. The window was tiny; if I went in on the diagonal I might make it. Might! I didn’t even have a pocket knife thanks to Homeland Security! Credit card?

  I checked the window. No credit necessary. The wood was old, the latch rusted, the knob tiny. I twisted. My hand slipped. All I had was rust! I twisted again. The latched moved but the windows stayed shut. I braced my free hand against the house, twisted, pulled hard and just about sent myself back-flipping into the pool. But the little window opened.

  The air crackled.

  Helicopter! Searchlight! In seconds it’d be shining off my red hair and khaki pants on this dark roof. I grabbed the edge of the dormer, pushed myself all the way to the waist over the roof edge.

  The helicopter cracked louder, nearer.

  I inhaled, tucked my head and shoulder and shot my arms over my head and in through the window. The air almost choked me. My hips caught. My legs were sticking out the window like a comedy shot. I gave a huge push against the wall, sent myself flying through and landed hard.

  Dust billowed up. The helicopter buzzed loud. It sounded like it was sitting on my shoulders. Had they seen me? Seen enough to call in a ground unit?

  The attic was closer to a crawl space. Dust was inches thick. I breathed through my mouth. It was dead dark.

  The copter light shone through the window. I all-foured away from it and almost cracked my head on a folding ladder, a ladder attached to the hatch door.

  I poked the hatch open an inch. Darkness below.

  I have this superstition about things evening out. Too much good makes me wary. But bad’s like luck in the bank. I cashed the check the helicopter had deposited, opened the hatch, dropped to the floor and turned on the lights like any innocent resident.

  Silence. At least inside. No feet running at me; no safety clicking off. The helicopter sounded like it was moving away. A huge sigh escaped me. I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding my breath. If I had any balance left in my luck account, when he got home Widley’d figure he left the lights on himself.

  The door from the street was to my left, the living room in front of me, two bedrooms behind.

  I scanned the room where I’d sat forty-five minutes ago.

  What is it that says who you are? Where you’re from? Who you were ten years ago before you came here? What is it you can’t bear to leave behind even though you know it may betray you?

  When I’d left San Francisco to get away from the memories of Mike and the family that seemed so removed from missing him, what had I taken? Photos. I’d needed a book to comfort me in a lonely bed, to stand guard in case I woke up miserable in the night, to promise me moments away from my misery. My books had been adventures: Alexandra David-Néel’s travels through Tibet a hundred years ago; and, later, Zen books. They told me who I was.

  But Karen’s only book had been the cookbook.

  I checked my watch. 9:37! Damn! I hit the bedroom, pulled open drawers, checked the underside, felt behind. I ran my hand between the bed frame and mattress, behind the headboard, slid under the bed. Nothing.

  Outside, an engine shifted downward. Patrol car?

  I froze. The window opened to the street. No exit from here. I could . . . The car picked up speed.

  Karen’s closet was a different world. Shiny cocktail dresses like the one Widley’d described. Sexy shoes and lots of them. A drawer full of cashmere sweaters that could have kept her warm even in this freezing house. A soft terry robe, fluffy slippers, sweats and shorts and some shirts and slacks that had the look of L.L. Bean or Eddie Bauer. Mail ordered. The clothes said: sports, luncheons, black-tie dinners. But, mostly, they said: gym.

  There was jewelry, too. Diamond drop earrings, a single-row bracelet that seemed to dance in its box, and a sweetheart pendant, the kind that’s too schmaltzy to wear but you do because your guy gave it to you for Valentine’s Day. And in a leather folder, like a passport case, was a picture—Matt and Karen. They were sitting, smiling at each other. The shot was staged, but not done professionally. It was a snapshot taken in the living room, maybe by a friend, or maybe one of them set the timer then raced across the room and plopped into position. Even sitting, Matt was a head taller than her. His dark eyes, which had seemed to be searching for escape when I was with him, seemed relaxed. He had a little smile, but mostly he looked awestruck, just like he’d told me he’d been. Awestruck and in love.

  It was Karen with the wary look. Just a slight one that I hadn’t glimpsed in San Francisco. Because she was looking up, her blonde hair hung back, revealing the sparkling diamond earrings. Her smile was slightly amused but pleased, the way she might have looked accepting a gift of wilted flowers from a child.

  She had had some decent times here. A good enough life. At least one memorialized moment. Widley had a temper, I knew from experience. But day to day with him? He looked like he’d loved her and that was something.

  I stared harder, trying to discern who she was. The girl who’d swung the knife? The woman who’d pushed the teenager clear of the speeding car? The one who’d betrayed John?

  Things change! The first time I saw Leo, he lectured on that. All things change. Things are change. In the time—

  Time!

  The door to the other bedroom was shut. I pulled it open to a wall of photos. Girls playing soccer, boys running, kicking, heading the ball. I spotted Karen bending over a child clutching her knee. But it was Widley who was the star, running on the sideline, calling out, coaching. There were two more shots of the couple, him with his arm around her, her
face once again in the shadows.

  And that was what he’d really done for her. He’d given her an identity—Matt Widley’s wife. In the eyes of the world she was something solid, unchanging. No one was going to think about her even having a past. She was part of an institution here, minor one though he was. For a woman on the run, there could hardly be a greater gift.

  I was desperate to study all the pictures, experience what they were revealing.

  But I made myself move to the master bath. There I gave the medicine cabinet a quick check, then headed for the kitchen door. A stack of newspapers almost blocked it. San Francisco Chronicle, The New York Times, L.A. Times, Seattle Post-Intelligencer, The Washington Post, the Redding Record Searchlight, and one from Seward, Alaska. Quite an assortment. I plucked out the Alaskan one. It was small, with big ads. I scanned each page, but nothing stood out. Just another summer week in a one-industry town. Seward, a fishing hub. It had been at least six years since Sonora’d left Alaska, closer to twenty since she’d arrived there. Did she miss the mountains and the water, here in the desert? Or was Alison a different person? That was the question. It was a question that so totally grabbed me, I didn’t hear the car pull up.

  26

  THE BACK DOOR was feet away, but it was already too late.

  Munson was with Widley. They were shouting. They were drunk.

  If I could get through the hall, I might slip into the guest room and wait till they passed out.

  Or—I glanced at the coffee cup in the sink. I’d doubled an actress in a B-movie who’d picked up a cup like that and walked into the fray as if she’d been sitting calmly in the kitchen, waiting, drinking coffee. It had worked for her.

  Or I might—

  I strode into the living room. “Matt, your wife is dead!”

  “What’re you—”

  “Shut up, Munson!” I said. “Matt, did you hear me? Your wife—she’s dead!”