Deadly Edge: A Parker Novel (7 page)

It went without trouble. The music still pounded away down there, the audience was even louder than before, and it was likely the show would run over the minimum length. Still it was not quite ten minutes to two, their deadline, and they were well on their way.

The upstairs office was as they’d left it. Briley ran up the furniture staircase, and Keegan and Parker handed up the three laundry bags and two toolkits. They’d turned the light on when entering the room, and Parker turned it out again after Keegan and Briley were both out and up on the roof. Then he followed them.

Morris had come over from the fire escape. “Not a bit of trouble,” he said.

“Nor us,” Briley said.

“Here’s something,” Keegan said. He was still finding things to be disgusted about. “That lousy Berridge has us loused up. We’ve got five things to carry and now there’s only four of us.”

Morris said, “I’ll carry two. I’ve had a nice long rest. I’ll carry the money.”

Morris went first, carrying two of the laundry bags. Briley followed, with the bag containing his own clothes, followed by Keegan and Parker, each with a toolkit, Parker carrying the kit that had been left upstairs, the one with the snaps on the outside for carrying the ax.

It was strange not to hear the music. Going down the fire escape, they heard the sounds of the city instead; few sounds at this hour, mostly traffic.

The Strand Theater’s fire door looked the same as usual, but was different in that it had been unlocked from the inside. Grasping the lip overhang at the bottom, it was possible to pull the door open.

Keegan had the flashlight, and didn’t turn it on until they were all in the theater and Parker had closed and relocked the door. Then the light shone out across the cluttered empty stage—this had been a vaudeville theater long ago, when it was first built and movies weren’t important yet—and they picked their way slowly through the
rubble; the screen, sound system, and some other things had already been stripped out of this building.

The third toolkit and the
Union Electric Co.
coveralls were where they’d left them, in seats near the back of the theater. Briley scaled the guard’s hat through the darkness toward the stage, and they all took off their masks and put on the coveralls. Keegan had put the flashlight on an armrest at the end of an aisle, pointing its light toward the stage, and their movements in front of it as they put on the coveralls made bat-shadows fly all over the high empty interior of the building.

Morris went first, carrying a toolkit out to the truck, waiting for them in front of the marquee. They heard him start the truck engine, and then the rest of them came out, carrying things, Parker and Keegan making two trips. The street was almost deserted, only two cars going by in the time it took them to load the truck. Parker sat up front beside Morris, Keegan and Briley sat in back on the bags of money, and Morris drove them away from there.

The first time they were stopped at a traffic light, Morris said, “Any trouble in there?”

“No. It went the way it was supposed to.” He thought about the laundry bag in the wrong place, and being short one man to carry things away from there, but they were points too minor to mention.

“Sounded like nice music.”

Parker had nothing to say to that. The light turned green, and they drove on.

The house they were heading for, Keegan had rented two weeks ago, though none of them had been there since, until they’d left their cars in the neighborhood and suitcases in the house earlier today. It had taken Keegan
four full days to find a house that suited their needs, and this one had checked out right down the list. In the first place, it was owned by a realty corporation rather than an individual, which meant that so long as the rent was paid, no one would be dropping by to chat with the tenant. Second, its neighbors on both sides were commercial concerns that closed in the evening—a supermarket on one side, a hobby shop on the other. It had a garage and a good-sized backyard, all enclosed by a high board fence. It had come furnished, including a phone, so no one would be wondering why the house was standing empty, particularly since Keegan, the day he took the place, had set time switches that turned lamps on at six P.M. every day in the living room and one of the upstairs bedrooms, and switched them off again a little past midnight.

It was called Dornwell Street, and the house number was 426. When Morris drove the
Union Electric Co.
truck down Dornwell Street now, it was silent and dark and empty, the buildings black on both sides, the only illumination coming from wide-spaced streetlights. Morris turned into the driveway at 426, cut the headlights, and came to a stop. Keegan climbed out of the back of the truck and trotted up to open the garage door, a segmented aluminum door that slid upward. Morris drove the truck into the garage, and then all four of them carried everything into the house, turning on a small worklight over the stove in the kitchen, until they had themselves and everything else inside. Then they switched on the round fluorescent light in the middle of the ceiling.

Keegan had stocked the place with food this morning, and now he and Morris stayed in the kitchen to broil some steaks while Briley and Parker carried the blue plastic laundry bags into the dining room.

The dining room had no windows, and the wide entryway to the living room could be closed by sliding doors recessed into the walls. They closed these doors now, and then switched on the overhead light fixture and emptied the first of the laundry bags onto the dining-room table. They’d chosen the bag with Briley’s clothes in it first, and Briley went away to change while Parker sat at the table and began the split.

They would stay here two or three days, depending on what the radio told them about the local law activity. The cars they had parked around the neighborhood were all clean, and shouldn’t attract any attention.

Briley came to the side doorway, which they’d left open because it didn’t expose them to any windows. He said, “Parker.”

“What is it?”

“You better come take a look.”

Parker got up from the table and went with him. The hall led to the front door at one end and the kitchen at the other, with the living and dining rooms opening off it along the way. The staircase was across the hall from the living room, with the bathroom between it and the kitchen. Briley, still in his coveralls, his clothes still over his arm, led the way to the bathroom and stood aside for Parker to go in. He’d already turned the light on.

Berridge was lying on his back on the floor. The side of his head had been punched in, and a plumber’s wrench with the end bloody and hair-matted was lying on the floor between the body and the toilet.

They searched the house and it was empty.

PART TWO

1

Parker turned in at the new mailbox, with the name
Willis
on it. That was the name Claire was using here, because at one time Parker had lived under the name Charles Willis, and Claire was trying to make her presence in his life retroactive to the time before they’d met. So she was going to be Claire Willis for a while.

At the hotel in New York, where she was either to have been waiting for him or to have left a message, there’d been a message. He’d known when he’d taken the sealed envelope from the desk clerk that it meant she’d found a house. Somewhere in the northeast.

It turned out to be here, seventy miles from New York, tucked away in a rural corner where the state lines of New York and New Jersey and Pennsylvania all meet. It was a small house, country-looking, part gray stone and part brown shingling, built in the middle of a deep rectangular tree-covered lot between this blacktop road and the
edge of a lake called Colliver’s Pond. The driveway was crushed stone, there were trees and underbrush all around the house instead of lawn, and the two-car attached garage looked almost as big as the rest of the place.

The end garage doors were open, old-fashioned doors that swung out to both sides, showing an empty space inside. Next to it, in the half-light, stood Claire’s blue Buick, a legal car bought under her own name. The Pontiac Parker was driving was a mace, bought outside the law but with papers good enough to pass a normal inspection; a car on nobody’s wanted list.

Parker drove the Pontiac into the garage, took the two suitcases out of the trunk, put them out on the crushed-stone driveway, and was closing the garage doors when Claire came out of the main entrance of the house, wearing slacks and a white sweater, with a cloth tied around her head. She smiled but didn’t say anything, and came walking toward him as he finished closing the doors. She was tall and slender and self-possessed, with the face and figure of a fashion model, and as she reached him she put a very remote expression on her face, through which the smile still shone, and said, “Mr. Lynch?”

That was the name he’d had the first time they’d met. She needed to keep touching things, to be sure they were still there, and when what she touched was the past, Parker had nothing to say back to her. His past didn’t exist. He said, “Hello.” At the same time he didn’t want to rebuff her, so he reached his arms out and drew her in close.

She nuzzled his throat and said, “You smell like money.”

He laughed, a barking sound. “That’s the suitcase. I’ll show it to you.”

“And I’ll show you the house.” She stepped away from him, but kept one of his hands. “What do you think of it, so far?”

He didn’t think about houses, they had as much to do with his life as apple trees. But she needed an answer, so he said, “It looks fine. The outside.”

“There’s all sorts of advantages for us,” she said. “Come on in, I’ll tell you about it.”

Parker had to take his hand back to carry one of the suitcases. She went on ahead to open the door, and he carried the two bags. At the entrance, he nodded to the right and said, “Neighbors are close.” Spring foliage was skimpy on the trees, and a white clapboard house could be seen less than fifty feet away on that side.

“That’s one of the nice things,” she said. “Come on in, I’ll tell you everything.” Holding the door, she said, “You hungry?”

“Later. After I shower.”

It was a large country kitchen he’d entered, with old electrical appliances around the walls, an old porcelain double sink under the windows facing the neighbor’s house, and a red-and-yellow-patterned linoleum on the floor so old the lines of the floorboards underneath could be seen clearly through it. The formica-and-chrome kitchen set in the middle of the room was twenty years newer than everything else, but still thirty years old.

Claire shut the door. “We don’t have any neighbors. Both sides, empty almost all year. Come here, let me show you.”

Parker had put the suitcases down against the wall. Now he followed Claire through a wide doorway at the far left corner of the kitchen and into a large living room. Where the two garages took the front left quarter of the
house and the kitchen most of the front right quarter, this living room filled the left rear quarter, behind the garages. In the middle of the wall it shared with the garage space was a stone fireplace. Directly opposite the fireplace was a door, with several small-paned windows stretching away on both sides. Through these windows, and the glass in the door, the lake could be seen, and a small structure of some kind down by the water’s edge.

Claire led the way diagonally across the living room—it was furnished in maple tables and mohair chairs, all old and battered and lodge-looking—and through the door to a screened porch overlooking the lake. The air was cooler on this side of the house. She said, “It’s a lake. Most of the houses are just for the summer. The real estate woman told me there’s only fifteen-percent occupancy around the lake year round, and most of that is across there on the other side, because this side gets the wind in the wintertime. So we can live here all year without any neighbors, and then go somewhere else in the summer. That’s normal, too, a lot of people rent their houses in the summer. We can do the same.”

She was proud of herself, and it sounded in her voice. Parker knew she’d done her house searching with his specific needs at the top of her list, and she’d found a place that was perfect, and she was pleased with herself. He said, “It must have been hard to find a place like this.”

She smiled. “It took a while. But you can relax here, you don’t have to be on guard.”

There was no answer to that. He was on guard everywhere, it was natural to him. He said, “What’s that building down by the water?”

“A boathouse. There’s no boat, though. Want to see it?”

There was a slate walk from the porch steps across to the boathouse. Stumps showed where trees had been sawed away to give a clearer view of the lake from the house, but there were still several trees standing, and underbrush between. Boulders lined the water’s edge, with ropy shrubs growing out over some of them, and a wooden dock ran out over the water along the side of the boathouse.

There were spider webs across the closed boathouse door. Claire brushed them away, saying, “They build these new every day. I wish they’d get discouraged.” She opened the door, pushing it inward, and stepped inside, saying, “The floor’s very narrow here.”

The boathouse was about twelve feet wide and twenty-five feet long, with a concrete floor about eighteen inches wide along three sides. A vertical garage door closed the wide opening in the fourth wall; through its grimy windows the far shore of the lake could be seen. Water lapped at the concrete inside the boathouse about two feet below floor-level.

Claire said, “We can get a boat, if you want.”

Parker never liked to be in a place with only one exit, boat or boathouse included. He said, “Maybe later on. Let me get used to a house first.”

Her smile was a bit crooked. “That will be different, won’t it?”

They went back to the house. Parker had met Claire three years before, in Indianapolis. She was an airline pilot’s widow, and an in-law of her dead husband, a coin dealer named Billy Lebatard, had involved her in a coin convention robbery. Lebatard was an amateur with a rich fantasy life, and at the end the job went very sour, Lebatard was killed, there was bloodshed everywhere, and
Parker had dragged Claire out of the way at the last minute. They’d been together since then, but her one experience of his profession had been enough, particularly after the husband she’d lost in an airplane. Now she wanted to know none of the details of the ventures he went on, not even where he was going or how long he expected to be gone. When he was around they lived together—in resort hotels, mostly, up till now—and when he was gone she waited for him.