Here, for a time, I would be safe.
I changed my shirt, then went out to my car. I was on the south side of the city, on the edge of a working-class area of Poles and Greeks. I drove around for a while, slowly, absorbing the feel of the place. Then I went to a supermarket, bought an egg salad sandwich, got back in my car, drove until I found a grade school, parked across the street, and ate.
Though it was summer and school was out, the playground was crowded with kids. I tried to imagine Kimberly Amos, if indeed that was her name, playing here too when she was a girl. I imagined her skipping rope in this schoolyard, or striding up and down the corridors inside. I even had a vision of her furrowing her brow, worrying over a word on a spelling quiz.
I found the Amos house, circled the block several times, then parked inconspicuously across the street. I arranged my car so that I could watch the door through my adjusted rearview mirror.
It was an ordinary house among other ordinary frame houses, each with a small lawn in front and a narrow driveway leading to a detached garage in back. The houses varied in state of upkeep and each had its own distinctive feature-a lar er than ordinary TV antenna on one, a has, t above the garage door of another. the Amos house, a lack of movement best, and the fact that all the downstairs windows were shut, told me nobody was home. So I just sat in my car absorbing the sounds and sights of the neighborhood, willing myself inconspicuous.
Occasionally a child appeared, riding a bike, or carrying a baseball glove and bat, moving toward the school. Several times I saw women leave their homes, get into cars, drive off and then return with bags of groceries. At 3:30 a UPS truck appeared, and slowly worked the block. en a patrol car drove by; I didn't pay any attention to it, just buried myself in my newspaper like a man waiting patiently for his wife.
After five there was more traffic as the men started coming home. Burly and barrel-chested, dressed in stained and sweaty clothes, they looked as if they spent their days doing hard physical work. With their arrival the sound level started picking up. I heard radios, TV sets, people talking, arguing too. One man came out and began to water his lawn. Another brought out a set of wrenches, and, after setting his car radio to a Cleveland Indians baseball game, threw open the hood of his Pontiac and began working on the engine.
A little after six a blue Chevrolet with a dented fender entered the drive of the Amos house. It didn't go as far as the garage, but stopped parallel to the front door. A woman got out. She had short hair, wore sandals, slacks and a blouse. She went to the door, unlocked it and disappeared inside.
Five minutes later she came out again, this time in sneakers, close-fitting shorts and a khaki tank top. A yapping little Yorkshire on a leash tugged her toward the lawn.
The dog must have been cooped up all day; it took a long piss against a tree while the woman lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, then distractedly surveyed the street. She looked right at me, but she didn't react-the setting sun was in her eyes. When the dog was finished she gave the leash a yank, and started walking down the block.
Through the mirror I watched her walk to the corner, then cross the street and start back toward where I was parked. She was following the sidewalk that ran right beside my car, was moving up on me at a steady pace. I stopped watching the mirror, – afraid of catching her eye. I just sat, pretending to read my paper. Then, just as she strode by, I turned to look.
She was moving too fast; I didn't catch her face. But she didn't look at all like Kim from the back. She had a good figure, maybe a little stout, but shapely and defined. Her bare arms looked strong and her legs were good. I had the feeling she worked out-she carried herself that way. Her short hair, dark brown and thick, was brushed back, hutch style, on either side. She was far too young to be Kimberly's mother. I estimated her age at from thirty-three to thirty-five.
I watched her cross the street, mount her lawn, then allow the dog a final piss. She lit another cigarette, took a couple of puffs, then, pulling at the dog, reentered the house.
Nothing happened for an hour. The sky darkened. I could see the flicker of TV sets through windows up and down the block. Finally a TV went on in the Amos house. I was getting pretty tired of sitting in my car, but decided to wait the situation out. My hope was that Kim would drive up just in time for dinner. If she did, I wasn't sure what I'd do. Probably nothing-but at least I'd know that she was there. I ended up waiting until 10:30 P.m. Very little happened. At 9:30 the woman came out again with the dog, waited just long enough for it to piss, then pulled it back inside the house. Lights went out in the downstairs rooms, and then finally in the bedroom on the second floor. I was hungry and tired, and everyone in the neighborhood seemed to be going to bed, so I found my way to Buckeye Road, then found a White Tower restaurant at the edge of a parking lot. I used the men's room, then ate alone at the counter, listening to the cook, thin and pasty-faced with bad skin and a broken nose, tell me how AA had saved his life.
I was exhausted when I arrived back at the Devora. The vacancy sign flashed vigorously on and off. My room smelled musty, and the air conditioning wasn't working as promised. I took a quick shower, crawled naked upon the upper sheet, then lay sweating in the hot night air asking myself what I was doing in this dreadful place.
I was back on the block at 7:00 A.M. It seemed a smart move to vary my routine, so I parked a little farther away this time, facing the house instead of setting myself up to watch it in the mirror. The woman emerged with her dog a little after nine, and this time I was able to see her face. She wasn't ugly, but wasn't handsome either. She had tough squat Slavic res that seemed to go with the tough tone she'd used with me on the phone. Still there was something attractive about her. I tried putting my finger on what it was. Perhaps it was "presence." She walked with confidence, like a woman at ease with herself. She was not at all sultry, nor in any other way did she resemble Kim. But still, in her moment of need, Kim had called her. I wanted to know why.
I also had the feeling she didn't care much for the dog. She handled it as if it were a nuisance. She always lit a cigarette when she exited the house. Then she stood taking deep draws while the dog took its pee, giving me the impression her thoughts were far away.
She came out again at 10:30, and this time she was dressed in a blouse and slacks. She seemed irritable as she gave the dog a quick perfunctory walk. Then she put it back in the house, shut the door, got into her car and drove off down the block.
No question in my mind that Kim wasn't living in the house, so there seemed little point in continuing to stake it out. When the woman left, I waited until she reached the corner. Then I started up and followed.
We drove for about ten minutes to a shopping mall not far from my motel.
She parked in the lot, walked to a building and entered a door between two shops. There was a big glass window on the second floor, and a sign that said SOUTH SIDE HEALTH CLUB. I parked, got out of my car, and walked to the door. It opened directly onto stairs that led up to the gym.
I went back to my car and repositioned it. I wanted to see what was happening on that upper floor. The light was perfect-the sun poured directly into the front part of the room. After a few minutes I saw Ms.
Amos, dressed in exercise clothes, working out on a Nautilus machine.
She must have done a standard Nautilus circuit, for she emerged, her hair wet from a shower, slightly more than an hour after she'd gone in.
She got back into her car and drove out of the mall. Again I waited, then followed.