Fault Line

11 HAUNTED HOUSE

Alex spent so much time on Obsidian in the afternoon that he had to stay at the office until almost midnight to catch up on other work. He went straight to bed when he got home, but he couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned for an hour and wasn't even beginning to feel drowsy. Finally he decided the hell with it, he'd take a hot bath. Sometimes that helped.

There was a little moonlight coming in the windows, so he kept the lights off. He turned on the faucet, then eased himself in and sat, gritting his teeth, wincing as the hot water crept over his legs and up to his stomach.

He turned off the tap and the room went suddenly quiet, the only sound a few last drops falling from the faucet to the water below, breaking the silence like a dying metronome.

He splashed a little hot water onto the porcelain behind him to warm it up, then eased back. He slid down until his chin was just touching the water and closed his eyes, thinking this was good, this was what he needed. After a few moments, the dripping stopped and everything was utterly noiseless.

It was funny to think this was the same tub where his mom used to wash them as kids. Some people would say it was weird that he still lived in the house where he grew up, and he supposed they had a point. He'd never even left town for any of his degrees, and the only different addresses he'd had since he was a teenager were a collection of dorm rooms, which in retrospect felt like just a break, a vacation from this, his only real home. Sometimes he thought he should have taken more chances, explored a few more possibilities. But after the thing with his dad, and then his mother got sick, what kinds of chances was he supposed to take? And as for living in this house, well, yeah, you could say it was the safe alternative. But on the other hand, after everything that had happened here, it had taken a lot of courage.

After Katie's funeral, he and Ben had gone back to school. Alex focused on his studies, Ben stayed after every day for track and field. Katie's absence was huge-an oppressive, constant, almost physical force, a void touching everything in their lives. Katie's jacket on a hook in the foyer, slowly collecting dust. Katie's shampoo in the shower, the amount of amber liquid in the bottle unchanging. Katie's empty chair, staring at them at the dinner table. Alex thought this was where the idea of ghosts came from, this was what it meant to live in a house that was haunted.

Some of the fights Alex overheard were about what to do with Katie's things. One day he came home and her room was empty- a desk, a chair, a stripped mattress and bed. Alex closed the door behind himself and checked her closet, her drawers. Everything was gone. It was like Katie had just… vanished.

He looked around the empty room, dumbfounded. He remembered how once, when he was a little kid, he'd broken the arm off one of Ben's G.I. Joes, which Ben had specifically forbade him to touch. Petrified, he ‘d gone to Katie. He remembered the way she had smiled and shushed away his tears and helped him glue it back. And no, of course she wouldn't tell, not even Mom and Dad, pinkie promise. And when Ben had noticed anyway and confronted Alex, Katie said it was her fault, she had done it. And Ben had just let it go. Alex wondered if Ben knew- after all, what was Katie doing with a G.I. Joe?-and thought maybe Ben just couldn't stay mad once Katie stepped in. She was like a force field against anger and hate and accusations.

He dropped to his knees beside the bed, buried his face in the denuded mattress, and sobbed her name over and over. Where was she? How could she be gone, without even any evidence that she'd been there? It was impossible. He couldn't get his mind around it.

He cried until his throat was raw and his back throbbed, until he was so exhausted and drained he couldn't feel anything anymore. Then he stood and took one more slow look around the room.

Katie was gone. And if something like this could happen to Katie, who was as joyous and good and alive a person as Alex had ever known, who liked everyone and laughed at everything and had not a single enemy, then the best thing you could say about the universe was, it was random.

But randomness was merely a logical possibility. What Alex felt in the deepest places within himself was different. In his gut and his bones, he knew the universe wasn't random, or indifferent, or in any way benign.

The universe was hostile. You couldn't count on anyone against that. And Alex wouldn't forget it.

He lay in the tub for twenty minutes and was just thinking it was enough, he could sleep now, when he heard something downstairs. It sounded like the mail slot in the front door. These days he was never home when the mail came, but he knew the sound well enough from when he was a kid. This time it was softer than he remembered- stealthier?-but he recognized it just the same.

He sat up, water running down his back. Oh, come on. No one was looking through the mail slot at two in the morning. He was just keyed up, that was all, which was why he was in the bath in the first place.

Right. He was being silly. Even so, he sat very still for a moment, breathing silently through his mouth, his head cocked, concentrating on listening.

There was nothing. He was definitely being silly.

He closed his eyes and settled back. Maybe he'd soak for a few more minutes.

He heard a quiet click from downstairs.

His breath caught. He sat up and listened.

A few seconds went by. There was nothing.

It's an old house. The floor settles, joints groan. How often are you awake at two in the morning to hear anything? This is just what the house sounds like this late.

He let out a long breath. Christ, he really was jumpy. At this rate, he was going to have to stay in the bath all night.

He heard another sound. A quiet scraping, the movement of a rubber weather strip over a metal threshold. The front door.

Suddenly his heart was hammering so hard he could hear it echoing in his ears. He almost called out, Who's there? but managed to stop himself. Who do you think is there? he thought, fighting panic.

A burglar. There was no other explanation. If he called out, it might scare him away. But if it didn't…

Without thinking, he placed a shaking hand on the edge of the tub and eased himself soundlessly out. Water ran down his body onto the floor and he was suddenly freezing. He thought frantically of what he might use as a weapon. Knives in the kitchen. Golf clubs in the garage.

Here, goddamn it. Something here.

His heart was thudding like a war drum. He fought to control his breathing.

There were some cleaning products in the cabinet under the sink. He didn't know what exactly; whatever the maid used. But there might be something. If he could just stay quiet, quiet…

He heard the sound of rubber over metal again. The front door, this time being closed.

He eased the bathroom door shut and quietly locked it. Even as he did so, he knew it was pointless. It was nothing but a little privacy button, you could pick it with anything. But he didn't care. He just wanted a barrier, any kind of barrier. He didn't dare turn on the light-it could be seen from under the door and probably through the edges, too.

He dropped down to his knees in front of the cabinet and opened it. It was dark inside. He felt around, his hands shaking. Toilet paper. A bar of soap. A plastic bottle.

He pulled the bottle out and rotated it until he could see the label. Toilet bowl cleaner.

He set it aside, thinking, Come on, come on…

Another bottle. Some kind of scouring powder.

He reached in again, his hands shaking so violently he was terrified he would knock something over and give away his position.

Mildew remover. That meant bleach, right? He tried to read the label but couldn't make out the small print in the dark. He unscrewed the spray cap and sniffed. Immediately he jerked his head away and had to fight back a coughing fit. It smelled like pure bleach.

He stood and looked around the counter for something to put it in. Nothing. Not even a cup. The only thing he ever used this bathroom for was the bath.

A light flashed across the bottom of the door. A flashlight beam, cutting through the dark. He realized closing the door had been stupid. It had exposed where he was.

He felt paralyzed. He couldn't think.

Please, he thought. Please, come on…

He dropped down again and felt inside the cabinet. A scrub brush. More toilet paper…

His fingers touched something cold and hard. He pulled it out. A mug, a big ceramic coffee mug. The maid must have put it there, part of her cleaning supplies, or to rinse the tub or something.

The doorknob rattled.

God, oh God…

He backed away, shivering violently, and somehow managed to get most of the mildew cleaner into the mug. He set down the empty container as quietly as he could and took hold of the wall that divided the bath from the toilet, steadying himself. He held the mug in his right hand at waist level and ground his teeth together to keep them from chattering.

A second went by. Ten. Ten more.

Maybe he's gone. Maybe when he figured out someone was home-

The lock popped. The door crashed open and slammed into the wall. A dark figure stepped through. Alex saw a flashlight and maybe a gun, and then the light was in his eyes, blinding him. With a wild yell he flung the contents of the mug forward toward the figure's head. A long blob of liquid cut through the beam of the flashlight. The man cried out and stumbled back. Alex shot forward and slammed his shoulder into the man, knocking him on his back. He leaped straight over him and onto the stairs, taking the six steps in another leap. He grabbed his keys from the table in the foyer, yanked open the front door, and went tearing down the flagstone walkway to the driveway, where his car was parked, barefoot, naked, and still dripping from the bath. Somehow he had the presence of mind to hit the unlock button on the fob on the way. He practically dove into the car, slamming the door behind him and locking it. He was shaking so badly he had to use both hands to get the key in the ignition. He pushed the clutch in and turned the key. The engine growled to life. He popped the gearshift into reverse and used every ounce of rational thought he still had to force himself to let the clutch out slowly. He made it out of the driveway, shifted into first, and didn't think to shift again until he was doing forty at the end of the street and the engine was screaming so loudly it sounded like it might tear right through the hood of the car.

He got on 280 and at 120 miles an hour made it to San Jose Police headquarters in under fifteen minutes. By the time he arrived he had calmed down a little and was starting to think. Weirdly, the thing he was most grateful for was that he had a set of workout clothes in the trunk. Otherwise, what the hell would he do, barge into the police station stark naked in the middle of the night?

The parking lot that had been nearly full a day earlier was empty now, and he was able to scurry around to the trunk of the car and dress without anyone seeing him. It couldn't have been more than forty degrees out and he could see his breath fogging. By the time he walked through the lobby doors his teeth were chattering and he was completely broken out in gooseflesh.

He walked up to the information window, rubbing his palms furiously against his arms and shoulders to generate a little friction heat. “I want to report a burglary,” he said. “Someone just broke into my house.”

The woman behind the glass asked, “What is your address, sir?”

Alex gave her his Ladera address. The woman said, “Sir, that's San Mateo. You need the San Mateo County Sheriff's Office.”

Jesus, what had he been thinking? San Jose had just been on his mind because he'd been here recently; he hadn't even thought about the jurisdiction.

“Right,” he said. “Look, I surprised this person in my house. He had a gun and I just ran out. I got confused. Can you… I don't know what to do. Can you call the San Mateo police for me?”

The woman nodded and picked up a phone. She gave Alex's information to someone and hung up.

“Sir, the Sheriff's Office is sending a patrol car to your address right now. They're going to wait for you outside the premises and escort you in when you arrive. They'll ensure the premises are secure, take your statement, and collect any evidence.”

Alex thanked her and went back to his car. When he got home, there was a police car waiting in front. He parked in the driveway and walked over. Two uniformed cops got out, one a tall skinny guy, the other with shoulders as wide as a refrigerator.

“Alex Treven?” the skinny one said.

“Yes, I'm Alex. Thanks for coming.”

“No problem. I'm Officer Randol, and this is Officer Tibaldi. We understand you had an intruder in the house this morning?”

This morning… right, it was morning, technically. “Yes, that's right. I think he had a gun, but I didn't see that well.”

“Okay. We'd like you to wait here while we go in and ensure the house is secure. Once we've done that, we can take your statement inside.”

“Uh, yeah, sure, of course.”

Alex waited while Randol and Tibaldi walked up the path to the front door, which Alex noticed for the first time was closed. He was surprised to see them draw their guns, then realized, of course, they had to assume someone was still in there, no matter how unlikely.

Tibaldi tried the door, then called to Alex, “You're going to have to unlock it.”

Alex walked up and unlocked the door. Tibaldi opened it, waited a moment, then went in, followed by Randol.

The house wasn't huge, and in five minutes they had turned on every light, opened every closet, and looked under every bed. It was empty.

Alex told them exactly what had happened. He showed them the bathroom. The tub was still full of water. They examined the door and the lock, but there was no evidence that it had been picked. The room stank of bleach and the cleaner had gotten all over the walls and floor.

“We ‘re going to check the front door and have a look around,” Randol said. “Why don't you inventory the house and see if anything is missing?”

Alex did. Nothing was gone or even out of place. Even his wallet and cell phone were where he always left them when he was home, on the table in the foyer. He'd been so batshit scared when he ran out that he'd grabbed only his keys and nothing else.

“The front door is intact,” Randol told him. “No sign of forced entry.”

“Well, someone got in here,” Alex said, feeling foolish.

“I can see that. Is anything missing?”

Alex shook his head.

“Do you have any enemies, sir?”

“Enemies?”

“You know, were you doing something that made a husband jealous, or maybe you took something you weren't supposed to from someone you shouldn't have taken it from.”

“No, nothing like that. Nothing. Are you saying this guy was looking for me personally?”

Randol shrugged. “Most burglars are pretty inept. The ones adept enough to break in quietly and without damaging anything are too smart to carry a gun. It ups the penalties if they're caught.”

“Well, I'm not sure he had a gun. I told you, I didn't see that well. It was dark, there was a flashlight in my face, and I was pretty damn scared.”

“All right. No gun, my guess is, someone broke in here hoping to burglarize the place, and when you surprised him, he got the hell out.”

“And closed the door as he left?” Alex asked.

“Sure,” Tibaldi said. “You'd be amazed at the weird things perps do. He probably thought if he closed the door, no one would notice he'd been inside.”

Alex wasn't persuaded. If the guy had bolted out in such a hurry that he'd missed the wallet he'd gone right past on his exit, what had possessed him to take the time to close the door?

“Why would he break in if he knew someone was home?” Alex asked.

“How would he have known you were home?” Tibaldi asked.

“My car was right in my driveway.”

Tibaldi nodded. “I noticed you've got several newspapers at the end of the walkway. Burglar thinks, ‘This guy's not home-he caught a taxi to the airport.’ Or whatever. Point is, he thinks the newspapers trump the car. You have to put yourself in the perp's shoes. They look for things like that. Newspapers in the driveway, mail in the mailbox, packages in front of the door.”

“Why pick the bathroom lock, then? By then he knew someone was home.”

Tibaldi shrugged. “At that point, he's committed. He's already made his decision, already committed a crime. Some mentalities, they'd rather double down than back off. Look, you have to accept that in all crimes, there's a certain random element. It's why conspiracy theorists love JFK's assassination and nine-eleven so much. You can't ever get all the threads to tie up neatly. There's always something that doesn't make sense.”

Randol asked, “Did you get a good look at him? Could you describe him, pick him out of a lineup?”

Alex tried to picture what he'd seen. “It was dark. I…” What had he seen? Suddenly, he wasn't sure about any of it. He felt drained and useless.

“Black? White?”

Alex shook his head. “I don't know.”

“Well, at least you scared him off,” Tibaldi said. “Nice move, with the bleach. And you didn't lose anything.”

Alex looked at them. “So you think this was just a random break-in?”

Randol didn't answer, and Alex realized he was assessing his own confidence in Alex's responses. After a long moment he nodded and said, “If he didn't have a gun, and you don't have enemies, that's what it looks like. I think you had a bad guy casing the neighborhood, he saw those newspapers, he took a closer look, he saw the door has only one lock, not even a deadbolt, which looks to be what, forty years old, I'm guessing?”

“Yeah,” Alex said. “Probably that old.”

“Watch this,” Randol said. He stepped out and closed the door behind him. From the other side, Alex heard a rasping sound, then a click, and then the door opened.

“Damn,” Alex said. “How did you do that?”

Randol handed Alex a thin piece of plastic, hard but flexible, about four inches by four. “Slide it between the door and the jamb, push back the mechanism, you're inside in less time than it takes to use a key. Get deadbolt locks. Have the jambs and frames reinforced. Make it harder for the criminal.”

Alex didn't like the rebuke behind the words, but the man had a point.

Alex scrubbed a hand across his face. He was a weird combination of keyed up and exhausted. “Well, thank you very much for coming out in the middle of the night, or, whatever, I guess it's the morning,” he said.

“Not a problem, sir,” Randol said. “We're glad you're okay.”

Alex left every light on after they left. He knew it was ridiculous, but he couldn't help thinking: What if he comes back?

But come on. A burglar coming back to the same house he got surprised at and ran out of earlier the same night? The police might be there, who knows what.

Ridiculous.

The way Randol had opened the front door, though… that was unbelievable. The miracle wasn't that Alex had gotten away tonight; it was that no one had tried to rob him until now.

Not that the guy would come back. But if he did, it wasn't like Alex could stop him. There was effectively no lock on the door, he didn't own a gun.

He remembered the sound the door had made as it slid stealthily open. How terrified and vulnerable he had felt in the bath.

The hell with it. He'd just stay at the Four Seasons in Palo Alto. He did enough business meals in their Quattro restaurant. Might as well sleep there tonight. If he stayed here, he would lie awake the rest of the night, imagining every joint that settled was a footstep, every whoosh of the gas heater the sound of the front door again.

He grabbed a change of clothes and looked through the front window long and hard before venturing out.