11
Breaking in had been easy. Almost too easy. The place was wired with an alarm system, but Bolton hadn't activated it. Not only that, he'd left some windows open. Granted, they were on the top floor, but climbing atop a chair placed on the table on the deck outside the kitchen had put one of them within reach.
The only rough spot had come when Jack popped the screen and began to crawl in. The chair had toppled off the table as he'd levered himself up, creating a monster racket. He'd waited inside the window to see if any of the neighbors reacted. None had.
He couldn't go out the way he'd come in, but no biggie. He'd let himself out through a door. He replaced the screen and went to work.
With three floors to check, and a limited time to search, he had to make every minute count. The ground-floor garage was probably not the place to store anything personal; same for the kitchen and family room on the middle floor. Best to start with the three bedrooms up here.
The biggest bedroom was the only one with a bed—an unmade king—and so that was where he started. Holding a penlight in his mouth, he checked all the drawers, then pulled out the bottom drawers and checked in the space beneath. Next came the two closets—the one on the left held male clothing, the one on the right, male and female. He checked them high and low, going so far as to pat down the men's clothing.
So far, no good.
He moved to the other rooms. One was dedicated to video games. The furnishings consisted of a lounge chair, an LCD TV on a stand, a Wü, an Xbox, a PlayStation, and a GameCube, plus stacks of video games. The one closet was empty.
The bathroom was a melange of male and female toiletries.
The third bedroom at the front of the house looked like a storage locker. Bolton hadn't bothered to throw away any of his appliance boxes. Why not? Saving them for a move someplace else? Levy might find that interesting.
Using quick flicks of his penlight, Jack checked through the boxes. Most were empty, and the ones that weren't contained nothing but stray wires and Styrofoam packing. He moved to the closet and found it empty except for a backpack and a cheap tin lockbox stowed in the far right corner of the shelf. The backpack was empty so he moved to the box. The tip of the blade on his Spyderco made short work of the crude lock. He popped the top and looked inside. There he found an old composition notebook with the traditional black-and-white marbled cover and nothing else.
The first entry was about ten years old. He flipped to the last and found it dated just yesterday.
Just a single line: The bird is in the hand.
Something ominous about the vaguely smug satisfaction implicit in that simple sentence. Yesterday was when Dawn had moved in. Was she the "bird" in question?
Jack needed to read this. He'd have loved to take it home to pore over, but Bolton would know he'd been invaded when he found it missing. Or worse, he'd blame Dawn, and might get violent. Had to read it here.
He shut himself in the closet to hide his light from the street and began paging backward. Most of the more recent entries concerned his relationship with Dawn—pursuing her and winning her—but then they got strange. He came upon an entry where Bolton told of his plan to become a regular at the Tower Diner with the express purpose of meeting her.
How had he known?
Jack had an uneasy feeling as he paged back through his entries about the clinical trial and creating his new identity. Then Jack came to a page that stopped him cold. Nothing but the word "Dawn" written a hundred or more times, filling the page from edge to edge, top to bottom. It wasn't dated, but the neighboring entry was six months ago.
Jack stared at the page. Was that why he'd relocated in Rego Park? Just to hook up with Dawn Pickering?
It didn't make sense. How could he have known about her?
Jack found the answer on the preceding page:
Hank found her? Hank Thompson?
Had he hunted her up as a favor to his brother, or was he interested in her too?
Jack shook his head to clear it. This was like peeling the proverbial onion. Every time—
He froze at the sound of a door slam. He pushed open the closet door and heard pounding footsteps on the foyer stairs. They sounded too heavy for Dawn. Could only be Bolton.
Shit! Now what?
Jack slipped the notebook back into the lockbox and returned it to its place on the shelf, then stepped out to the window. The Miata in the driveway hadn't been there when he'd driven past before.
He sidled to the hallway door. From somewhere below came the sound of retching followed by the splatter of liquid hitting liquid.
Whoever had rushed in was making Jackson Pollock art in the main-floor toilet. Jack needed a way out. Couldn't use the route he'd entered, so he'd have to improvise. Maybe the vomiting would provide cover enough to slip past and let himself out onto the deck.
Moving in time to the retching and groaning, and pausing between, he reached the main floor. To his left the steps down to the front door beckoned. Immediately to his right lay a closet door, then a long console table, then the bathroom. Beyond that, the family room/kitchen area and the sliding doors to the deck.
Trouble was, the bathroom door was open. He didn't think it possible to vomit with your eyes open, so if he timed it just right, he might be able to flash past in mid-retch without being seen.
He was inching toward the door, waiting to make his move, when he heard the toilet flush. Bad news. He yanked open the closet door, ducked inside, and closed it after him—but left an inch-wide gap. Peering through it he saw Bolton lurch out of the bathroom and stagger away toward the family room. Now, if he'd only veer off to the kitchen for some water…
But no, he plopped himself in a chair in direct line of sight through the foyer. No way Jack could slip out unseen.
He weighed his options. He could wait and hope Bolton fell asleep. Or until Dawn came back and they went up to bed—and hope that no one opened the closet door along the way.
Another solution slithered to the fore.
He reached back and touched the grip of his Glock. He could step out of the closet, walk over to him, and tap a couple of nines into his brain.
Why not? Be doing the world a favor. The guy was a loaded gun ready to go off.
But Jack wasn't into doing the world favors.
Certainly would solve Christy's problem, though.
Of course, she'd be the prime suspect. If she didn't have an alibi—if she was home from rehearsal, sitting alone, waiting for her Dawnie to call—she'd be in big trouble.
Even though she'd eventually be cleared, he couldn't put her through that.
And after she was no longer a suspect, the agency behind Creighton might come looking for him. He hadn't been careful here. It had started out as a simple B and E with no one to be the wiser. A murder scene was a whole different animal. Who knew what kind of trace evidence he'd left?
He removed his hand from the Glock and rubbed his face. He used to have patience for this kind of waiting. Lately, though, his patience had gone south. He wanted out of here. And soon.
Had to be a way.
Jack tried a long-distance Vulcan mind meld to make Bolton move his ass toward the kitchen, but it didn't work.
He glanced down at the console table just outside the closet door, bare except for Bolton's keys. Must have tossed them on his way to the bathroom. No help there. Jack wanted out, not in.
Then he spotted the red button on the car remote. The panic button. Might be worth a try.
He dropped to one knee. Then, moving as slowly as possible, he widened the door gap a centimeter at a time until he could slip his hand through. Stay-ing low, he stretched to the table, then to the keys. He pulled them a tad closer. When the remote was in reach, he pressed the panic button.
Outside, Bolton's car alarm started honking and wailing.
He ducked back as Bolton pushed himself out of his seat and stagger-stumbled into the foyer.
"Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch! I'll kill the motherfucker!"
Down the stairs, out the front door, and into the night.
Jack got moving as soon as Bolton was out of sight. Staying in a crouch he ran to the sliding glass door, let himself out onto the deck, and closed it behind him. He righted the fallen chair, slid the table back to where it belonged, then jumped to the ground.
A minute later he was on the far side of the fence and cutting through the woods toward his car.
But the question pursued him: What was so special about Dawn Pickering? Bolton's "Daddy," Jonah Stevens, the wellspring of his son's abnormal DNA, had promised his son something.
What?