The Miraculous Plot of Leiter & Lott (32 page)

"Picasso?" she asked.

The dog's tail wagged vigorously in reply.

Illuminated by the light from the house's rear veranda, the trailer was corrugated white, and only twenty feet long. A tall hedge of prickly pear ran behind the driveway, blocking any view of the road bordering the park beyond.
 
As Val approached, Picasso sat watching her as though it had never abandoned its post as sentinel. Oddly quiet, the dog indeed regarded her, not as an intruder, but as an acquaintance come for a visit.
 

Closer, she saw that a solitary light inside the trailer blazed with the pinpoint sharpness of an unprotected bare bulb. Yet no van or vehicle was visible anywhere behind the house.

“Hey, Picasso,” she whispered, and then noted the disturbed sand around the broken post.

Still, the dog did not bark. Instead, it wagged its tail and lolled its tongue.
 
She stepped to the trailer's door, and glanced back at the quiet main house, with its flagstone patio and ornate barbecue island. No movement over there. Only a silent, empty arrangement of wrought iron table and chairs.

Val knocked on the trailer door.

No shuffling inside. Nothing.

On her second--and louder--knock, the door rattled. So she tried the knob.
 
It was unlocked. She pulled the door slowly open, tentatively calling, “David?”

Still no answer. Still, the dog only watched her, silently. Picasso, this patchy mutt half breed, knew something, she decided.
 
Expected her to discover something. There was something in the look on its face. The bright brown eyes, the patient, panting tongue.

“What happens now, boy?” she asked.

Picasso wasn't saying. Picasso only looked past her, into the trailer.

Val stepped up on the first block step to see. Peering inside, she saw no one. So she stepped higher. Then, with her next step, she slid her foot in the trailer, willing herself in after it.
 

The place looked so Spartan that at first she thought it was empty. In the dining niche, a pull down light fixture with a missing shade hung over a solitary wooden table and metal folding chair. The broken lamp lent a stark, shadowy radiance to the scene. There was no couch or TV in the living room area, only a thinly padded mattress in the bedroom, like those used for exercise or meditation. A telephone with answering machine rested on the floor, its small green zero glowing. On seeing it, her lips involuntarily pursed
.
A blue pillow lay beside the blue mattress pad, against the rear bathroom partition. A dozen books lined the floor opposite, held upright by bricks. Val knelt and tilted her head to read the titles. Classics, mostly. She focused on one in particular:
 

Crime and Punishment.

Then she saw the journal. It was taller than the other books--one of those bound notebooks by Mead, with tiny blotches of white like galaxies from the Twilight Zone, and a bar code in the lower right. Oddly, she imagined a huge barcode floating somewhere out in the stars, a light year wide, while God had moved elsewhere, putting the Milky Way up for sale.
    

Against her better judgment, Val took the journal and sat at the dining table to read.
 
The entries were written in pencil, and hard to read, but even with some of the words faded, erased, or smudged by watery stains, she could not resist the overwhelming urge to solve the mystery. And so she squinted and traced what was there.
 

Dec. 9

Melissa, forgive me, but I need to forget you again. This dead man walking, unable to live with what remains, listened to the Chopin Nocturne you used to play on the piano. #2 in E Flat Major. I remember you used to say that if I listened with my heart, then a strange thing would happen, and all those things I thought were so important would become meaningless by comparison to the simple joy and peace of the moment. Well, I finally followed your suggestion, Melissa. I did. I went to the park, not even knowing why at first. Then I remembered you explaining it to me, and holding you as you talked. I remembered the child that we lost, too. What would have been her name? Linda? We never decided, and then you were gone, as if you'd made secret plans, or someone had stolen you. So I became obsessed with other things and other people who I blamed for all that had happened. Until I discovered there's no way to fight them and win.

I almost killed myself before, Melissa, unable to face what had happened. I went away, only to learn there is no escape. No place to hide. It's not the world that I need to change, or the past. It's myself. But how to do it, when other names have no meaning for me anymore--not even my own? I know I have to do something to end this terrible emptiness once and for all. I know you want me to let go of you, and find peace, but my dreams now bring memories again I can't control, and you're all I have left.

She was about to turn the page when she heard Picasso suddenly growl outside.
 
Leaving the journal, she returned to the door. Picasso was now halfway to the house. Next, he pranced back and forth as though he'd encountered a force field at the edge of the patio paving. The growl in his throat became a whimper.
 

Was someone home over there?
 

Not sure, Val studied the house's vacant rear windows, trying to determine what had excited the animal. But there was no movement in the steady light emanating from within. No cars in the drive, either, although there might be one in the garage adjacent to the house on the far side.

She stepped down from the trailer, staring beyond Picasso at the house. As she walked warily toward him, the dog turned to see her. It barked once.

“
Shhhh
!” Val shushed.
 

Picasso responded by barking again, as though at an intruder. Or was he trying to tell her something?
 

She eyed the fence gate where she'd entered the back yard, gauging her escape route in case someone appeared in pajamas with a shotgun and no eyeglasses. For a better view through the French doors, she stepped nearer the barbecue island on the flagstone patio. Now she could see into the living room, where the shapes of a couch, chair, side table and ottoman all appeared to be covered with white sheets.
 

Picasso startled her with another bark, from right behind her this time. Val crouched instinctively behind the barbecue, and reached for Picasso's leash, but the dog only backed away.

“What's wrong with you, boy?” she whispered.

Picasso woofed half-heartedly. His stress modulated into a whining from the recrimination. Then the mutt looked back at the house, alert for. . .
what?
 
Movement? No, there was none.
 

Sound. That had to be it, Val decided. From a shadow behind the barbecue, she watched the animal's ears perk. His head turned to catch some impossibly distant vibration in the still air, out of range to her own perception. She followed the dog's gaze back to the windows, but heard nothing at all except his heavy breathing, which voluntarily stopped periodically in concentration on what obviously came and went like a rhythm inside the house.

Another growl and woof.

“Quiet!” Val whispered. This time she managed to snatch a loop of Picasso's leash when it whipped within reach of her left hand. Picasso responded with a whimper, ears momentarily lowered in dejection at being caught. A playful, independent, but soft-hearted scoundrel, she realized. Little bark and no bite at all.
 

She reeled Picasso slowly in, then carefully patted his head, making an effort to ingratiate herself by ruffling his fur and rubbing behind his ears. Soon he was licking her right hand as she contemplated actually going around to the front in order to ring the doorbell and return a stray pet.

Emboldened by her new intention, Val rose and stared, directly this time, at the covered furniture visible through the French doors. Could David be house-sitting for his absentee landlord, somewhere inside? She tugged at Picasso's leash, and breached the patio flagstones for a closer look. Picasso protested at first, then slinked along behind her with a submissive whimper.

At the door, Val examined the scene before her. The draped furniture rested on a light brown Berber carpet, next to a large empty fireplace. A bookcase behind the couch was half full of leather-bound volumes, many of which seemed to have fallen into a heap on the floor, as though from an earthquake. A large stained glass Tiffany table lamp lay on its side, broken. Its bright, exposed halogen bulb radiated the energy of a distant, exploding sun.
 
Beyond, in the dining room at the front of the house, a large crystal chandelier blazed over an exposed and dusty mahogany table. Nearby, opposite an alcove, huddled the shape of a concert baby grand piano, also draped with a sheet. Val listened for any sound coming from the hidden bedrooms down the hallway, but could only hear Picasso's panting, followed by the distant approach of a military plane on its way back to base, overhead. She stepped right up to the glass door, and had lifted one hand about to knock, when she noticed that this door was also slightly ajar. A half inch crack separated the frame from its mooring latch in the sliding channel. She put her one hand against the thick glass, hoping that the alarm was indeed disengaged, and finally slid the door to the left far enough to stick her head inside.

“Anyone. . .home?” she called. Her voice rose tentatively at the end.
 
She braced herself for some response, but heard none. Picasso yipped and whined behind her. She reached back to pat his head and silence him.
 
"Hello?" she tried again, somewhat louder this time.
 
“Anybody home?”

Nothing.

Then she saw the framed photos over the fireplace. She squinted at the photos, curiously. The biggest of the three showed a young, smiling couple standing in a gazebo, dressed in formal black and white. Her eyes widened out of focus as a sudden chill swept her. Heedless of the risk, she pushed the sliding door aside, and stepped into the room as Picasso's leash dropped from her hand.
 
Then she made straight for the mantel, her gaze riveted on the image in the upright gold frame there.

It was David, sure enough. Not much younger, and without the beard and long hair, but definitely him. The Reid Park setting was unmistakable. And something else.
 

The woman resembled her.
 

Staring at the woman in the photo, she might almost have been staring into a mirror. Val put one hand slowly to her mouth, and absently stepped backward. She almost tripped over the coffee table. When she realized that Picasso was missing, an unexpected barking startled her from the direction of the narrow hallway to the left. She circled the draped couch to see that Picasso now stood in front of a closed door at the end of the hallway. His tail wagged vigorously.
 
Between his barks, Val could detect the muffled sound of crying behind him.
 
From somewhere behind the door came the unmistakable cry. . .

. . .of a little girl.

Suddenly, another sound. An accompanying sweep of headlights lit the glass door behind her like the flash of a camera. Val whirled in time to witness--through the rear French doors-- a vehicle turn onto the house's rear driveway.
 
Not a car, but a
van.
 

Returning to the scene of a crime.

A strange panic seized her. A survival reflex that overwhelmed her shock. Val bolted for the den, visible through an entranceway to the right. In the wood-paneled room she uncovered a phone beneath the sheet that lay atop an oak desk. She lifted the receiver, only to find it dead. Returning to the door, she glimpsed a shadow approaching the house.
 
If she moved out into the living room now, she would be seen. Glancing about frantically, she realized that she was trapped, with no way out through the den's barred windows.

Hide!
screamed the frightened voice inside her head.

Too late to flee out the front door, she chose her sole remaining option. At hearing Picasso going crazy in the living room, she quickly hoisted herself into the top half of a massive, empty armoire dominating one corner of the room.
 
Turning sideways, she drew her knees up and pulled shut the doors before her.
 
There was an audible click as the cabinet latched. Then, with her heart thudding heavily in her temples, she waited for what was next.

I'm not here,
she wished.
Not here at all. Not anywhere. Invisible.

Seconds later, Picasso yelped somewhere, as though struck or pulled. A loud thump echoed through the walls as the French doors slammed shut. Then the barking resumed. This time, though, the sound seemed muffled.
 
From the outside.
 

Val imagined David stalking the house, looking for signs of disturbance.
 
The thought seemed ludicrous at first, but how else to explain what she'd seen with her own eyes? If David had taught her anything, it was to observe the present moment. To live through one's senses, not thoughts. For her own sake, at least that was the goal. Yet ironically, while curled up in an empty cabinet, the dominant part of her listened for proof of the opposite philosophy. The one that ran the world, with fear as the befitting motivator.