Deceit: A Novel Part 4

A fierce gale spit raindrops through its teeth. They hit the window like sh.e.l.ls breaking.

Chicago sang "Chasin' the Wind" as I typed the Social Security number of 01/27/1988 into Skiptrace One's search by SSN page. Three addresses popped up. The most recent was in San Jose, but the report date read 11/09/2006. Over three years old.

Melissa, is this you?

The lack of a fresh address on a skip can mean two things. One, the person has ruined her credit and just isn't using it, waiting out the seven-year period until delinquent accounts fall off the report. In that case Melissa could have moved in with a boyfriend and her current address wouldn't show up on the credit header. Two, the skip does live at the most recently listed address and simply hasn't applied for any new credit in the past few years.

Or this most recent listed address could be plain inaccurate. Wrong addresses end up on credit headers more often than you'd think. Maybe Melissa intentionally gave a false address to a creditor. Maybe she bought a used car and the salesman made a mistake in writing down her address. Or a data entry error could have been made at some credit bureau.

I noted the three addresses in my HM file.

Backing up, I sent the Social Security number of 09/13/1987 through Skiptrace One's search by SSN page. Four addresses appeared on my screen, the most recent dated just six months ago in Gilroy, "Garlic Capitol of the World." Gilroy was only about fifteen minutes away, up Route 101.

Would Melissa stay that close to Vonita? She'd been a runaway from the social services system. To my knowledge she had no relatives in the area to whom she could run. You'd think she'd leave the area to make a new life. Maybe even the state.

But people can surprise you.

I now had a Melissa Harkoff in San Jose and one in Gilroy. Time for a Google search. If I got real lucky I'd find a picture, perhaps attached to a wedding announcement or business or church. I'd also check social sites like Mys.p.a.ce and Facebook.

The wind groaned like a wounded beast. Rain smashed against my house.

Just a winter storm. Nothing to fear. But my nerves zinged.

I turned up the volume on Aerosmith's "Dream On," shoved two Sizzling Cinnamon Jelly Bellies into my mouth.

At Google I typed in "Melissa Harkoff" + Gilroy. Hit enter- The electricity smacked off, and my world plunged into darkness.

Somewhere in the distance a door slammed.

NINE.

For a long piercing second I froze in the darkness, my fingers clawed above the keyboard.

The garage. That muted slam had come from the garage-the door leading to the backyard.

I pushed back my chair, heart in my throat. My mind spun through a terrifying scenario. Hooded Man was in my house.

Where was my cell phone?

My landlines wouldn't work because they were on plug-in phone systems. My cell phone was...in my purse. On the kitchen table. Near the door an intruder would sneak through from the garage.

Rain and wind lashed the house. Their noise was loud enough to mask cautious footsteps, the easing open of a door. Even so, I c.o.c.ked my head toward the kitchen and listened for a swish of clothes, a whisper of breath.

Nothing.

I stood up, eyes straining to see. Stillton is a rural road, no streetlights. When electricity goes at night, the house caves in on itself, hording the blackness. Usually the moon can lighten my way, the pinp.r.i.c.ked stars. But they'd fled the broken sky long ago.

In the kitchen in a drawer lay Tom's powerful flashlight-the kind he'd carry when we went camping. And candles and matches.

Had someone cut my electricity? Or had the wind knocked a tree into a power line?

Breath on hold, socked feet moving like an inward sigh, I crept from my desk and to the hall. At the threshold I placed a palm against the doorjamb and leaned my head forward, tilted toward the kitchen. In my mind I saw Hooded Man's waxen cheek, the jagged blood. Heard his raw-toned voice. "Baxter Jackson will kill you if he finds out."

The darkness was too thick to make out any movement.

I eased into the hallway, one hand trailing along the wall. My muscles balled up, ready to spring my body away, fight back. My ripping heart pulsed at odd points in my body. An ankle, the back of one knee, my left shoulder-as if my ribcage couldn't contain it. I could taste my terror, a bitter sludge at the top of my throat.

I'd checked every door when I got home. Dripping wet and chilled to the marrow, I'd checked. Windows too.

One foot lifted, I then stepped toward the kitchen. I managed a second step.

Was Hooded Man there, smugly watching the hulk of my shape walk right into his grasp?

I pushed myself forward, chanting a mantra that I was being foolish. A power line was down, and wind had slammed my back door.

My locked back door.

A vision of myself flashed into my head-getting out of the car earlier that evening, carrying my purse. I'd headed straight for the entrance to the kitchen. Hovered my hand at the k.n.o.b, too afraid to turn it.

I hadn't checked that rear garage door. Of all stupid things. I hadn't even thought of it.

Maybe I'd left it slightly ajar. The wind hadn't been howling when I arrived home. When it rushed from its lair in anger, it had seized the door, swung it open, then slammed it shut.

The kitchen was five steps away. My legs shook, both lungs burning for air. I arched my shoulders back, giving myself breathing room. The wind bulleted rain against the kitchen windows and sliding door. Almost as if it were following me. Minutes before it had been attacking the front of the house.

I reached the threshold of the kitchen. My right hand trailed high on the wall-across Billy Ba.s.s.

I squinted into the maw of the kitchen. The flashlight drawer was straight across the room on my left. Heat singed my nerves. Every second was agony. I couldn't stand to inch across the floor, waiting for arms to grab me.

My toes. .h.i.t linoleum. A firework burst in my chest, and I stumbled as fast as I could toward the drawer, left hand skidding across cabinets.

A handle b.u.mped my fingers.

I whirled left, yanking at the top drawer, no longer caring how much sound I made. The contents rattled and rolled. If Hooded Man had come, he knew where I stood. He was toying with me. If he came at me I'd rip off that mask, s.h.i.+ne the flashlight into his face.

My hands scrabbled in the drawer, seeking the chunky feel of cool metal. I found it, and a small cry escaped my throat. I jerked out the flashlight, pushed the on b.u.t.ton. A large, beautiful beam rent the blackness.

I turned, swinging the beam around the kitchen. It lit up the refrigerator, the sink, cabinets, the table, my purse. No Hooded Man. No Baxter. I yanked it toward the base of the door leading into the garage, checking the floor for footprints and water.

Clean.

I lurched toward my purse, pulled out my cell phone. It was still on. My hand clutched it, thumb arching in to hit 2, the speed dial number for Dineen. Not until the phone began to ring did I realize she was probably asleep. Dineen always went to bed early.

The phone rang twice. Three times.

"Joanne?" My sister's voice sounded thick.

"Is your electricity off?"

She hesitated, as if her mind couldn't catch this sudden conversation. "No. Is yours?"

"How do you know? Aren't your lights all turned off?"

"My phone's working."

Oh. Stupid me.

She made a sound in her throat. "Besides, I see streetlights."

"Mine's off."

"Oh. Probably the wind."

"What if it's not? What if somebody's here?"

Sheets rustled over the line. I could visualize her bed, her room. So close-sounding over the telephone, yet so very far away. I wanted to crawl through the wire, come out in her house. I wanted to hide there from Vonita, the world. I hadn't meant for the whole town to hear my accusations against Chief Eddington. And as much as I wanted Baxter Jackson caught, I hadn't asked for a scarifying Hooded Man to leap in front of my car. I just wanted it all to go away.

But something told me it had barely started.

"Why would somebody be in your house, Joanne?"

"I don't...the door slammed. In the garage. I thought it was locked."

"Have you checked out there?"

"No, I just now grabbed a flashlight."

"Well, go. I'll hang on the line."

I know what she thought. It's the wind. Just like she thought Baxter could be innocent. My generous sister-never wanting to believe the worst.

"Okay." I set the phone down on the table, aimed the beam toward the garage, and opened the door. Light split across to the far wall and its window. I moved the flashlight around. Saw no one.

With one foot I forced down the door stop. Stretched to the table to pick up my phone. "Okay. I'm going into the garage." I stepped over the threshold. The air chilled considerably. Heat didn't run out there. The walls seemed so thin, as if they were mere cardboard against the storm.

I aimed the flashlight at my car. No one there. I searched the achingly empty other side, where Tom's car used to sit. Ran the beam over the furnace and water heater, the garbage cans. No Hooded Man. No Baxter. Just suspicious-minded me, unable to imagine the length of this night.

"Joanne?"

"The garage looks fine. Checking the door."

I edged over to it, shone the beam on its k.n.o.b. Unlocked. I checked the bolt. Also unlocked.

I had not left the door that way. I hadn't. It had been pouring when I left the house for Dineen's. Why would I go outside?

"Is it open?" Dineen asked.

"Unlocked, if that's what you mean. Both the k.n.o.b and the bolt."

"See? The wind probably just slammed it."

Of course. No doubt.

I clicked both locks into place.

"You want to spend the night here, Joanne? It might take the power company awhile to fix broken lines in this storm. Maybe a whole grid's out."

What I wanted was to know if my house was the only one without electricity.

"Maybe. I'll call you back."

"Well, do it soon, okay? I'm ready to go to sleep."

How easy for her.

My mouth opened to spill the whole story. Hooded Man on the road, his stunning words about Baxter. I was Dineen's older, always-stable sister, for heaven's sake. Didn't it occur to her I might have a reason to be paranoid?

The words stuck in my throat.

"Sure. Thanks."

I clicked off the phone, s.h.i.+vering. Too cold out here. Too close to the rain. I turned to head back into the kitchen, call 411 for the power company's number. The flashlight beam raked over the width of the garage, bouncing against the double doors on the other side, hitting my car. The concrete floor nearby glistened beneath the light.

My hand halted. I aimed the beam downward.

Water droplets lit up like tiny stars.

I stared, moving the flashlight toward the front of the car...to the back. Water lined the floor. I jerked the ray down farther, tracing the concrete from the car to where I stood. More dribbled water. I jumped aside, checked by the door. Wet.

That last part was to be expected. If the door had blown open, rain surely whooshed in. But the trail leading across the garage...

I eased toward the door to the kitchen, heart thudding. Followed the telltale path with the light once more, from rear door to car. That dripped water couldn't have come from me when I arrived home. The trail I'd left then, not yet dried, went from my car to the kitchen door. I hadn't gone anywhere near the backyard door.

Someone had been here. Had come through that rear door. Which I'd left locked.

What did he want in my car? Did he think I'd leave my purse in there?

Maybe I'd surprised him when I came into the garage. That was it. He'd run behind the SUV to hide.

Which meant he was crouching there right now.