From a Dead Sleep (24 page)

As long as he stayed a distance from the road, he was sure he wouldn’t be noticed as he made his way up the hill toward where the homes presumably resided. The trees and brush were dense— easy enough to duck behind if needed. His clothes were dark, which was helpful. Keeping an eye on the road, he began tromping his way up the hill, weaving in and out of trees and putting a little distance between himself and the brick wall that also flowed upward, increasingly away from the road. Before long, he noticed a row of black mailboxes resting on individual posts along Bluff Walk. There looked to be nearly twenty of them. One for each house, he assumed.

There was a lot of movement in the forest. Branches and leaves shifted from small birds darting in and out of treetops. Squirrels, with fur a little darker in color than the ones Sean was used to, scampered through limbs, over rocks, and along the ground. A light breeze made the walk comfortable. Had it not been for the reason that brought him to where he was now, it would have felt like he was on a restful vacation.

Through a small clearing in the trees about sixty yards in front of him, he spotted the side of a brick building. Breathing heavily, he picked up the pace, keeping an eye on the road for traffic. A curved, cobblestone driveway with a carefully trimmed two-foot-high hedge led up to the building from the road. His shoulders sank lower as he approached the raised edge of the driveway.

An abrupt, sharp cry of metal rubbing on metal ripped through the tranquil setting, sending him down to his hands and knees. He scrambled quickly along the ground, positioning himself for cover between the hedges and thick shrub. Forcing open a small crevice in the hedges with his hand, he now had a full view of the building: a two-story, stately house with a mostly brick exterior, light-red in color. Glaring white wood trim and large latticed windows hung proudly along the front of the home. An arched entrance that hugged and partially concealed the front door stood about ten feet tall under the sharply angled roof. It seemed higher from Sean’s low vantage point. The front lawn was small, but trim; the grass less green than the forest that circled it. Colorful flowers stemmed from broad ceramic pots along the porch.

The two-door garage was open and the light from the ceiling above suggested that the noise he had heard came from the garage door. Brake lights from a cherry-red car inside flashed on. He watched as the driver backed his Lexus convertible onto the driveway, coming to a stop only a few feet from where he knelt. Sean could only see the back of the man’s head—salt and pepper hair under what Sean had occasionally described to others as a rich asshole hat, more commonly known as a driving cap.

The screeching noise returned as the garage door lowered, and he tasted exhaust as the car briskly disappeared down the cobblestone driveway. No other cars were parked in the garage.
Probably no one
else home
, he decided.

He stayed put for about a minute, looking for any movement through the windows of the house, before checking behind him through the forest. Staying behind the hedge, he circled around toward the entrance. Underneath a large copper wall lantern, to the side of the front door, hung the number 103. He was looking for 114. An annoyed grunt left his mouth at the thought of how long it would take him to find the right house, meandering through the forest on foot in such a broad area.

“Are you here to fix the sprinkler?” a voice spoke from behind him.

Sean spun around. His eyes bulged and his stomach clenched. Before him stood two boys, probably twelve or thirteen in age. Both were dressed in t-shirts, shorts, and flip-flops. One was thin with red hair, bangs dangling down to his eyebrows. The other had shorter brown hair and was quite a bit heavier.

Sean answered quickly, “Yes.”

It was a tactic he had learned years ago from an episode of
Simon
& Simon
. When confronted in a precarious situation, simply answer yes to the first question you’re probed with. It immediately reduced suspicion and provided an angle to exploit. The same tactic had served him well two days earlier with Bailey and the night-vision goggles.

He inflated his chest, attempting to compose himself. Though the boys had been standing behind him, he was certain they hadn’t seen the gun in the back of his pants. His sweatshirt hung too low, and there was no fear in their eyes.

The redhead grinned through his freckled face and spoke: “My dad thought you were coming this afternoon. He just left.”

“Shoot,” Sean answered, placing his hands on his hips. “I’ll just come back later.”

“Oh no. You don’t have to do that. I can show you where it is.”

Sean bit his lip and nodded. After a moment, he answered. “Okay, you show me.”

He followed the boys toward the back side of the house, tracing their footsteps around a small flower garden in the side yard. The backyard wasn’t much bigger than the front. It was spread out about thirty feet before edging up to a retaining wall that looked out over a small ravine in the forest. The vast majority of the property was taken up by the house.

The boys led him to a rectangular, light green fiberglass cover imbedded in some dirt at the corner of the yard.

“There you go!” said the redhead, pointing to the ground.

“Thanks, guys,” Sean replied with his hands on his hips again, his eyes aimed down.

Both boys stood there, looking at him. They weren’t leaving.

“Did you guys need something?” he asked, not looking up.

“Can we watch?”

It was what Sean was afraid of. He took a breath and lowered himself down to his knees. “Sure.”

He lifted the cover and saw an intersection of multiple valves and piping between the partially submerged encasing. He placed his hand to his chin. He had never worked on a sprinkling system in his life and he knew nothing about plumbing.

Feeling the boys’ eyes peering down on him from above, he leaned forward and began turning one of the valve handles, first to the right and then to the left. He then moved onto the next.

For the first time, the brown-haired boy spoke. “How did you get in here, mister?”

“What do you mean?” Sean asked, continuing to work the valves.

“If Tommy’s dad didn’t think you were coming until later, who let you in through the gate?”

Sean’s face turned pale, but he kept his hands busy, now massaging the piping and pretending to look for flaws. “The guard.”

Both boys chuckled.

“I know,” the larger boy pressed. “I mean . . . Who told the guard to let you in?”

Your mom
, Sean fought back the urge to respond, but he understood how important it was to keep the charade going. He’d driven halfway across the country to find out what was at 114 Bluff Walk Road and he wasn’t about to screw it up by arousing suspicions that he shouldn’t be on the north side of that gate.

He took a moment to find an answer to the boy’s question. One soon came to him. “I did some work at another home in here this morning. You guys are my second stop of the day. They let me in.”

“. . . Oh,” replied the redhead.

“What’s wrong with your head, mister?” Sean heard the brunette ask.

“What do you mean?”

Sean knew what he meant. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the redhead jabbing his rude friend in the side with his elbow.

“It looks like a spider or something bit the back of your head. Is that a bite mark?”

“Nope.” Sean felt as though he was being talked down to and it was pissing him off. He bit his lip and clenched onto his composure. Regardless of which valve he turned, there was no sound or tremble of water pressure. His assumption was that if someone had been called to fix a problem with the system, there was a leak somewhere in the line. That didn’t appear to be the case. The only pipes close to eruption were the ones forming on his forehead as he became increasingly frustrated with the situation and the inquisitiveness of the fat kid.

“Where are your tools, mister?”

Sean snapped his back upright. The sudden jolt of movement caused both boys to leap backwards in surprise. His head spun and his narrowed, agitated eyes met those of the interrogator. Both kids’ faces deflated with angst. Sean imagined hammering a fist right into the fat boy’s chest, sending him toppling ten feet backwards and onto his back.

Seconds of fierce tension dragged by. No one moved.

Sean’s hands felt around to the side belt loops of his pants. He accentuated the action to get the boys’ attention.

“You’re right,” he muttered. “I don’t have my tools. I must have left them at the last house.”

As he stood up, both boys cautiously took a few steps back.

“I’m going to need to go get them and come back,” he added.

He sensed the boys breathing again and forced a smile across his rigid chops. An idea had come to mind. “You know, I’ve got a third house to do after this.” He wiped his brow with his arm. “One-Fourteen Bluff Walk Road. You guys know which one that is?”

The boys looked at each other.

“Well . . .” the redhead began. “We don’t really know many people in here. Most of us just live here in the summer. But the numbers get higher as you get higher up the road. The last one is one-fifteen, so it’s probably near the top.”

Sean smiled and thanked the two boys, promising to return later. He sensed some remaining discomfort from them, but not enough for him to worry about them calling security. As he walked down the cobblestone driveway toward the road, he was sure he heard the redhead say to his friend, “I thought he was going to kick your ass.”

He turned back and waved to the two of them still standing in the backyard. Only the redhead waved back. Once Sean had crossed a knoll and was out of sight of the two, he hustled off the driveway and back into the heart of the forest, following the path of the road from a distance.

Chapter 26

H
e’d have rather been in South Padre along with his buddy who’d flown out two days ago. He’d never been there, and MTV’s spring break coverage from a few months ago made it look too good to pass up. Chicks in bikinis, ninety-degree weather, swim-up bars, and loud music. What fun his friend from the university must be having right now.
Oh, to have rich parents
, he thought to himself.

Instead of the arid sun sautéing his sprawled-out body and the indiscriminate spray from the ocean occupying his raw senses, he found himself crumpled up in a fetal position. He hoped it would counter the biting morning frost that neither his dome tent nor his mummy sleeping bag seemed to give him any protection from. About five miles from his hometown, he supposed it could have been worse. At least he had another couple of months before it was back to the stress of exams and projects.

He’d hoped he’d be able to fall back asleep, but the deceiving sunlight and the abhorrent snoring coming from the tent next to his rattled him awake. There wasn’t going to be any refuge that morning until he got a fire started. It was the argument that eventually won the debate he’d carried out in his own mind. He summoned the nerve to unzip his bag and quickly crawled over to his hiking boots that lay in a clump near the tent’s nylon door. Somehow, he managed to keep his gnashed teeth from rattling as he absorbed the full brunt of the thin, crisp mountain air that heckled his clumsy attempts to pry the tongue of one of his boots from its wedged position above the bridge of his foot as he pulled on the footwear. The more practical answer would have been to remove the boot that he’d never untied in the first place and start over. It was his frigid toes that poured out through the holes in his well-worn sock, however, that won the appeal.

Clad in an asparagus-colored canvas jacket with a plush, gray collar that he had buttoned up to his chin, the nineteen-year-old exited the tent, and in his haste to keep moving, didn’t bother to zip the hatch back up behind him. His dark, muddled hair from the restless night would have made him a natural fit in a Seattle grunge band, but his personal appearance was the furthest thing from his mind at that moment.

The surrounding area was lit up pretty well, despite the sun having not yet topped the mountain range that stood proudly above Beggar’s Basin.

Beggar’s Basin was a popular recreational area with the locals, mostly for picnics, fishing, and some canoeing. A couple outlets off the Blue River, a tributary of the Colorado River, rejoined there in a partially manmade reservoir before winding back to the Colorado several miles downstream. The reservoir resided about four miles south of Winston.

Just a few days ago, the area had been overflowing with activity. An annual fishing contest produced a record number of participants. Raised rods and tackle-laced hats decorated every nook and cranny along the shore. But this morning, the boys had the entire valley to themselves. Three campers, two tents, and unbridled nature.

He hustled over to the stone fire pit where his comrades had spent half the night dousing thick, flaming logs with gratuitous portions of apparently dispensable lighter fluid. Now, there was nothing but piles of gray and black ash and the sparse remnants of burnt timber. In a fluster, he searched for the large box of matches that he distinctly remembered leaving on top of his red and white cooler before turning in for the night. It was nowhere to be found.
What have those idiots done with it?
He soon answered his own question when he spotted the charred corner of the cardboard box resting along a large round stone on the inside perimeter of the pit. They’d torched it.

He knew he was the only one of them who’d had the foresight to bring something with which to light the fire. He’d chastised his buddies about it when they’d first arrived the previous evening.

Dueling chipmunks taunted each other from opposite ends of the campsite, chirping loudly before one took off after the other and they disappeared behind a group of small boulders.

He glared in agitation at the classic A-frame tent that stood beside his own, where one buddy was still snoring loudly and the other was seemingly unaffected by the clamor. Both had been sucking on the ends of two-liters of Purple Passion the last time he’d seen them. It must have been the recipe for a solid night’s sleep, even in an ice cooler. He contemplated just crawling into the front seat of his parked Mustang and letting the car’s heater warm his body, but a warm engine wasn’t going to cook him the crispy strips of bacon and scrambled eggs he’d been craving for breakfast since about 2:30 a.m.