Dream Town

Chapter 70

Archer always liked to approach a problem from the rear. He had learned in the war that frontal assaults made generals look heroic, but made their soldiers simply dead.

About halfway to his destination he halted and took in the lay of the land. The snow-capped Sierra Nevadas were marshaled on the shore across the breadth of the wide lake. They stared back at him like a vastly arrayed army just waiting for the order to charge the waters.

He continued on, finally broke free of the tree line, and came out on the beach, and immediately felt the wind gusts pummel him through his overcoat. Sand propelled by the wind nipped at him, and he turned away from the stinging grit. A long, wooden deck stretched from the house out to the water. There was a weather-beaten dock at the end of it with a wooden boat on a lift, its top covered for the winter season, with only a bit of its varnished underbelly exposed.

He eyed the rear deck set in stone pavers, where some covered outdoor patio furniture sat. Cut into one wing of the house was an arched stone tunnel that led to the front of the house. That was an unusual feature, thought Archer. But it did give access to the beach and water without going through the house.

He ducked inside the tunnel and spied a yellow prewar Packard convertible with whitewalls and a top in the up position parked there. It was in superb condition and must have cost a mint new, thought Archer. And this had to be the car that had been seen coming and going from the house. He opened the passenger door and peered inside. The interior smelled of old, cracked leather and cigar smoke. He looked at the registration tag on the steering post: Mallory Green.

That was who Reid had seen driving it.

He closed the door softly and crept to the rear. He lifted the trunk hatch expecting to find a spare tire and some tools.

He stood there for a few moments gazing down at it.

The it had once been a person.

He reached down and touched the man’s jaw. It was cold. He lifted one of his arms. It was not difficult to bend. By the look of the body, the man had already passed through rigor mortis. That meant he’d been dead a while, thought Archer, maybe since Green had driven back that day.

Steve Everett, the now former pilot, was dressed in clothes similar to those he’d been wearing when he’d flown Archer to Vegas. Archer looked for the wound that had ended the man’s life, and finally found it under the right arm. A small bullet entry hole in the side of the chest wall. And the bullet was still in there, because Archer could not find any place where the slug had come out.

The wound was so insignificant that on the surface it seemed doubtful it could have ended a life. But small things often could: a tiny tumor grown large, a minuscule virus expanding out of control in one’s lungs. Or possibly a .32-caliber aimed just right. He thought about possible killers and motivations. They seemed relatively straightforward. The only unknowable right now was how the body had gotten here.

He said goodbye to Everett and closed the trunk.

Archer noted a door halfway down the tunnel and tried to turn the handle. Of course it was locked. Instead of his knife, because the lock looked substantial, he took out his felonious tool kit. A minute later the door was no longer an obstacle. He slipped through and closed it behind him. He found himself in a hallway with a set of steps heading up at the far end. The floor tiles were blue and white and designed such that they gave the impression of one walking on water.

“Jesus,” he said, with more than a hint of irony.

He walked across the watery tiles and up the steps to dry land. He checked his watch. It was not yet seven. He should have been exhausted, yet he had never felt more awake in his life.

If I survive this, I swear to God I’m sleeping for a week.

The place was cavernous and chilly, like a real cave would be. The hall he was on was long and as straight as a knife blade. His ears hummed as he listened for any sound, and he was rewarded, and also disappointed, when he heard none.

He left the hall and entered a soaring two-story great room with a vaulted ceiling filled with beams and tongue-in-groove woodwork. The rear-facing windows were nearly as tall as the room and gave breathtaking views of the lake. Another wall held a stone fireplace; its metal doors were open and a fire, probably from last night, was doing its last bit of dying out. Archer could still feel the warmth from the embers, which sharply contrasted with the frigid snow-capped peaks that filled the windows.

The furniture was large and looked handmade. Not a stick of middle-income department store furniture in this place, thought Archer.

He made a quick search of the rooms down here, which wasn’t easy because the interior was a labyrinth. The kitchen was large and modern and laid out with elegance and functionality; a set of windows looked out onto the lake from a small breakfast nook with built-in banquette seating upholstered in cobalt blue. Every room was optimally furnished, not too much, not too little. And Green had classic taste, which meant that most of what Archer was seeing would stand the test of time. He had been expecting this by virtue of having already seen their main house back in California, and thus none of it really made an impression on him. Not that it could, with what he now knew.

He reached one door, which intrigued him, because locked doors always did. He forced the matter with his pick tools. The space wasn’t large and it only had one item in it, but it was a significant one item. Archer knelt down in front of the leather-bound trunk and tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. He inserted his tool once more and did the requisite manipulations, with which he had grown quite adept over the years. The lock gave way and Archer slowly lifted the top. Inside were neat stacks of carefully folded wax paper packets taped down. He picked one up and undid the tape. Inside was white powder. He sniffed it. The stuff sure as hell wasn’t flour. They had held back part of the shipment for some reason.

He put the packet back and closed the trunk.

He had a dead man in a car trunk, and a large shipment of heroin in a house on a lake.

Now he needed to find something else. Someone else.

He headed up the stairs, which had polished wooden handrails and twisted wrought iron pickets; the stairs were carpeted with a colorful runner, which was secured to each riser with brass piping.

He made it to the upstairs landing and was confronted with two halls leading in opposite directions. These must be the bedrooms, he figured.

It would take precious time to search them all. Archer decided to opt for a shortcut.

There was a large shelving unit on the landing. It showcased dozens of colorful ceramic plates. He picked one up, moved back out of the sight lines of both halls, and tossed the ceramic plate across the width of the space. It shattered on the tile floor with an unholy clatter.

Archer waited and waited.

And then the third door on the hall to his left was flung open, and Mallory Green came rushing out holding a baseball bat. She was dressed in a white negligee, and her hair was done in a French braid that followed her out the door like the tail on a racoon. She reached the top of the staircase, glanced at the shattered plate, and looked around for the source of the disturbance.

And that was when Archer stepped out, gun in hand.

Green froze when she saw him. Then she raised the bat but he raised his gun, and that battle was quickly over.

“What the hell are you doing here, Archer? You broke into my house. I’m going to call the police.”

“Don’t bother. I’m going to call them. Then you can explain what your dead pilot is doing in the trunk of your Packard.”

Green had her back to the broad windows and Archer took a moment to glance over her shoulder.

That was when he saw something that hadn’t been there before. A boat was tied up to the dock. And it wasn’t the boat he’d seen earlier.

A voice barked, “Drop the piece, Archer, and both of you get down here. Now.”

Archer and Green looked toward the stairs.

Darren Paley and Little Tony were halfway up them. With guns pointed and expressions radiating serious business.