Page 14

After all, he’d said she was dead. He was a lot of things. Liar wasn’t one of them.

I said instead, “Maybe you’ll get some nice new neighbors, and all you’ll have to worry about is their barking dog.”

She looked at me quickly, smiled. “That would be nice. I like dogs.”

“Me, too,” I said, though I liked cats better.

The drive to 1926 Old Stage Road took less than fifteen minutes.

The road narrowed as I left the gentrified homes and gardens of Old Town behind, the asphalt giving way to rough, crumbling pavement, then to packed dirt and loose gravel.

Ancient, twisted oaks leaned over the road, their gnarled branches casting long, barbed wire shadows across the windshield as I navigated the tight, overgrown curves.

How the hell could this obstacle course have ever been part of the old stage coach route? The name had to be poetic license.

My fingers tightened on the steering wheel as I passed familiar landmarks—the rusted, bullet-riddled road sign for an abandoned campground, the still crooked, leaning telephone pole Milo had sideswiped twenty years ago, the rocky, weed-choked pull-off where Milo and I had once parked to share a joint and complain about whatever we’d imagined we had to complain about before the night Dom died.

The shadows thickened, and if Siri had not assured me I was on the right track, I might have second-guessed the wisdom of trying to corner U.N.

Owen in his lair. Instead, I eased the rental onto the narrow, rutted track that snaked between towering redwoods and dense, tangled underbrush.

Dust billowed behind the car as I bumped along the uneven drive, tires crunching over a thick bed of fallen needles and loose gravel.

The house finally loomed into view—a long, low structure with weathered wood siding and a steeply pitched roof, tucked deep into the shadows of the surrounding trees.

A rusted mailbox leaned precariously at the entrance to the drive, the name Colby stenciled in chipped, faded black paint.

Weeds had crept up around the splintered wood post.

Colby. That made sense. U.N. Owen was obviously a pseudonym. Now, I had a name. Assuming Colby was still the current renter. The property didn’t exactly look well-maintained.

I parked in the small dirt clearing in front of the house, the sedan tires sinking slightly into the soft, loamy earth. For a second or two, I studied the structure, my fingers drumming uneasily against the steering wheel.

While I hadn’t wanted an audience, I hadn’t expected the place to be quite so isolated, so cut off from the rest of the world by the thick, shadowed woods that crowded close around the property. There were probably other houses out there, but they were well behind the wall of trees.

An ideal location for a writer.

Belatedly, it occurred to me that U.N. Owen might not react well to an unexpected visit from a suspected murderer. Rural California meant he probably owned a gun or two.

I waited for a dog to start barking or the twitch of a window curtain.

Nothing.

No sign of life.

There was no car in the drive. Maybe he wasn’t home.

Was I doing this or not?

Oh, I was doing it. No question.

I climbed out, my shoes sinking a little into the soft soil, leaving clearly defined footprints.

The air was cooler here, damp with the scent of wet bark and moss. The dense tree canopy filtered the sunlight into fractured, wavering beams that danced across the cracked front steps as I approached the house.

The rickety front steps creaked; my footsteps thumped hollowly across the boards.

A small, iron bell hung beside the door, its metal surface pitted and flecked with rust. I reached up, gave it a cautious ring, the sharp, metallic clang echoing faintly into the dense forest. Birds in the trees overhead took flight in a startling rush of wings.

I waited, listening, but the only response was the faint rustle of leaves overhead and the distant, rhythmic creak of tree limbs swaying in the breeze.

Okay. He might be wearing headphones. I did when I worked.

I rang the bell again, then knocked, the sound dull and muffled against the weathered wood. I waited again, the silence stretching thinner and thinner, my pulse a quick, steady thud in my ears.

I called, “Hello? Anybody home?”

I knocked again, harder this time, my fist rattling the warped wood against its frame.

Still nothing.

“Fuck,” I said softly. What kind of blackmailer didn’t sit by the phone or computer waiting for a reply to his—or her—threats?

I stepped back, gaze sweeping the dark windows.

The streaked glass reflected the fragmented light of the forest behind my blurred outline.

I glanced uneasily over my shoulder, then moved cautiously down the side of the house, tennis shoes sticking in the damp, moss-covered earth as I skirted the overgrown ferns and tangled brush that crowded close against the walls.

I peered through a grimy side window, trying to make something, anything out in the dark and featureless interior.

Was that a desktop on a table or the world’s ugliest sculpture?

Circling around to the back, I found a narrow, covered porch, its railing sagging under the weight of years of damp and neglect.

An old, rusting water pump stood to one side, its handle streaked with a thin, greenish patina of algae.

A battered, metal trash can leaned drunkenly against the back wall, its lid askew, a faint, sour odor of spoiled food wafting up from within.

So, someone was living here. Had been living here.

They didn’t seem to be home now.

The canopy of trees diluted the light to such an extent that at this time of day, anyone inside that bungalow would have surely turned on a lamp or two.

Unless they were blind.

Or unconscious.

Or dead?

I considered this final option. Blackmail was a risky business. Not everyone would be willing to talk first and decide what to do later.

Had someone decided to murder U.N. Owen?

Or, more likely, was I a guy who had spent the last twenty years reading way too many mystery novels?

Probably the latter. But just because I’d read thousands of mystery novels, didn’t mean I couldn’t stumble into a real-life homicide. As I knew better than anyone.

In fact, suspecting foul play, wasn’t it my duty to see if I could be of help to the potential victim?

Yeah, right. Try explaining that one to the local authorities—without having to explain what I was doing there in the first place.

Who said I had to go to the authorities?

My mind continued to race through possibilities.

Could this be a trap of some kind?

Or an incredible opportunity?

If I could get inside, I’d almost certainly be able to identify who U.N. Owen really was. I might find something to use against them. I might even uncover what they thought they had on me.

I hesitated at the back door, my hand hovering over the tarnished brass knob. The door itself looked swollen with moisture, the paint blistered and peeling, the frame warped and splintered.

It wouldn’t take much…

For a brief, reckless moment, I considered forcing it open, fingers tightening reflexively around the knob. But then I heard it—the faint, rhythmic crunch of footsteps coming down the gravel drive. I caught a whiff of pipe tobacco.

Hastily, heart thumping, I wiped the door knob with the bottom of my T-shirt, and stepped quickly back into the shadows.

My pulse kept up a sharp, staccato beat in my ears as the sound of approaching footsteps drew closer.

A male figure emerged from the trees, moving slowly, cautiously, head turning left and right as he looked around.

“Hello?” he called.

I shrank back against the wall, breath held tight in my throat, every nerve stretched to the breaking point.

My rental car was parked in the drive.

There was no hiding. He’d already seen my car. I had to brazen this out.

I stepped into plain view, calling cheerfully, “Hey, there!”

He started and turned. Middle-aged, short, stocky, white beard, and yes, smoking a pipe.

He kept a little distance between us, calling, “I heard your car coming up the road. We don’t get a lot of visitors up here.”

I could tell he was slightly suspicious, but mostly curious. I was a white, refined-looking adult male driving a nice car. I did not fit anyone’s stereotypical criminal profile.

“That was me,” I agreed. I hooked a thumb over my shoulder, pointing back at the house. “I was looking for…Colby, is it?”

“Troy Colby, yeah.”

“He submitted a manuscript to the publishing house I work for. Since I’m in town for a conference, I thought I’d stop by and—”

“You’re going to publish him ?” Colby’s neighbor seemed astounded.

“Well, we’ll see. I definitely want to talk to him.”

“You mean he really did write a book? Is it any good ?”

“It certainly caught my attention.”

“Here, I thought it was all bullshit. He’s always claiming he’s working on this book or that book. I thought he was making it up.”

“Is he around? I knocked but no answer.”

Colby’s neighbor burst out laughing. “Well, here’s a funny thing. He’s at a writing conference in Monterey. I bet it’s the same damned conference you’re in town for!”