Liar

33

We crossed the street quietly. Following Rachel, I could see that she was much better prepared for this adventure: she wore gloves, a holstered gun and an equipment belt that wasn’t bulky but kept her hands free -it held her flashlight and a few tools. Her dark pants had lots of pockets.

My pants were dark, too, but while my pocketknife was tucked away in one of the four pockets, I had to carry the flashlight. I hadn’t thought of the knife as anything more than a last-ditch sort of weapon; I brought it because it might come in handy as a tool. Rachel would have-quite rightly-counted my carrying a gun in the liability rather than the asset column. I hadn’t thought of gloves.

I whispered this last concern to Rachel when we reached the foot of the driveway.

“You won’t be touching anything-a lookout, remember?” She glanced down at my shoes. “Good-running shoes-that’s all you need. You see Gerald, just warn me and then get the hell out of here.”

At the corner of the building, she asked me to stay close to her. “Don’t get involved in watching what I’m doing, just keep your eyes moving on the local scenery.”

She checked each side of the building, then moved to a door on the side facing the house. While the double doors at each end of the garage were locked with heavy padlocks, this door was locked with a much smaller lock.

“Watch the windows of the house, too,” she whispered. “Just in case anyone is home.”

She had pulled out something that looked like an eyeglasses case. Less than a minute later, I heard a snick, and saw that she had managed to pick the padlock. She pocketed it, tried to open the door, and found the knob locked as well. This took even less time than the padlock.

“Stay out here,” she said. “If you hear or see anything, tap lightly on this door, then get yourself back to the car.”

She went inside, closing the door behind her. I walked a few feet, looked quickly down the alley, walked back. I kept watching the house. There wasn’t a sound to be heard from the garage. I heard the sound of a car, looked, realized it was on another street-the street at the end of the alley. I waited, but the car kept moving, didn’t stop near the alley or Reagan Street.

What the hell was taking so long? It should have only taken a few seconds to see if there was an El Camino in the garage, get its plate number and leave. Plates could be taken off or switched, though, so maybe she was getting the vehicle identification number instead. I moved around a little, checked the other side of the building, came back to the door. It shouldn’t be taking so long.

It was with more than a little relief that I saw her open the door again and step outside. I was relieved until I saw her face. She looked angry; there was a harsh determination in her eyes and the set of her mouth.

“The car’s not there?”

She had bent to open one of the pockets on her trousers, was pulling something from it. “The El Camino? No.” She straightened up, held out a pair of latex gloves. “Here, put these on. You think you can go in there without being bothered by-you know, the confined space?”

“I’ll be okay.” I took the gloves, started putting them on. “What’s in there?”

“I’ll show you, but we have to hurry. I don’t want to keep Travis wait-ing.

She stepped inside, I followed. She closed the door behind me. She turned on her flashlight. The garage was more orderly than the backyard, but was nevertheless crowded with lawn equipment, tools and lumber. A fixed wooden ladder led to a half loft above us, where more lumber was stored. I couldn’t see much of it, and wasn’t really interested in the supplies for the renovation. My attention was focused on the dusty, dark-colored Camry sitting in the middle of the garage. The front bumper was off, and on a workbench, but it was clear the car had been in an accident.

“The right headlamp has been replaced,” she whispered. “But the old one is in that barrel-he’s using it as a trash can.” She moved the light toward a large cardboard drum with a metal rim. “I had a look underneath. There’s blood, hair and fabric. It should be enough. You want to look?”

“No,” I said, feeling sick.

“Okay. We’ll lock up and call the local cops. I’ll refer them to McCain. He should-” She suddenly stopped talking. We had both heard it. The sound of the Volvo starting up.

And then, almost immediately, the sound of breaking glass.