No Sanctuary, Page 4

  This is going to be a long week, he told himself, if you don’t settle down. Nobody’s out there. Nobody’s stalking you.

  But he wished his revolver were close at hand, not in the car’s trunk at the bottom of his backpack.

  He kept watching the trees. Sometimes, he looked over his shoulder and gazed out the rear window. If they were being followed, the man or vehicle was not in sight. Could someone looking closely at the tracks tell that their car had recently made the passage? He remembered the limb that he had lifted out of the way and wished he’d had the sense to place it back across the tracks after they’d gone by.

  “What are you doing?” Bert finally asked.

  “Just enjoying the scenery.”

  “You look like a cemetery guard keeping an eye out for spooks.”

  “Just a little edgy,” he admitted, and made a weak smile.

  “Hey, if there was anything to worry about, do you think I’d come out to a place like this? I’m the world’s greatest chicken. I get the willies all the time. You should see me when I get back to my apartment at night. Especially after I’ve been with you and it’s late. I check behind the furniture, look in closets. I’ve even been known to look under the bed. And I’ve usually got a great case of the shivers till I’ve made sure nobody’s lurking around.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. I always figure some drooling maniac has gotten in, somehow, and is just waiting for a chance to rape or murder me. Or both.”

  “You’re kidding. You?”

  “Had me figured for a fearless Amazon?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Disappointed?”

  “Well, I knew you were no Amazon. You’ve got two boobs.”

  Bert grinned. “But really, the way I see it, a certain percentage of people are criminals or dangerous nut cases. Therefore, the smaller the population, the less danger of running into one. When you get out in a place like this, there’s almost nobody so your chances of meeting a creep diminish to almost nothing.”

  “On the other hand,” Rick said, “the larger population works to your advantage in that the nut has a larger pool of victims to choose from. Start decreasing the population, you might have fewer nuts but it also knocks down the odds that someone else will be the victim.”

  Bert nodded. “So if there is a nut out here, we win by default.” In a teasing voice she added, “Better keep a sharp eye out.”

  Though Bert was making light of it, Rick wished he hadn’t pointed out the less comforting side of her argument. Getting her worried would serve no purpose. He should’ve kept his mouth shut.

  “I’ve spent a lot of time in wilderness areas,” Bert said after a while. “I’ve never run into trouble so far.”

  “Well ...”

  “That probably hurts the odds on this time out, huh?”

  “Don’t be such a pessimist,” Rick said.

  She laughed.

  In the silence that followed, Rick’s uneasiness came back. He felt a strong urge to resume his watch of the surrounding forest, but he fought it. He watched Bert instead. Then he lay down on the seat and rested his head on her lap. Drawing up his knees, he propped his feet on the window sill.

  Bert smiled down at him. “Comfy?”

  “Very nice.”

  Rick felt her warmth through the fabric of her shorts. Her flat belly eased against his cheek sometimes when she inhaled. The front of her loose shirt, jutting out like smooth hills just above his eyes, stirred slightly as the bouncing, rocking motions of the car shook her breasts.

  “Down there,” she said, “you can’t keep a look-out.”

  “The view’s fine.”

  She let go of the wheel for a moment and brushed a hand through his hair.

  “If you’re nervous about going back to your apartment at night,” Rick said, “how come you won’t stay over at my place?”

  “I believe we’ve been over that ground.”

  “Well, you could do it sometimes. Maybe just on weekends.”

  “It might start with just weekends, but pretty soon that wouldn’t be enough. I know men, and I know myself. Before long, you’d be pointing out with infallible logic that keeping my apartment is a wasteful expense, that I should move in with you and get rid of it.”

  “And you,” Rick continued for her, “value your independence too highly—”

  Bert stopped the car.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We’re there.”

  Rick’s stomach did a small flip, but he managed a smile. “And I was just getting comfortable.” He sat up slowly, keeping the side of his face against Bert. His cheek nuzzled her breast. He turned his head and kissed it. Her nipple was stiff under her shirt. He opened his mouth wide and ran his tongue over the fabric.

  Bert slapped his stomach gently. “Stop it,” she said. “People are watching.”

  Rick stopped. He bolted upright and looked out the windows. Perhaps he’d sensed rather than seen somebody back there in the trees. He stared. Hard. Nothing moved.

  “Just kidding,” she said. She pinched the cloth away from her breast. “Look what you did.”

  His mouth had left a dark wet patch on the blue pocket. “But it felt good, right?” he asked.

  “Feels damp.”

  “Better get into a dry shirt.”

  She gave him a smirk, then took the key from the ignition and rolled up her window. She punched the lock button down. Rick watched her climb out. The back of her shirt was wet and clinging, though not as wet as he’d made the pocket. She swung her door shut.

  The car had stopped in a clearing. Rick saw no tire tracks ahead. There was a heavily wooded slope, dim with shadows. Looking out of his window as he cranked it up, he saw that the clearing provided enough room to allow the car to be turned around. He elbowed down his lock button, then checked the rear doors. They were secure.

  He joined Bert behind the car as she opened the trunk. She gave the key case to him. “Don’t lose it,” she said.

  Her comment triggered new worries. What if he lost the keys? What if they came back here, ready to depart, and the battery was dead? What if the car had two flat tires? What if it was vandalized or stolen while it sat here unguarded for a week?

  So many things could go wrong. They might get through all the camping unscathed only to find themselves stranded when they were ready to leave. By that time, their food supplies would be depleted ...

  Bert reached into the trunk.

  “I’ll get it.” Rick lifted out her pack. He held it while she slipped her arms through the straps. Then he propped his own pack on the edge of the trunk. Bert held it steady. He crouched and found the straps. Standing, he felt the solid weight pressing his shoulders and back.

  Bert took their hats from the trunk and shut the lid. She plopped Rick’s hat onto his head and put on her own. It was a tan, Aussie hat with one side of the brim turned up. It might look silly on some people, Rick thought. On her, it looked great.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “Now we find the trail and start walking.”

  “Maybe we should spend the first night here.”

  “Sleep in the car?”

  “There’s a thought.”

  “Jean said there’s a nice area near a stream about half a mile from here.”

  “The way she gives directions, it’s probably two miles.”

  “We’d better get moving, then. Need to get there before dark.” Bert dug deep in a pocket of her shorts. She came up with a compass, held it flat in her open hand and studied it. “Trail should be thata-way,” she said, and pointed to the left.

  Rick followed her past the front of the car.

  “Ah-ha!” she said.

  At the edge of the clearing, nailed to a short brown post, were two slats of wood with carved messages. She pointed to the left and indicated that Mosquito Pasture was two miles distant. The other pointed straight ahead. Dead Mule Pass was eight miles in that direction.

&n
bsp; “Encouraging names,” Rick muttered.

  Bert smiled back at him. “You’ll be glad to know we’re not heading for Mosquito Pasture.”

  “Dead Mule Pass doesn’t sound like the Garden of Eden.”

  Bert tucked a thumb under each of her shoulder straps. She flexed her knees and pulled the straps as if to adjust the fit of the pack.

  The wet patch on her pocket was still dark.

  She turned away and started walking down the trail.

  Rick looked back at the car. Then peered into the deep shadows among the trees. Get a grip, Rick. There are no boogey men out there. Believe me

  Hurrying to catch up with Bert, he began to sing. “Please Mr. Custer, I don’t wanna go.”

  Chapter Five

  The parking area under Gillian’s apartment building was deserted. She slid her suitcase onto the floor of the car in front of the passenger seat, set down her purse, then went around to the rear and opened the trunk. Reaching inside a nylon satchel, she took out a pair of license plates. It was one of six sets she had removed, late one night last month, from cars parked along a secluded lane in Brentwood. She had used WonderGlu to fix strong magnets onto the back of each plate.

  She covered her own plates with the stolen ones, and drove out.

  She shivered as she drove. The tremors seemed stronger, less pleasant than usual.

  Maybe this is too soon, Gillian thought. Maybe I’m pressing my luck.

  Nothing to worry about, she told herself. You’ve never been caught, and there was only that one close call.

  That, and the house on Silverston.

  The “close call” had happened nearly a year ago. She’d been swimming in the pool at the Farnsworth house in Ran-cho Park when car doors thudded shut nearby. Thrusting herself out of the water, she ran dripping to the comer of the house. From there, she saw the roof of a van beyond the top of the gate. She heard quiet voices. The Farnsworths weren’t due home for two more days, but they must have cut their trip short. In seconds, they would find themselves prevented from entering the front door because of the burglar bar. When that happened, they were bound to come through the gate to try a back door. Gillian, choked with panic, raced around the end of the pool. At the rear of the yard, she sprang at the redwood fence, boosted herself up and squirmed over the top, scraping her thigh in the process. She dropped into the alley on the other side.

  Fortunately, she’d left her car parked around a comer from the Farnsworth house, with an ignition key in a magnetized compartment under the rear bumper.

  That wasn’t good fortune, she thought, that was good planning.

  The good planning also paid off in that Gillian had taken nothing into the house that could be used to identify her. She lost her suitcase, clothes, security bars, purse and camera (along with a roll of film in the camera that must’ve given the Farnsworths food for thought if they had it developed), but nothing to give them any clues as to who the owner might be.

  Still, it had been a narrow escape. She’d sworn off intrusions for good after that.

  As time passed, however, the urge had grown. Three weeks later, she was inside another house. It had been scary for a while, but soon the fear of being discovered had faded and she’d had no more problems.

  So why, tonight, was her usual anticipation tainted by a shadow of dread?

  Gillian parked in front of the house. Light shone through the closed draperies of the living room, but that was normal; most people had timing devices to activate a lamp and make their homes look occupied while they were away.

  She shut off her engine and headbeams, and got out of the car. As she walked around to the passenger door, she eyed the next-door houses. The one with the realtor’s sign was dark. The other had lights on, but no car in the driveway. The owners might be home, but there was a good chance they were out enjoying themselves.

  Ten o’clock on a Saturday night was the ideal time for Gillian to make her entries: too early for most people to return home from movies or dinner parties; not so late that her arrival, if noticed by a neighbor, would draw much suspicion.

  Especially not the way she was dressed.

  Gillian opened the passenger door. She took out her purse and suitcase, and walked casually toward the front porch, confident that anyone who might spot her would assume she was a legitimate visitor. Burglars, after all, do not usually wear heels, a skirt, and a turtleneck sweater.

  If questioned by a neighbor who’d been alerted that the owners were off on a trip, she would simply claim to be the niece who’d come to house-sit. That had happened a few times. Usually, they bought the story. If not, Gillian was ready to cover herself. “Uncle Henry insisted that I—”

  “No Henry lives here.”

  She would frown. “Sure. Henry Wadsworth.”

  Assured that no Henry Wadsworth resided here, she would act perplexed and show the suspicious neighbor a slip of paper on which she had written Uncle Henry’s name and address. The neighbor would then explain that she was at the wrong address. “This is 8322, not 3822.” Grateful for having her error pointed out, she would depart.

  Tonight, Gillian had no use for the slip of paper on which she had reversed the first two numbers of this address. Nobody questioned her. She saw no one on her way from the car to the porch.

  The light above the front door was dark. She listened for a few moments and heard no voices from inside. Ringing the doorbell went against procedure. Though that was a good way to make sure nobody was home, the sound of a doorbell could sometimes be heard by neighbors. Also, it went against the logic of her cover, a niece coming to house-sit would hardly ring the doorbell.

  Setting down her suitcase, Gillian opened the mailbox. It was empty except for a flier. She quietly lowered the lid.

  The porch was an L-shaped concrete slab with a waist-high wall, and extended around the corner of the house. Its front was concealed from the street by a pair of geraniums. The house windows that looked onto the porch were dark.

  Gillian carried her suitcase and purse around the comer and set them down. From there, she could see the high redwood fence that ran alongside the property. The next-door house had a single story, and only the very tops of its windows were visible above the fence. Lights shone through the windows.

  It was all right, though. Not only were the curtains shut, but anyone inside would have to stand on a chair to see over the fence.

  After slipping out of her shoes, Gillian stepped barefoot to the low wall and peered down. In the space between the house and the fence was a driveway that extended from the gate to a two-car garage. The porch was elevated leaving a drop of about six feet from the top of its wall to the driveway. There was no opening at the rear of the porch wall. She would have to jump.

  Gillian opened her skirt and stepped out of it. She folded it, set it on the edge of her suitcase, then pulled off her sweater. Shivering in her gym shorts and tank-top, she opened her handbag and removed a small leather satchel. Then she climbed onto the side wall of the porch and pushed off. Her feet slapped the pavement, a quiet sound that could certainly not be heard inside the neighbor’s house.

  She walked quickly up the driveway, noting that all the windows along this side of the house were dark. At the rear was a sliding glass door, then more windows. The concrete slab of the sundeck had a single lounge, a glass-topped table, a Weber grill, and a square platform surrounding the covered hot tub.

  Gillian stepped around the corner of the house. She walked along the dewy grass strip between the wall and the fence, checking the windows and listening for sounds from inside. The last two windows showed light through their curtain, undoubtedly from the same source that illuminated the picture window she’d seen from the street. On this side of the house, there was no gate at the front.

  Completing her rounds, Gillian felt sure that the house was deserted. She returned to the rear deck.

  At the sliding door, she took a small flashlight out of her leather case. Shining its beam downward through t
he glass, she checked the runner. No rod had been placed there to prevent the door from being opened. She inspected the inside handle. It was one of those with a simple lever. A downward flick would disengage the lock.

  With the flashlight clamped between her teeth, Gillian started to work. An open square of duct tape on the glass in front of the lock lever. A circle of tape stuck to the center for use as a handle. A careful line with her glass cutter along an inside border of the tape. Three more slices through the glass, completing the square. A few gentle taps at the edges. Finally, a pull at the tape in the center. The square of glass came out.

  A cinch, Gillian thought.

  She set the small section of glass on the table.

  Reaching through the opening, she lowered the lock lever. She removed her hand and pulled the aluminum handle. The door slid open with a low, quiet rumble.

  Gillian left her leather case on the table. She entered the house. The warm air had a closed-in, stuffy heaviness; one more indication that nobody was home.

  Shining the flashlight around, she saw that she was in a den or recreation room. It had a couch, a couple of easy chairs, lamps and tables, a television with a large screen and VCR, a stereo, bookshelves along the wall in front of her and a built-in bar at the other end of the room. The floor was hardwood.

  Very nice, Gillian thought.

  Especially the bar and the VCR.

  Pointing her flashlight at the bookshelves, she found that the owner had an extensive collection of tapes for the video recorder.

  Gillian turned around and went through a doorway. Ahead was the dining room. To the right was another entryway. She stepped through it and found herself in the kitchen. After a quick look around, she backtracked, passed the door leading into the den, and entered a hallway on the left. A short distance down the hallway, she came to a wide arch that opened onto the living room. She switched off the flashlight. Then she peered around the corner of the arch. Satisfied that the room was deserted, she continued her search.

  Just beyond the arch, she found a closet, then a bathroom. Farther down the hall, on the left, was a small room with exercise equipment. Squinting into the darkness, she saw a Nautilus, treadmill, rowing machine and weights, a mat on the floor and a wall of mirrors.