With hands that were suddenly shaky on the wheel, Mitch piloted the truck into the street once more.
Coming north, he had been impatient to be rid of Iggy and to get home. Now his stomach turned when he considered what might wait for him there.
What he most feared was finding blood.
Mitch drove with the truck windows open, wanting the sounds of the streets, proof of life.
The Cadillac SUV did not reappear. No other vehicle took up the pursuit. Evidently, he had imagined the tail.
His sense of being under surveillance passed. From time to time, his eyes were drawn to the rearview mirror, but no longer with the expectation of seeing anything suspicious.
He felt alone, and worse than alone. Isolated. He almost wished that the black SUV would reappear.
Their house was in an older neighborhood of Orange, one of the oldest cities in the county. When he turned onto their street, except for the vintage of the cars and trucks, a curtain in time might have parted, welcoming him to 1945.
The bungalow—pale-yellow clapboard, white trim, a cedar-shingle roof—stood behind a picket fence on which roses twined. Some larger and some nicer houses occupied the block, but none boasted better landscaping.
He parked in the driveway beside the house, under a massive old California pepper tree, and stepped out into a breathless afternoon.
Sidewalks and yards were deserted. In this neighborhood, most families relied on two incomes; everyone was at work. At 3:04, no latchkey kids were yet home from school.
No maids, no window washers, no gardening services busy with leaf blowers. These homeowners swept their own carpets, mowed their own yards.
The pepper tree braided the sunshine in its cascading tresses, and littered the shadowed pavement with elliptical slivers of light.
Mitch opened a side gate in the picket fence. He crossed the lawn to the front steps.
The porch was deep and cool. White wicker chairs with green cushions stood beside small wicker tables with glass tops.
On Sunday afternoons, he and Holly often sat here, talking, reading the newspaper, watching hummingbirds flit from one crimson bloom to another on the trumpet vines that flourished on the porch posts.
Sometimes they unfolded a card table between the wicker chairs. She crushed him at Scrabble. He dominated the trivia games.
They didn’t spend much on entertainment. No skiing vacations, no weekends in Baja. They seldom went out to a movie. Being together on the front porch offered as much pleasure as being together in Paris.
They were saving money for things that mattered. To allow her to risk a career change from secretary to real-estate agent. To enable him to do some advertising, buy a second truck, and expand the business.
Kids, too. They were going to have kids. Two or three. On certain holidays, when they were most sentimental, even four did not seem like too many.
They didn’t want the world, and didn’t want to change it. They wanted their little corner of the world, and the chance to fill it with family and laughter.
He tried the front door. Unlocked. He pushed it inward and hesitated on the threshold.
He glanced back at the street, half expecting to see the black SUV. It wasn’t there.
After he stepped inside, he stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust. The living room was illuminated only by what tree-filtered sunlight pierced the windows.
Everything appeared to be in order. He could not detect any signs of struggle.
Mitch closed the door behind him. For a moment he needed to lean against it.
If Holly had been at home, there would have been music. She liked big-band stuff. Miller, Goodman, Ellington, Shaw. She said the music of the ’40s was suitable to the house. It suited her, too. Classic.
An archway connected the living room to the small dining room. Nothing in this second room was out of place.
On the table lay a large dead moth. It was a night-flyer, gray with black details along its scalloped wings.
The moth must have gotten in the previous evening. They had spent some time on the porch, and the door had been open.
Maybe it was alive, sleeping. If he cupped it in his hands and took it outside, it might fly into a corner of the porch ceiling and wait there for moonrise.
He hesitated, reluctant to touch the moth, for fear that no flutter was left in it. At his touch, it might dissolve into a greasy kind of dust, which moths sometimes did.
Mitch left the night-flyer untouched because he wanted to believe that it was alive.
The connecting door between the dining room and the kitchen stood ajar. Light glowed beyond.
The smell of burnt toast lingered on the air. It grew stronger when he pushed through the door into the kitchen.
Here he found signs of a struggle. One of the dinette chairs had been overturned. Broken dishes littered the floor.
Two slices of blackened bread stood in the toaster. Someone had pulled the plug. The butter had been left out on the counter, and had softened as the day grew warmer.
The intruders must have come in from the front of the house, surprising her as she was making toast.
The cabinets were painted glossy white. Blood spattered a door and two drawer fronts.
For a moment, Mitch closed his eyes. In his mind, he saw the moth flutter and fly up from the table. Something fluttered in his chest, too, and he wanted to believe that it was hope.
On the white refrigerator, a woman’s bloody hand print cried havoc as loud as any voice could have shouted. Another full hand print and a smeared partial darkened two upper cabinets.
Blood spotted the terra-cotta tiles on the floor. It seemed to be a lot of blood. It seemed to be an ocean.
The scene so terrified Mitch that he wanted to shut his eyes again. But he had the crazy idea that if he closed his eyes twice to this grim reality, he would go blind forever.
The phone rang.
He did not have to tread in blood to reach the telephone. He picked up the handset on the third ring, and heard his haunted voice say, “Yeah?”
“It’s me, baby. They’re listening.”
“Holly. What’ve they done to you?”
“I’m all right,” she said, and she sounded strong, but she did not sound all right.
“I’m in the kitchen,” he said.
“I know.”
“The blood—”
“I know. Don’t think about that now. Mitch, they said we have one minute to talk, just one minute.”
He grasped her implication: One minute, and maybe never again.
His legs would not support him. Turning a chair away from the dinette table, collapsing into it, he said, “I’m so damn sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. Don’t beat yourself up.”
“Who are these freaks, are they deranged, what?”
“They’re vicious creeps, but they’re not crazy. They seem… professional. I don’t know. But I want you to make me a promise—”
“I’m