Marcia Muller - Burn Out

Next I checked out the Saab. It too was dusty but nearly new, its interior clean and smelling of good leather. In the glove box I found a registration card in the name of Trevor Hanover. There was a trailer hitch, also nearly new, but with scratches that showed it had been used to tow something.

Gingerly I got down on my hands and knees and examined the tires. Well-defined tread. I ducked to look at the undercarriage. Pine needles caught there, similar to those in the grove where I’d found Smith’s Forester.

That was hard evidence.

It’s a little-known fact that, like humans, trees possess distinctive DNA. I’d once been involved in a murder case in the White Mountains, where a cone from one of the ancient pines that grow there was the star witness that ultimately convicted the killer.

Now for the house.

I tried the knob on the door leading to the interior. It turned smoothly and silently. Beyond was a large laundry room, with tile counters and top-of-the-line appliances. Through a connecting door I stepped into a kitchen that would have been the envy of any celebrity chef.

Another pain in my chest. I braced myself against a counter till it subsided. Even though the house’s interior was cool, I was sweating profusely. For a moment I felt disoriented, my sight blurring.

I’d covered a lot of terrain in bad shape. I was dehydrated and could have internal injuries.

There was a wall phone; I should pick up the receiver and call-

A sound came from somewhere deep in the house.

I shook my head, thinking I’d imagined it. The sound came again. I drew the gun, haltingly crossed the kitchen to a swinging door, and pushed it open. Beyond was a huge formal dining room. I stood in the doorway, steadying myself and listening.

The sound continued, a kind of faraway drone. And now I could identify it: someone talking-in spite of the deserted appearance of the house. Hanover? He could have flown in again, stashed the plane in the hangar.

I waited till my equilibrium returned. Then, gripping Hy’s.45, I went through the gloomy dining room full of heavy, antique furnishings that might have come from one of the state’s original land-grant haciendas, and paused at an archway on the far side. The voice had stopped.

Several seconds of silence. Then I heard a thump and a cry of frustration. It sounded as if it had come from the other side of the hallway I was facing.

I checked out the room opposite: a formal parlor, full of the usual uncomfortable furnishings and a grand piano. Empty.

The hallway was long and tiled, running from a large foyer by the front door, with many arches opening to either side; at its end, a wide staircase swept up to the second story.

I moved along the tiles, back against the wall, both hands steadying the weapon.

First archway: a den. Real he-man’s room, with stuffed animal heads, a TV that took up a whole wall, and a pool table. No one there.

Second archway: kids’ room. Toys, games, another big TV, jukebox-contemporary replica of those from the fifties-and comfortable furnishings.

Third archway: crafts room. Sewing machine, easel, paints. Canvases stacked against the wall. Supplies arranged in plastic storage boxes on shelving. The topmost painting was a good, though bleak, portrait of the surrounding high desert. It was signed “B. Hanover.” Betsy, the soon-to-be ex-wife.

I heard the voice again-subdued, more a mumbling now. Coming from behind the wide staircase. I glanced briefly into the rooms beyond the other archways as I moved ahead.

At first I saw nothing but the high backs of a leather couch and chairs and a wall whose French doors were covered with blinds; probably they were the ones I’d seen overlooking the pool area.

The mumbling continued. I moved into the room, slipped along the wall to the right. The furnishings were arranged in a U, with a handsome distressed wood coffee table in the center. Magazines were fanned out on it, next to a cordless phone unit whose handset was nowhere in sight. Beneath the table was a white, intricately woven area rug.

And on the other side of the coffee table, a man was down on all fours.

A bucket lay on its side next to him; water pooled on the hardwood floor between the rug and the French doors. The man was rubbing at a rust-colored stain on the rug. Back and forth, back and forth, pressing hard. Like a male version of Lady Macbeth.

“Buddy, Buddy, Buddy…”

I brought the gun up but didn’t speak.

“Why’d you say no to me, Buddy?”

He kept rubbing.

“Why, Buddy?”

I thought he sensed my presence then, because he looked up. But it was just reflex. The handsome face I’d seen in his publicity photos was crumpled and his mouth worked spasmodically. His eyes were dark, bottomless pits. I’d seen that look on people in shock, but never so extreme as this.

This was a man whose interior had been totally shattered.

Slowly I relaxed, lowering the gun. Neither Trevor Hanover nor Davey Smith was a danger to me or anyone else. Wherever this man had gone, he wasn’t coming back.

His mouth worked some more, and then he lowered his head and continued scrubbing.

“Buddy, Buddy, Buddy…”

The crowd of Thanksgiving Day revelers overflowed Ted and Neal’s spacious third-floor apartment on Telegraph Hill’s Plum Alley. They filled the living room and dining area, standing beside or sitting on the nineteen-thirties-style sofas, salon chairs, and ottomans, or hovering over the wine bottles and hors d’oeuvres spread on the long table. They sat on the spiral staircase or leaned against the chrome-railed catwalk that connected the apartment’s front and rear bedrooms above the dining area. They congregated on the deck, where a sweeping view of Alcatraz and the Bay provided a dramatic backdrop. The only room we’d all been banished from was the kitchen that was tucked under the staircase, where Ted and his life partner, Neal Osborne, were putting together another of their famous Thanksgiving feasts. Wonderful aromas drifted out: roasting turkey, tangy cranberry sauce, sweet apple-cider yams, and stuffing that I knew contained a powerful combination of spices and sausages.

Hy was on the deck, talking with Ricky. From my vantage point in the living room I watched the glint of sunlight on his dark blond hair and thick mustache. Felt a rush of pleasure at covertly observing the man who held my world together and supported me in everything I did.

I made my way through the crowd and rejoined Rae, balancing my wineglass on a plate laden with Neal’s traditional stuffed mushrooms, tiny cheese-filled tarts, shrimp, and crispy cheddar puffs. God, if I kept snacking this way I wouldn’t be able to eat any dinner.

Oh yeah? This was the first time I’d enjoyed food in weeks-maybe months.

Rae picked up the thread of our earlier conversation, which I’d interrupted to go to the trough. “So you phoned the guy at Tufa Tower from the ranch and…?”

“He-Amos Hinsdale-made an anonymous call to the sheriff’s department. Asked that they send a car to make a welfare check at Rattlesnake Ranch. I walked out and he picked me up before the car arrived and an ambulance followed.”

“You ream this Amos out about lending you a plane that nearly caused you to die?”

“I didn’t have to; he felt terrible about putting me in so much danger. In fact, he drove me straight to a clinic in Bridgeport to have me checked out for injuries. Badly bruised ribs and sternum, was all, and he insisted on paying for everything, as well as telling the FAA that he was piloting the plane when it crashed. Now he’s decided to scrap his other plane, which is even worse than the one I crashed.”