Into the Dark

15

Santa Clarita, California

The address was in a residential section of the city that sat in a valley bordered by low, dry hills just north of San Fernando.

The area was once an expanse of rural emptiness, home to tranquil ranches and farms before it had surrendered to suburban sprawl-vast coral-stucco neighborhoods of schools, parks, big box stores and shopping centers.

Robert Bowen needed to see the home, a compulsion that had reached out from a dream. Have I not been here before? He was uncertain what he was searching for, only that he would know when he found it, he thought as he drove north from Van Nuys.

Earlier that morning, Allen Pace, who had been the team physician for the Dodgers before becoming ExecuGlide’s corporate doctor, gave him a going-over. Blood pressure, heart, breathing, eyes, reflexes, the usual.

“All your vitals are fine. You’re good to take your next trip, Bob. I’ll fill out the form. Everything’s normal.”

If you only knew, Bowen gazed at the driveways rolling by as he counted down house numbers, if you only knew.

Last night, when Bowen couldn’t sleep, he was suddenly battling the urge to talk to Cynthia as he contended with another “episode.” Then other torments emerged and he’d found himself online looking for this specific address. When he got it he was surprised and pleased to learn that it was for sale. It gave him the cover he needed to see it.

To get even closer.

And there it is.

He parked across the street, glanced at the for-sale sign. The ranch-style house was sky-blue stucco with wood trim. It had a curved driveway, sweeping front lawn and tidy landscaping. The clank of tools floated from the side yard.

Bowen got out and walked along the lush lawn toward the sound of hammering. A man, crouched near a garden bed, had just driven a nail into a piece of loosened trim. When Bowen’s shadow fell over him, he looked up, hammer in hand.

“Can I help you?” the man asked.

“Hi, I saw the sign. Is the house still for sale?”

“It is.”

“Are you the owner?”

“I am.”

“I’m interested in it. Would it be possible to have a quick tour? My wife and I are looking for a house in Santa Clarita.”

The man stood. He was in his late fifties and wore jeans and a flannel shirt over a faded T-shirt. His brush cut gave him the air of a retired soldier. His black eyes gleamed as they assessed Bowen.

“The agent handles that, everything’s supposed to go through her.”

“Well, I was in the neighborhood looking at another property,” Bowen said. “I’m not sure how long it will be before I’m back this way.”

The man twirled the hammer in his big, tanned hand as he thought.

“All right, seeing that you’re here, I suppose I could show you around.”

They entered the house through the front door. The living room was spacious with hardwood floors and a brick fireplace.

“You can burn gas or wood.” The man passed Bowen a listing sheet from the coffee table, after he’d set his hammer down. “I’m asking four-seventy-five. Taxes are just under five a year. It’s a three-bedroom. It’s all there on the page. Don’t worry about your shoes. We’ll go this way.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name?” Bowen asked.

“Meadows, Louis Meadows.”

“And what’s your line of work, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I retired from the navy. I was a cook on the Abraham Lincoln.”

Although the place was pleasant, there was an underlying sadness and a trace of Old Spice. The house had an eat-in kitchen, ample tiled counter space, a dishwasher, a double sink with a sprayer and garbage disposal.

“The kitchen’s new.”

Bowen nodded approvingly, glanced around with an ear cocked for anyone else in the house.

“My wife had it redone last year just before she passed away.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. My condolences.”

“It was cancer. She never got to enjoy the renovation.”

The dining room had a dark wood table and matching china hutch. Bowen wondered about the last time it was used. The bathroom was tidy. The master bedroom was neat. On the night table he saw a copy of From Here to Eternity and an old edition of Jane’s Fighting Ships. He also saw framed photos of two women. One of them was in her fifties. The other resembled her and was in her early twenties.

They moved to a second smaller bedroom with a desk and two-drawer steel file cabinet. A U.S. flag and map, with colored pushpins piercing various countries, covered a wall.

“This could be a guest room. I use it as a study,” Meadows said.

They moved down the hall to a room with a closed door.

“That’s the third bedroom. It’s bigger than the second one.”

Keeping his hands in his pockets, Meadows stared at the door in mild trepidation.

“Is this your daughter’s room?”

Meadows shot him a look, as if Bowen had read his mind.

“Sorry,” Bowen said. “I saw the photograph in the other room and I’d just assumed.”

“Yes.” Meadows made no move to show the room.

“Guess we don’t want to disturb her,” Bowen said. “I understand.”

But Bowen knew.

He damned well knew as he concentrated on the pain in Meadows’s face the way a patron absorbs the aftermath of it in a work of art, like Michelangelo’s Pieta. Bowen drank in Meadows’s pain, as he’d done with the fear of the woman he’d pulled from the car accident.

“No,” Meadows said. “My daughter’s not there.”

“Is she away at college?”

Twisting the knife in the wound.

“No.”

“May I see the room?”

Meadows hesitated as if waiting for the will to open the door.

“Yes.”

The room was cooler and smelled musty. Sunlight had caught the fine dust particles that were sent churning into the air when the door opened. On the wall, he saw a poster of Meryl Streep and a framed watercolor of flowers. He noticed the bulletin board with a calendar. Notes with hours under the word work were penned in for some dates.

The walls were an opaque bluish-green. The single bed was made with a white comforter. A stuffed bear was the lone occupant. There was a white desk with a laptop, a jar full of paper money and change, labeled Tips. The closet was open and empty save for a tower of cardboard boxes, sagging from age and marked in felt-tip pen with Leeza’s Things.

The room was a tomb to the life that had resided here.

“That’s a good-sized closet,” Bowen said, turning to his guide.

Meadows was oblivious. His eyes were going around the room as if he were seeing something from another time. He nodded slowly, took one last forlorn inventory before leading Bowen out and closing the door.

They moved to the laundry room-“All the appliances are included”-then to the family room. It opened to the patio and a view of the hills. They stepped back outside and Meadows leaned against his picnic table and folded his arms across his chest.

“It’s a good house. It’s a good neighborhood, a quiet family neighborhood,” he said as he contemplated the horizon. “Sorry, the agent’s better at showing the place. I’m not much of a people person.”

“No, I imposed,” Bowen said. “May I ask why you’re selling?”

“I’m moving into a condo in San Diego, to be near my niece.”

“I guess with your wife gone and your daughter moved out, it’s more house than you need?”

Meadows looked at Bowen.

“She didn’t move out.”

Another twist of the knife.

“Sorry, but you said… I guess I got confused.”

Meadows rubbed the tension in the back of his neck as if this conversation were hurting him.

“My daughter was murdered.”

“Oh, no. I am so very sorry. I didn’t mean to- I’m sorry.”

Meadows kept his eyes on the horizon.

“It’s coming up on ten years. They never caught the guy who did it.”

“Please, you don’t have to talk about it.”

Meadows just stared at the horizon as if he were talking to it.

“The pain never leaves you. Sometimes I can feel her, see her and hear her voice. I think about where she’d be now in her life-married with her own children, our grandchildren. And not a day goes by that I don’t ache to know who killed her.”

Bowen looked at him, feeling a surreal wave roll over them.

“And what would you say to him if you had the chance?”

Meadows’s head swung to Bowen.

“Plenty, I can damn well guarantee you.”

“What would you say?”

Meadows turned back to the hills.

“Did she suffer? Did she cry out? Did she fight back? Because I sure as hell know she would. What were her last words? Then I would ask the son of a bitch why he did it. Why did he do the things he did to her? Then I would ask God to make certain he burns for all time.” Meadows let a long moment pass while he blinked at the sky. “Listen, I apologize for going on like that.”

“No, it’s okay.”

They were interrupted when Meadows’s home phone rang.

“Excuse me,” he said, and stepped into the house to answer it. Alone on the patio Bowen heard his muffled voice. “Yes… Who?… Reporter?… All right, but you caught me at a bad time. Can I call right back?”

Meadows returned bringing an apology with him for the call and indicating the tour had ended.

“I guess that’s about all I can tell you about the house,” he told Bowen. “The agent’s contact information is on the sheet I gave you. So if you’re serious about an offer, get in touch with her.”

Meadows escorted Bowen to the door where they shook hands. Electrified by the touch, Bowen found Meadows’s eyes and for an instant kept his hold firm.

“Thank you for this,” Bowen said. “You don’t know how much I appreciate what you’ve done.”

When he returned to his car, Bowen got behind the steering wheel and buckled up. Before he started the engine, he let his head fall back against the headrest and shut his eyes.

His heart was pounding.