Sara Paretsky - Blacklist

Twice, cars went past and I ducked into the shrubbery. I thought about cutting across the fields, but I’d make less noise on the tarmac. I was betting Renee Bayard would wait until morning to call the sheriff, but I couldn’t be sure of it-the Wabash Cannonball moved fast, and if she thought her granddaughter was sheltering a murderer, she’d act at once. I was also betting Catherine wouldn’t try to slide out past her grandmother again tonight, but I couldn’t be sure of that, either.

When I turned up the Larchmont carriageway, I slowed down, stopping periodically to listen to the night sounds. Jogging had warmed me up; now I could feel the late-winter air against my back. A wind had come up, rustling the leaves and dead grasses, making me stop more often-in my nervous state, every noise sounded like someone moving through the underbrush.

When I reached the house, I first made a tour of the outbuildings, looking for any signs of other people. I had uneasy visions of Renee Bayard or the DuPage sheriff leaping out at me, but I didn’t see anyone. A loud crashing near the pond sent me to the ground, my heart hammering, but it was only a couple of white-tailed deer, startled into flight by my approach.

At last I crossed the yard to the big house, to the main entrance on the

west side, where white columns supported a domed porch. Without giving myself time to think it over, I ran the last twenty feet, jumped and grabbed the crossbar between the column capitals. The sore muscle in my shoulder protested, but I moved fast, bending my arms, pulling my body up, hooking my legs around one of the columns so my thighs were bearing my weight. I stuck an arm up to the edge of the dome, found a stone knob that I could hang on to, and heaved myself up, landing like a dying fish on the curved surface.

When I’d caught my breath, I scooted backward until I was leaning against the wall. From my vantage point, I could see more of the grounds. The only movement I could make out, besides the wind rustling the dead grasses, was of the deer, returning to the pond. Through the bare tree branches I looked at the night sky. Wisps of clouds floated across the moon, but the stars were bright and crisp and close, the way they never are in the city. My burst of alert energy was fading; I started to doze off.

Get up and get your head in the game, Warshawski. I could hear my high school basketball coach’s deep bark almost as if she’d been standing next to me. I forced myself to my feet and looked at the window behind me. It led into an upper hallway, but it held the telltale markers of the security system. Which meant going up another layer. There was no easy access to the third story, no columns to shinny up, but gaps in the old mortar left finger-and toeholds here and there. I started up.

I’ve always thought wall climbing was a stupid sport. Fumbling about for purchase, testing each hole where I stuck my fingers, pulling myself up half a foot at a time with throbbing muscles and trembling legs, going cheek to cheek with rough bricks, so that when I slipped I had a raw spot from forehead to chin-none of that made me change my mind.

I was very aware of how clear a target my dark clothes presented against the whitewashed brick. And that if I lost my grip and fell, I’d bounce off the domed roof underneath and break… well, a lot of bones. And that anyone lurking inside would have enough advance warning of my approach to be waiting for me with lead. A bullet or a pipe, or maybe molten in a pot, the way they did it in the Middle Ages. By now I was sweating freely, and not merely from exertion: imagination is not a gift for a detective.

The third-floor windows had narrow ledges, not wide enough to kneel

on, barely wide enough for me to stand splay-legged like a graceless ballerina. I hung to the top of the frame, gasping for breath, soothing my raw face against the cool glass.

Before adding to my racket by breaking the glass, I tested whether the window was even locked. The sash was stiff, but it moved-the security system on the first two floors had made Julius Arnoff and the titleholder complacent. When I had a wide enough gap to stick my arm through, I pulled up on the inside sash to lift the bottom half. I had to move along the narrow ledge like an Egyptian figurine, but I managed to slide my right leg through the gap, to ease down to a sitting position, one leg inside, one dangling outside, and finally push the window far enough open to duck into the house.

I pulled the headlamp from my day pack and switched it on. I was in one of the thirteen bedrooms described in the 1903 newspaper. No one had thought it worth redecorating, or even cleaning, for years. Dust was thick on the floor. A water leak was sending brown fingers down the faded wallpaper.

I tiptoed through the dust and opened the door onto a long uncarpeted hall. I -moved as quietly as I could, opening each door, looking in closets, in bathrooms, not seeing anything. Stairs rose from the lower floor halfway along the hall. I peered down. This was the top end of the main staircaseon the floor below me, the bannisters grew large and elaborate; presumably, by the time they reached the ground, they would be equal to what I’d seen at the Bayards’ yesterday morning.

On the far side of the main staircase, tracks appeared in the dust. Catherine Bayard, I had to believe. I followed her steps to a door at the end of the hall. I opened it quickly, crouching low behind it in case someone started shooting. No lead came pouring down at me. Instead, a scared little voice called, “Catterine, it is you?”

I straightened up and turned on my headlamp. I was looking up a flight of narrow stairs at a youth in sweatshirt and jeans. His dark eyes were wide with fear. Far from trying to attack me, he seemed too frightened to move.

I stood still and spoke in a calm, slow voice. “I’m sorry, but Catherine can’t come tonight: her grandmother won’t let her out of the house.”

He didn’t say anything. He looked very young and vulnerable, like a fawn frozen in a clearing. He was gripping the handrail so tightly his knuckles showed white through his dark skin.

“Can you tell me your name and why you are in this house?” I spoke in the same slow, gentle voice.

“Catterine, she say I stay here.” His voice came out in a whisper. “Why is she hiding you?”

He swallowed convulsively, but didn’t speak.

“I’m not here to hurt you. But you can’t stay in this place any longer. People know you’re here.”

“Who know? Catterine, she say she tell no body.”

“The woman who used to own this house lives across the street. She has seen your light, your and Catherine’s lights, through the attic windows. The woman has a son who is a-friend-of mine.” The youth was so

frightened I didn’t want to tell him I was a detective. “Her son asked me to find out who is living in his mother’s old house.”

“And now what you are doing? You are telling police?” “I’m not telling the police. Unless you killed someone.”

“Kill? I not kill, you cannot say I kill, I am in house, not killing!” In his panic, his voice rose. We’d been speaking in whispers, so that the sudden shout was shocking.

Fatigue was making it hard for me to concentrate. Also I was getting a crick in my neck from staring up at him. “I want to come upstairs so we can talk properly”

As I started up, he began to retreat, his big eyes not wavering from my face. The staircase ended in a large open area with skylights overhead. So this was where light seeped out for Geraldine Graham to see. When Catherine came, she and the boy sat talking by flashlight or something. I switched off my headlamp-I hoped before Geraldine noticed it.