The wake-up

3

Meachum's house in Laguna was a piece of cake. Thorpe had seen Pokemon lunch boxes with better security. Located in a quiet neighborhood five blocks inland from the Pacific Coast Highway, the house was a modest stucco rambler dating from the 1960s, with large windows and a front walkway of worn paving stones. The yard was overgrown with shade trees, dry leaves drifting down. On the front porch, Thorpe could see two white wicker rocking chairs. No armed-response stickers on the windows, no motion-sensitive lights in back, no sign of a dog. The place was a walk-in, open and easy and inviting. Hard to imagine the hard charger living there.

Even late in the afternoon, people were still parking on the narrow streets and making the trek to the beach, towels slung over their shoulders, sandals flip-flopping on the cracked sidewalk. Thorpe, in shorts and a Santa Barbara 10-K T-shirt, had made a circuit of the block, checked out the alley behind the rambler. Half the homes had their back doors wide open, hoping to catch some breeze. If anyone asked what he was doing, he carried a flyer from a nearby open house as cover-a three-bedroom, one-and-a-half-bath fixer-upper offered at $799,500. No one had asked him what he was doing, though. Laguna was a live-and-let-live town.

Thorpe started down the alley toward his car, which was parked a few blocks away. He had accomplished what he'd come for. A casually dressed stranger in the neighborhood would draw no attention. He could bide his time, then slip inside while the Meachums were sleeping, and leave something for the hard charger-a torn copy of the state of California's community property statutes maybe, or the section of the tax code that detailed the penalties for putting a phantom employee on the books. Tuck it into Meachum's briefcase, or the pocket of his suit jacket.

In a few days, Thorpe would show up at the gallery, check out the artwork, and when Meachum came over, he would ask him if he wanted to apologize to Paulo now. The hard charger would tighten a little around the mouth, demand to know what Thorpe really wanted, but he would do it. Even if he wasn't afraid of his infidelity being exposed, even if he and his wife had an "understanding" and his business accounts were straight, the thing that would make Meachum go woozy, the absolute nuts guarantee, was realizing that Thorpe had traipsed into his life. Once you cracked the Fortress of Solitude, there were no more hard chargers. Meachum would make the apology, and then wait for Thorpe to make the next move. A move that would never come. Thorpe had other priorities: He had decided not to go on vacation; he was going to stay around here until he found the Engineer. He could go to Florida after he killed the Engineer.

Thorpe kicked a soda can down the alley, feeling good. A couple of old hippies approached, passing a joint back and forth. The woman's doughy flesh pushed out of her cutoff jeans, her breasts pendulous in a macrame bikini top, the man a scarecrow in tie-dyed trunks, a floppy hat atop his head. Hair everywhere, truck-tire huaraches on their feet, the two of them smelling of pot and patchouli. He watched them stagger away, holding hands now, fingers entwined, and the sight filled him with wonder and a longing that made his chest hurt. He hurried out of the alley and onto a side street, stumbling in his haste, as though being chased.

Up ahead, a woman strode up the steep hill from downtown, a bag of groceries clutched in each arm. Her face was shiny with sweat, a handsome olive-skinned woman with dark hair curling past her shoulders. She wore a white embroidered peasant blouse, white pants cuffed at the ankle. She shifted the bags slightly as she reached the top of the hill, blew her hair out of her face, and grinned at him as she caught him watching.

Thorpe smiled back.

The woman gasped as the paper bag in her right hand broke, sending a cascade of groceries onto the sidewalk, a rain of fruits and vegetables and shattered glass jars. A bottle of Perrier foamed over her sandals. She held the other bag with both hands, surrounded by shards of glass, as Thorpe ran to help.

Thorpe bent down, pulled a sliver of green glass from her foot, and wiped away the spot of blood with a fingertip. Her white cuffs were spotted with mayonnaise.

"Be careful," she said as Thorpe gathered up the broken glass.

"I'll be careful… Son of a bitch." He stood up. A piece of clear glass was embedded in his knee. He hadn't even seen it on the sidewalk.

"You're hurt." She shifted her groceries again, concerned.

"I'm fine. Stupid, but fine." Thorpe pulled the piece of glass out of his knee.

She didn't move her feet, but scooped up loose fruit, then gave them a quick check and put them in the other bag. Her hands were nimble as she selected the groceries, the thick nails trimmed and unpolished, utterly feminine. He bent to help her, and the two of them worked together until the sidewalk was clean. Thorpe carefully folded up a paper bag they had put the pieces of glass in, and walked it over to a garbage can. He turned and found her standing beside him.

"You're bleeding. Follow me. I live just a block away."

"It's okay."

"Don't be so male."

"Do I have a choice?"

"You got hurt helping me. Let me return the favor. Come on, tough guy." She beckoned, and he followed her, the two of them walking side by side. "I'm Gina."

"Frank. Can I carry that bag?"

"We're almost there. Are you house shopping? I saw you had a brochure."

"Just looking."

"It's a nice neighborhood." She slowed a few minutes later. "Here we are. Come up on the porch. I'll get some bandages and antiseptic."

Thorpe stared. It was the Meachum house. Stunned, he watched her climb the steps.

Gina must have misunderstood his hesitation. She nodded at one of the rattan rockers on the porch. "Make yourself comfortable. I'd invite you in, but the house is a mess." It was a nice lie, and he appreciated her making the effort. She took her groceries inside, the screen door banging behind her.

Thorpe climbed onto the porch, still unsettled by the fact that Gina was Meachum's wife. He sat down, rocked gently as he looked out at the neighborhood, feeling as though any sudden movement would upset some fragile cosmic equilibrium. He felt the same way sometimes when he was on assignment, closing in on a subject, making conversation, his senses so acute that he worried his own elevated heartbeat would give him away. He kept rocking. The houses all had tiny front lawns, but most of the neighbors let their shrubs run rampant, growing high, vines blooming over the windows, giving more privacy. He liked the feel of it, the tropical excess. Sometimes it was just best to give in to nature.

"What are you thinking about?" Gina stood in the doorway.

"I like your place."

"Thanks. I grew up in this house. My husband keeps wanting to remodel, but I can't do it." Gina came onto the porch with a first-aid kit, sat down across from him. "You don't have anything catching, do you?"

"No. I'd tell you if I did."

She propped Thorpe's leg up, used a gauze pad to wipe off the blood with those strong hands, no hesitation in her touch. Her black hair was thick and a little coarse-she pushed it back with her wrists as she worked-and her sweat was fragrant. He wondered how Douglas Meachum could cheat on her. He saw Meachum and the blonde driving away from LAX, and Thorpe wondered what kind of lies Meachum told himself when he was alone with the blonde, what lies he told the blonde about Gina. He watched her bent over his knee, and he realized that he couldn't involve her in the wake-up. He was going to teach Meachum a lesson, but the house was off-limits. He would have to squeeze Meachum through his business.

"Ouch."

"Don't be a baby." Gina cleaned the edges of the wound with a Q-tip now. Bits of color were speckled at the base of her cuticles: red, yellow, blue.

"Are you a painter?"

She rubbed her cuticles, pleased. "You're very observant." She checked the cut, put a fresh gauze pad on the wound. Her cell phone was beeping. "Hello." She looked at Thorpe. "I'm on the porch. Where are you?"

Thorpe could hear Meachum's voice through the receiver, saying, "I'm still in New York. Where'd you think I'd be?"

Gina averted her eyes, turned toward the street so that Thorpe couldn't see her face as she listened. "No, I haven't been by the gallery."

"Why the hell not?"

"Don't talk to me like that." Gina checked the gauze pad. "I'm busy, that's why." She looked away. "I had an accident walking home from the grocery store. A man helped me." She glanced at Thorpe. "I don't know; I just met him. He cut himself on some glass helping me, so at this moment I'm taking care of him." She pulled the phone away from her ear, disgusted, and snapped it shut. It started beeping again, but she ignored it.

"I'm sorry," said Thorpe.

"For what?" Gina tore off strips of clear adhesive and taped him tight. "You'll live."