30
Mike’s property in Roswell was located in a neighborhood of modest Colonials and split-level homes on small lots, the street flanked with tall elms and oaks dripping with rain. At two-fifty in the morning, lights burned in only a couple of the residences, the glow of television sets flickering through the windows.
Anthony pulled into the asphalt driveway. Built perhaps twenty-some years ago, the house was a split-level in good condition, with white siding, dark shutters, and a detached two-bay garage. A row of holly ferns lined the front of the house, and a live oak anchored the trimmed yard.
He left the engine on and remained sitting behind the wheel, brow furrowed in thought. A classic Stevie Wonder song played at low volume on the satellite radio system: “Superstition.” Which summed up his state of mind. That night, he was believing in plenty of things he didn’t understand.
He’d received no revelations about the bishop’s photo, and had returned the book to the bag for later consideration. Driving, he’d been alert for a tail, and had detected none, either.
But he continued to feel on edge, as if the dark sky were slowly lowering to the earth like a hydraulic press, threatening to crush him beneath its weight. That sense of impending violence had once been routine to him, but years of sedentary civilian living had reduced his threshold for extreme stress. Until that day, about the most pressing decision he’d faced on a regular basis was where he and Lisa would go out for dinner.
He had to man up. Keep it together. Be the rock that Lisa considered him to be. Get to the truth behind his father’s death. This was it. No slacking off. No excuses.
Beside him, Lisa surfaced from a brief slumber, stretched, yawned.
“Is this the place?” she asked in a scratchy voice.
He nodded.
“Then let’s go in. What’re we waiting for?” She reached for the door handle.
He touched her arm. “Wait.”
“Why? Is something wrong?”
“I’ll be right back. Sit tight.”
Brandishing the Beretta, he let himself into the house. As Mike had promised, it was furnished—Spartan furniture much like that in Mike’s own home—and tidy. A flip of the light switch and a turn of the kitchen faucet confirmed that the utilities worked.
He swept around the first level. All clear. On the upper level, he checked to ensure that the three bedrooms were empty, and returned to the master bedroom.
One of the windows faced the street. He turned on the bedside lamp and moved it closer to the glass, which was veiled with plastic Venetian blinds.
Then he walked out of the house and locked the door behind him. He climbed inside the Jeep.
“All clear?” Lisa asked. “Can we go in now?”
“We’re not staying here.” He pointed to the bedroom window, where the lamp glowed warmly behind the blinds. “But I wanted it to look like we are.”
“You’re worried that those people might track us here?”
“Let’s not underestimate them. They might’ve determined that we were staying at Mike’s place in Duluth, pulled him up on their super database network or whatever they’re using, and got a listing of all his properties. It’s reasonable for them to assume that Mike might let us hide out at one of his rentals.”
“But he has something like ten places that he rents out. How would they figure out it’s this one?”
“Process of elimination.” He reversed out of the driveway. “We don’t know how many people they’ve got searching for us. They could have a team of a dozen operatives combing the city.”
“You think?” She gnawed her bottom lip.
“I happen to think we’re dealing mainly with the nutty guy and his female partner,” he said. “But if we’re going to stay ahead of them, we have to outfox them.”
“Where are we going to stay then? A hotel?”
“Right here.”
He swung into the driveway of a ranch with brick exterior and a “For Sale--Under Contract,” sign in the yard. It was across the street and a few doors down from Mike’s split-level. The place was dark, several plastic-wrapped newspapers were scattered across the sidewalk, and a lockbox was secured to the doorknob of the front door.
She was nodding. “Ah, Mike recently put a contract on this house. He mentioned something about getting a good deal on a place near the rental.”
“Since he hasn’t officially closed on it yet, this property shouldn’t show up in the cult’s super computer, either.”
“I also thought he said the owner’s already moved to Florida. It should be empty.”
“Compliment me on my brilliance later. Meantime, scoot behind the wheel and get ready to pull into the garage when I wave you in. I’m going to go around back and open the door.”
“You mean you’re going to break in.”
“That’s such a crude way to put it.”
He fished his flashlight out of his duffel and found a crowbar in the cargo area. Before heading to the back, he pulled the “For Sale” sign out of the grass. If neighbors happened to spy them inside the home and noted the sign in the yard, they might suspect a break-in and contact police.
He walked around the back of the house, feet swishing through the damp Bermuda grass. The houses on either side had tall wooden privacy fences around the perimeters of their yards, shielding him from prying eyes.
He panned the flashlight across the back of the house. Plastic lawn furniture on the concrete slab patio. Back door with a simple lockset, no deadbolt.
The crowbar was unnecessary. He used a video rental store card to disengage the lock, set the real estate sign against the doorframe, and entered into a kitchen.
The house was furnished with basic, economical pieces, was clean, and appeared to have been painted recently, in soft neutral colors. Evidently the owner had made an effort at staging the home to appeal to prospective buyers.
The utilities were still on, too.
He entered the attached garage. It was broom-clean, and empty. He hit the button to activate the garage door opener, and the sectional door slowly climbed.
Lisa nosed the SUV inside.
He pushed out a deep breath.
He dared to believe they were safe. For the time being.