Marcia Muller - Locked In

He loved this house-even more than Touchstone or the ranch house that he’d inherited from his stepfather. Loved it because of the life they shared here on a regular basis. Allie, the calico cat, jumped onto his lap and pushed her nose at his hand for reassurance. Ralph, the orange tabby, crouched near the hearth, eyes watchful. Disruption like this affected animals as deeply as people, Hy thought, maybe more so because they couldn’t understand what had gone wrong.

“So,” John said belligerently, “are you or aren’t you pissed off?”

“I’m more than pissed off,” he replied. “Do I want to hunt the shooter down and kill him? Damn right. But at this point your sister needs me. Besides, the whole agency’s on the case. They’ll come up with something soon.”

“And then they’ll turn the info over to the cops, who’ll arrest the prick. There’ll be a trial. If Shar dies, maybe he’ll get the death penalty but only after fifteen years of appeals-”

“She’s not going to die.”

They regarded each other silently.

“You’ve got to believe that,” Hy added.

John’s eyes went remote. Hy imagined what he was seeing: McCone as a little girl who resembled no one else in the family, supposedly a throwback to their Indian great-grandmother. McCone as an annoying preteen, always wanting to help him and their brother Joey with repairing their cars instead of playing with dolls the way she should. The high-school cheerleader; the first of them to go to college; the investigator who had reluctantly let her brother join in on a couple of cases. Hy knew much of this from Shar; he knew even more now because John had been waxing nostalgic-bordering on the maudlin-since he’d come up from San Diego and moved into their guest room nine days ago.

Frankly, he was sick of it.

To forestall any further reminiscences, he said, “Okay, say the folks at the agency identify the shooter and don’t go to the police. What happens then?”

“We lure him to someplace where the body’ll never be found and blow him away.”

“Not so easy to do.”

“What d’you mean? The whole California and Nevada desert is a boneyard. There’re still people out there in Death Valley looking for the remains of Manson Family victims-and that happened over forty years ago, man.”

“So how do you lure this guy to the desert?”

John frowned.

“Or do you kill him wherever he is and drive the body there-taking the chance you’ll be involved in a traffic stop? How do you kill him? You don’t know guns. A knife, strangulation? I’ve killed before, and it’s not easy. In fact it’s the hardest thing there is, even in self-defense. Just ask McCone-”

He realized what he’d said, put his hand over his eyes. Sweat began beading on his forehead and all at once he felt disoriented.

John stood and his big hand touched Hy’s shoulder. “Hey, bro, I’ll ask her as soon as I visit tomorrow. Even if she can’t talk, she can answer me.”

The driveway was going on forever, and she couldn’t see a thing. Didn’t these people believe in lights?

The town of Sonoma had looked old-fashioned and pretty, with its central square and courthouse and restaurants and shops that had to be way out of most people’s price range. Touristy-lots of people on the streets even at this hour. Couples holding hands; families eating ice cream cones. But the highway up the Valley of the Moon passed through a couple of rundown places full of shacks and old trailer parks, and then she was in the dark, wide-open country. She’d almost missed the secondary road that would take her to Peeples Winery. And now this…

She’d lived in the city too long to feel comfortable in the country. Had been born in Watsonville, but barely remembered Santa Cruz County or those artichoke fields her folks had worked-

What was that? A house lit up like a Christmas tree. Dios , it was huge-long and sprawling pale tan stucco with a second-story galleria and a steep tiled roof. Big old oak trees were illuminated by floodlights. No wonder the Peepleses had skimped on the driveway lighting: their PG &E bill must be thousands a month.

She pulled into the circular driveway, braked at the flagstone walk to the carved double front doors, then-suddenly ashamed of the car-moved it forward into the shadow of one of the oaks. She’d been so proud the day she bought the blue Toyota-her first car ever. Now it reminded her of how ordinary and marginal her life really was.

Well, maybe not so much any more. Things were going well. Next year, if she was careful about spending, she’d be able to send Tonio to a private school.

She went to the door and rang the bell. Soft, pretty chimes inside.

About half a minute later, Mrs. Peeples opened it. She was more frail than the last time Julia had seen her, and moving the heavy door seemed a strain. “Ms. Rafael,” she said, her lined face tense, “thank you for coming.”

“I’m glad to help.”

“Please, come in.”

She stepped into a long hallway running the length of the central wing of the house. When Judy Peeples struggled to shut the heavy door, Julia helped her. She noticed the tall, gray-haired woman was short of breath and took her arm to steady her. Mrs. Peeples smiled faintly and accepted her support.

“We’ll go back to the den, where my husband’s waiting,” she said.

The den was at the rear of the house, past big, dark rooms opening off the hallway. Small and comfortable. Deep corduroy-covered chairs, faded and wrinkled from years of good use. Small color TV and a wall covered with bookshelves. Books also on the floor and end tables. The Peepleses matched the décor, both casually clad in jeans and T-shirts, Tom’s ripped out at the knees. Tom was white-haired, tall and lean, with the kind of sun-browned face that told you he worked outside.

Judy Peeples had seemed on edge when she opened the door and now, in her husband’s presence, even more so. Julia could feel the tension in the small room. Tom grunted a greeting and glared at his wife. Obviously Julia had interrupted a fight.

He said, “I told you to call her cellular and cancel.”

“I couldn’t do that, Tom.”

“This is a reckless course. It could bring ruin to us, the winery, and Larry’s memory.”

“Of course Larry’s memory comes last on the list.”

Julia looked around and took a chair opposite where Judy Peeples stood in a defensive stance over her husband.

“You know,” Mrs. Peeples said to him, “your objections aren’t valid. We will survive. The winery will survive. But what we found in the tack room could be our only hope of learning what happened to our son. The only way of bringing him home to us.”

How much cash had they found? And why was it in a tack room, of all places?

Julia said, “Mr. and Mrs. Peeples-”

They ignored her, turned up the volume of their argument.

“You’re glad he’s gone,” Judy said. “He was always an embarrassment to you.”

“How can you say that? I loved our son.”

“Past tense.”

“I love him.”

“Nonsense. You’ve always looked down on him because you think he lacks intellect. And because he’s gay.”

“I think he lacks drive, not intelligence. As for him being gay, I have no prejudice in that area. Didn’t I invite that Ben friend of his for weekends and holidays? Didn’t I show him every courtesy? Don’t I still, whenever he drops in?”

“A butler would behave more warmly than you do.”

“Please listen to me,” Julia said.

Neither of them looked her way.

“Goddamn it, Judy, what do you want from me?”

“What do I want? I want my son back!” Judy Peeples bent forward from the waist, hugging her midriff, and began to cry. “This may be our last opportunity-no matter what he’s done-to find him and bring him home.”