The Hidden (4 page)

She couldn’t bear to witness something like that, the literal slipping down and fading away of the man she’d once loved … no, still loved, or she wouldn’t still be with him. If that was what was going to happen, she’d be gone before the deterioration was complete.

Maybe gone sooner than that, she thought.

In spite of herself, a comparison image of Douglas flashed into her mind. Strong, solid. Not particularly good-looking, but those intense and frank hazel eyes were more appealing than any pretty-boy features. Another image: the seemingly effortless way he went about his duties in South Bay General’s ER—capable, commanding, in complete control no matter what the emergency or crisis case. Another: the openness of his smile when he spoke to her, so that she felt he was not only an honest man but one who seldom if ever hid his true feelings …

Shelby shook herself, hard, to rid her mind of the images and the thoughts that went with them. Emptied her glass in one stinging gulp.

Jay was on his feet now, poking among the pieces of driftwood on the mantel. “There aren’t any matches here,” he said.

“I’ll look in the kitchen.” She wanted another martini anyway.

She opened drawers and cabinets. The Coulters kept the cottage well stocked: liquor, coffee, spices, condiments. But no matches.

A door next to the stove opened onto a cramped utility porch. Washer and dryer. Microwave. Full wine rack. Vacuum cleaner. Pantry filled with canned and packaged goods and cleaning supplies—and nothing else.

She went back into the kitchen. Jay was at a catchall closet next to the breakfast bar, rummaging among the shelves. “Find any, Shel?”

“No.”

“Don’t seem to be any in here, either.”

“Maybe in one of the bedrooms.”

She went to look. Nothing.

Jay was still at the closet when she came back. He said, “Well, hell,” when he saw that she was empty-handed.

“You sure there’re no matches in there?” she asked.

“Look for yourself.”

The closet shelves were packed with all sorts of odds and ends. A pocket-size portable radio, flashlight, batteries, candles, hand tools, local phone directories, napkins and placemats, decks of playing cards, even Scrabble and backgammon games. Everything you might want or need except the one essential you were looking for.

“Ben must not have realized he was out or he’d have mentioned it.”

“Good old Ben.”

“Well, it’s not a crisis. We’ll buy some in Seacrest tomorrow. I’ll just use the stove tonight.”

“It’s electric.”

“Doesn’t matter. I can light a twist of newspaper on one of the burners, use that to start the fire.”

“Just don’t light up anything else on the way.”

He fetched a couple of sheets of newspaper, rolled them up as he moved into the kitchen to turn on the stove burner.

Shelby picked up the martini pitcher, started to pour her glass full again.

And all the lights went out.

T H R E E

M
ACKLIN STOOD BLINKING IN
the sudden blackness. He heard Shelby suck in her breath, the clatter of the pitcher as she set it down hard on the countertop. “Shel? You okay?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to panic.”

“Power’ll probably come right back on.”

She didn’t say anything.

He groped his way around the wet bar, saying, “There’s a flashlight in the closet there—”

“I know, I saw it. The batteries better be good.”

She moved away from him, sideways to the closet. With the lights off, the furious whistling, rattling sounds of the storm seemed magnified. A power outage … just what they didn’t need right now.

A blade of light slashed through the dark, carving out whitish jigsaw pieces as Shelby swung it up and around toward him. “We’d better go sit down,” she said.

He followed her across the living room to the couch. She laid the flashlight on an end table and left it burning, so that the beam made a stationary white circle on the fireplace bricks. He knew she’d had a small scare. She was a borderline nyctophobe; had insisted on sleeping with a night-light on the entire time they’d been married. He suspected that one of the reasons she’d become an EMT was that it was a job requiring a certain amount of night work—her way of battling the demon.

They sat listening to the wind and rain, waiting. Minutes ticked away—five, ten. He wanted to say something, couldn’t think of anything that she’d want to hear. He settled for putting a hand on her leg, giving it a gentle squeeze; the muscles and tendons were taut. Shelby’s gaze remained fixed on the white circle.

The silence thickened between them until he couldn’t stand it any longer. “You get occasional power failures in remote areas like this,” he said. “But they don’t usually last very long.”

“Unless the storm knocks down power lines.”

He had no answer for that.

“It’s cold in here again,” she said. “Another hour and it’ll be like a meat locker.”

“There’s always bed, blankets, and body heat.”

No answer from her this time.

“What do you want to do then? Drive back to Seacrest, take a room in one of those B&Bs?”

“The power’ll be out there too. If we had matches for a fire, candles—” She broke off and then said, “Maybe we can borrow some.”

“Where? Seacrest?”

“The neighbors to the north. I’m pretty sure I saw lights through the trees when we arrived.”

“Probably security lights.”

“We can go find out, can’t we? It’s better than sitting here freezing. If nobody’s home, we’ll drive into the village.”

In the bedroom they each held the torch while the other put on rain gear. Outside, Jay lighted their run to the carport. The storm created wildly gyrating shapes of the pines to the north, but just before he clambered in behind the Prius’s wheel he saw the shimmers of light in that direction.

The narrow lane was carpeted with pine needles and wind-torn branches, one of the branches large enough that Macklin had to ease out around it at a crawl. The stand of trees that separated Ben’s property from the one on this side was a couple of hundred yards in length; after two-thirds of that distance, it thinned out and ended at a high fence that extended out to the bluff’s edge and continued parallel to the road. Above the fence he could see the upper part of the house, portions of tall dark windows and angled roofline; the pale haze of light came from below. Wood smoke bellowed out of a stone chimney and was immediately shredded and whipped away by the swirling wind.

Shelby said, “Definitely somebody home.”

“They must have an auxiliary generator. That’s the only way they can have power when we don’t.”

The blacktop dead-ended at the base of a rocky headland that rose at the property’s far perimeter. There was a double gate in the fence, one half closed and the other half open. Drive right in? Might as well. Let the the headlights tell the people here right away that they had visitors.

He made the turn through the gate. The front of the house was dark; the light came through windows at the sides and back. Big place, modernistic in design, built of redwood and glass halfway to the bluff’s edge and partially in the shadow of the headland. Three cars sat on a parking area a short distance inside the gate: a medium-size SUV, a four-door sedan, and a low-slung sports car. Macklin pulled up next to the sports job—Porsche Boxster, looked like, a make and model he’d always coveted—and shut off the headlamps.

“Want to wait here?”

“No,” Shelby said. “I’ll go with you.”

The front door stayed closed as they hurried along a short flagstone path onto a porch shielded by a slanted overhang and palely lit by a recessed spot. Macklin found the doorbell, pushed it. A minute passed; no response. But he sensed somebody on the other side watching them through a peephole in the door. He blew on his cold hands, rang the bell again. And still the door didn’t open.

“Leery of strangers showing up on a night like this,” he said against Shelby’s ear. “Maybe I should—”

“Who’re you?” Man’s voice from inside, loud and unfriendly. “What do you want?”

“Sorry to disturb you,” Macklin called out. “We’re friends of Ben Coulter, staying at his cottage down the way. Just arrived before the power went out.”

“I asked you what you want.”

“Can you let us have some matches? We didn’t bring any and there’re none in the cottage.”

Silence. Then, “Matches, for Christ’s sake,” barely audible in a lull in the storm-throb, directed to a second person behind the door who answered in a voice too low for the words to be distinguishable. But Macklin thought it belonged to a woman.

Shelby pressed up against him, taking hold of his arm, either because she was cold or in an effort to gain sympathy from the peephole watcher. She called out, “It’s freezing in the cottage. We’d really appreciate the help.”

The woman’s voice said, clearly this time, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, just let them come in.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

A chain rattled and the door opened to reveal a slender young blonde woman dressed in slacks and a bulky knit sweater. Behind her, a big, blocky-faced man in his early forties said, “You always get what you want, don’t you, Claire?” The woman didn’t answer. When she widened the door opening, the man backed off a few paces and stood scowling. Macklin had a glimpse then of two other people in a broad sunken living room beyond a short foyer—a lean, sandy-haired male standing by the steps and a dark-haired female on a couch in front of a massive curving fireplace, both with glasses in their hands.

The blonde woman said, “Come in, I’m sorry you had to stand out there so long.” Her tone and her smile seemed almost eager, as if she were welcoming acquaintances rather than strangers.

Shelby went in first, Macklin behind her, and then she stopped abruptly. He saw why a couple of seconds later, when he had his first clear look at the big man.

There was a gun in his hand.

It wasn’t pointed at them; he was holding it muzzle down along his right leg. A large automatic on a squarish aluminum or polymer frame.

“It’s all right, don’t worry,” the blonde woman said, and shut the door against the bitter night. Then, to the man, “Brian, please—put that thing away. These people are no threat.”

“I don’t like to take chances.”

“He thinks he’s back on military guardhouse duty,” the sandy-haired man said. “Or Clint Eastwood in
Dirty Harry.
”

The woman on the couch said, “Why shouldn’t he be careful? We’re all a little spooked.”

“I’m not,” the blocky-faced man said flatly. As if to prove it, he opened a closet door and made the automatic disappear inside.

The blonde woman looked relieved. “I’m Claire Lomax. This is my husband, Brian. And these are the Deckers—Brian’s sister, Paula, and her husband, Gene.”

“Jay Macklin. My wife, Shelby.”

“Shelby Hunter,” she said.

Again, as always. If he neglected to add her last name in an introduction, she did it herself, immediately and automatically. And as always, it saddened him a little. Not because she’d chosen to keep her birth name—that had never bothered him—but because of what her making an issue of it subtly implied. Separate identities, linked by marriage but with a gap between them that could never be bridged.

“Shelby,” Claire Lomax said, “that’s an unusual name.”

“It was my maternal grandmother’s.”

“Mmm. Well, you must be chilled. Come in, sit by the fire, have something to drink before you go.”

“We don’t want to intrude—”

“You’re not intruding. Are they, Brian?”

Lomax said nothing. He was still scowling.

Macklin was about to decline the invitation. Seeing Lomax with that automatic had made him edgy again. There was something else, too, a kind of charged atmosphere—as if there were frictions among the four of them and he and Shelby had interrupted a tense interaction.

But Shelby didn’t seem to feel it; she surprised him by saying, “We’d like to, if you’re sure you don’t mind. I haven’t been warm since the power went out.”

“I know what you mean,” Claire said, “it’s a miserable night. Here, let me take your coats.”

“Sure, come and join us,” the dark-haired woman said. “Misery loves company.”

Her husband said, “Shut up, Paula,” without looking at her.

“Fuck you.”

Gene Decker laughed as if she’d said something funny, but the glare he directed at her was venomous. He tilted his glass, drained it in a long swallow. “I can use another drink myself.”

“So can I. God, yes.”

“You’ve had your quota, honeybunch.”

“Like hell I have. If you won’t make me another one, Brian will.”

Lomax didn’t move.

Tension here, all right. You could feel it, almost hear it—a subaural crackling like echoes from the pitch-pine logs burning in the fireplace. Whatever was going on with these people, Macklin didn’t want any part of it. But Shelby had committed them; he couldn’t just drag her out of here. Couldn’t have managed a quick exit anyhow because she’d already shrugged out of her coat. Nothing he could do then but shed his own coat, then follow her down the three steps into the living room.

Paula made room for them on the couch. She was about Shelby’s age, plump and top-heavy, her round cheeks irregularly flushed like a person afflicted with rosacea. When Claire asked what they’d like to drink, Shelby said she’d been having a martini before the lights went out. At ease as usual in a social situation, even among bad-mannered, boozy strangers like these.

Decker said, “Martinis are my speciality,” and crossed to a built-in, stone-fronted bar. “Gin or vodka? Up or on the rocks?”

“Gin, please. Up.”

“Same for you, Macklin?”

“No. Nothing for me, thanks.”

“Oh, come on. Free booze is free booze.”

“Just not thirsty.”

“Okay, then. More for the rest of us.”

Lomax was still standing in the foyer. An imposing figure, a couple of inches over six feet and wide through the shoulders and neck, dressed casually like the others in slacks and sweater. His bristly rust-colored hair was cut so short his scalp gleamed pink and shiny through it. He’d lost his scowl; now his beard-dark face was set in tight, unreadable lines.

His wife sat down in a chair on Shelby’s right. She was at least fifteen years younger than Lomax, Macklin thought. Eyes the striking color of smoked pearl, luminous with some veiled emotion … anxiety? High cheekbones, pale skin a little liquor-reddened, long, slender throat, a model’s slim figure. But her beauty was the fragile kind that would fade or turn gaunt with age, and marred by lines around her mouth and faint shadows under her eyes. Shelby was just the opposite, he thought, more attractive now than when he’d married her; the strength and character in her face were lacking in Claire Lomax’s.

“So, then,” she said. “Where are you folks from?”

Macklin told them.

“And you’re friends of the Coulters?”

“Ben and I went to college together—UC Santa Cruz.”

“We’ve met him and his wife—Kate, isn’t it?—but we don’t know them well.”

“Kate, yes.”

“How long are you staying? Through New Year’s?”

“Until New Year’s Day.”

“Good! So are we. We’ll have to get together again, maybe on New Year’s Eve.” She seemed to need to talk, as if she were afraid of dead air; her words came quickly, a little breathlessly. Macklin wondered if she was drunk. There wasn’t any doubt that Paula was. Decker, too, if less obviously. “All of us live in Santa Rosa. We’ve been here since Christmas Eve. We thought it’d be fun to spend the holidays here this year, now that the house is finished.”

“Some fun,” Paula said. “Wackos on the loose inside and out.”

“The only wacko in here is you,” Decker said from the bar.

“Hurry up with those drinks, will you?”

“Can’t rush perfection. Santa will deliver.”

“Santa. Jesus.”

“Ho, ho, ho.”

Claire ignored them. “Brian’s an architect. He designed this house, everything exactly the way he wanted it. Isn’t that fireplace wonderful?”

It was, and Macklin said so. Built of native stone, it transcribed a long, graceful curve outward from the side wall, with the hearth in the middle of the curve and open to this room and the one on the other side, probably the kitchen. The bedrooms would be along a front hallway that led off the foyer. The rest of the living room was as impressive as the fireplace, if a little too colorless for his taste. Heavy redwood ceiling beams, dark wood paneling, floors partially covered by black-and-white woven rugs. A four-foot-square painting on one wall, of a stormy, cloud-ridden sky at sunset, added a moody note. Something brighter, with primary colors, would’ve been better. So would a Christmas tree, a wreath, some kind of holiday decoration, but there were none visible anywhere.

Lomax finally made up his mind to join them, but he didn’t sit down. He stood at a distance, like an overseer. “The house isn’t finished yet,” he said.

“Well, it is, but Brian means little things, little touches he’s not satisfied with—”

“I don’t like that, Claire. You know I don’t.”