He’d better make sure he left no fingerprints.
Pushing the door closed with his elbow, so no one from outside could see him, he stepped carefully into the living room. The furniture was oddly mismatched, as though it had all been donated by different families or cobbled together from various local garage sales. There were a few nice pieces, quite obviously recently purchased, but the remainder were worn and used, old and ugly. This was not at all the sort of home that he had imagined Joan growing up in, and its appearance surprised him. From the way she’d spoken, he’d also expected to see a lot of religious articles—pictures of Jesus, pillows embroidered with psalms, framed biblical passages, perhaps—but there was not even a Bible to be seen.
He walked over to a cheap bookcase, situated next to an old television sitting atop a metal stand. There were photos on the shelves, family photos, and he saw Joan dressed in a high school graduation gown, Joan standing by the pier with a friend, Joan in a prom dress, Joan at Hearst Castle, Joan in front of Morro Rock. There appeared to be no pictures of her as a baby, though, or as a young child, and that seemed unusual. Parents usually went crazy with the camera when their kids were infants and toddlers, tapering off after that, but her mom and dad looked to have been just the opposite.
In one photo, she stood between two people who must have been her parents: a man and a woman. The woman was odd-looking, awkwardly built, as though something was wrong with her bones. Her shoulders stuck up too far and looked pointy, while her thin arms hung at strange angles by her sides. Her legs in a dress were bony and too long, and they served to accentuate the peculiarity of her form. Rickets was the word that occurred to him, although he was not exactly sure what rickets was and had no idea whether it applied here. The man was an ordinary-looking guy who reminded Gary of one of his father’s friends.
In the back of his mind, he wondered if Joan’s mother’s condition was hereditary, if it was possible that Joan might end up with the same condition. But that concern was minor now. The only thing that mattered was that Joan be found. He picked up a picture of her, intending to take it back with him to show Detective Williams, a recent photo that featured a close-up of her face. He saw the irony in giving a stolen photograph to the police, but it might help him prove that Joan existed and that she was missing. Although his first impulse was to leave a note to let Joan’s parents know who had taken the picture and why, he did not think her mom and dad would be returning anytime soon, and he did not want to leave any clues in the house indicating that he had been here.
If Williams asked him where he’d gotten the photo, he would just say that it had been in his room and he’d forgotten that he had it.
Forgotten?
That sounded suspicious, too.
It didn’t matter. He would think of something.
Clutching the framed picture, he continued on, moving from the living room to a hallway and the two bedrooms and single bathroom beyond. There were no signs of a struggle in any of the rooms, and all of the furniture and belongings appeared undisturbed. The only thing amiss, the only thing out of place, was in the kitchen: an empty overturned wastepaper basket. Next to it, on the white linoleum floor, was an irregular red spot about the size of a quarter. Gary stared at the spot, noting how it shone in the light that entered through the window above the sink, as though it were wet. It might not have been blood, and there might be a perfectly rational explanation for it, but at that moment he could think of nothing else it could possibly be.
And then Gary saw the dog.
He stopped in place, his heart slamming in his chest. The animal was dead, its body lying half in and half out of a little pet entrance built into the bottom of the bigger door that led into the backyard. A shaggy gray poodle, the dog was lying on its side, its open black eyes staring lifelessly into the kitchen, the white rubber of the doggy door sitting atop its distended stomach like a guillotine blade about to slice it in half. There was blood dripping from the dog’s mouth, but it looked darker and drier than the spot next to the overturned wastepaper basket.
Gary looked quickly around the kitchen, glancing through the window over the sink to the yard outside. He could think of a whole host of possibilities here, none of them good. He went back over every step he’d taken, trying to make sure he hadn’t touched anything, hadn’t left behind any fingerprints. He thought of the closets in the bedrooms, the queen-sized bed in the master bedroom, the full-sized bed in what had been Joan’s room. Someone could be hiding in the closets right now. Bodies could be shoved under the beds.
He was scared and knew he should get out immediately, but he had driven all morning to get here and couldn’t take off without checking first to make sure Joan’s parents—or Joan—weren’t dead or dying somewhere here in the house. He needed a weapon, though, something he could use to protect himself should someone try to attack him. Pulling down his sleeve so the shirt material would cover his hand and prevent him from leaving any fingerprints, he reached out and opened the top drawer. Silverware was stacked in little compartmentalized sections: spoons, forks, butter knives, steak knives. He closed the drawer, opening the one beneath it. As he’d hoped, it was full of larger kitchen utensils, and he withdrew the biggest knife he could find, a carving knife.
He closed the drawer and pulled down his shirt sleeve. He needed the full use of his hands and fingers, just in case. Besides, fingerprints didn’t matter here; he wasn’t going to put the knife back. It was coming with him. Since he might need the use of both hands, he put the picture frame down on the counter next to the sink, intending to come back for it once all was clear.
Clutching the knife tightly and holding it in front of him, Gary walked out of the kitchen, around the corner of the living room, through the hall and into the master bedroom. As before, all was still. But whereas that had been comforting just a few minutes ago, it now seemed ominous, and he stopped, listening, trying to detect breathing or rustling or any sound whatsoever. Hearing nothing, he stepped forward carefully, prepared for an ambush from any direction.
The closet had one of those sliding mirrored doors from the sixties or seventies, and in it he saw not only a reverse representation of the bedroom, but a reflection of himself holding the knife and advancing. The image was disturbing, and he shifted his eyes to the right, focusing his attention on the reflection of the bed behind him, keeping his eyes on the skirt that covered the open space beneath the box springs, watching for any sort of movement.
Reaching the closet, he grabbed the narrow handle on the far left side of the door and prepared to quickly slide it open, knife at the ready in his right hand. He met his own eyes in the mirror, saw fear there, then pulled the door to the right and cried, “Get out right now!”
There was no one in the closet.
He knew it immediately, but he swept the hanging clothes aside just to make sure.
The closet was empty.