Devil's Plaything - Matt Richtel [85]
I drive past their Spanish-style, three-story home. Inside, lights are on upstairs, but shades make it impossible to see shape or movement.
Outside, the front yard is a mix of succulent plants, including one towering cactus, and neatly arranged pebble ground cover. Near as I can tell, the backyard opens to the Pacific Ocean. I pass the house and park half a block away.
I walk casually through the quiet neighborhood, the trick-or-treaters bedded down already. I approach the front door. I do not have a plan. I reach for the big brass door handle. It’s locked. No surprise.
I peek through the long vertical windows on either side of the door. Inside it’s dim. I can make out an entryway, and a table with stacks of paper on it. Looks like the day’s newspapers and mail. I realize with relief: no dog. But stuck into the pebbles next to the doorway is a sign indicating the house is protected by ADT Security.
I walk to the side of the house. The backyard is surrounded by a white picket fence. I ease over it. Then pause, frozen by what I see: great beauty. Lit by a nearly full moon, the ocean rolls in and out at the bottom of the cliffs, hundreds of feet below these blessed residences curving along the coastline. Small waves crash foamy white, creating a rhythmic cacophony, at once violent and calming. I feel a sudden desperation for sleep. I push the sensation down and turn to the house.
In the upstairs, I see light in two rooms at opposite ends of the house. Downstairs, darkness. Immediately in front of me is a door that, I can see upon creeping closer, enters into an open pantry that leads to a kitchen. I try the door. It is locked.
I slink along the back of the house to a set of double doors covered on the inside with a slatted blind. Twisting my neck to see between the slats, I make out a formal dining room. The doors are locked.
I move to the next set of double doors. These are protected by a thick curtain, precluding any view inside. I reach for the door handle. It turns. Reflexively, I recoil.
I feel in my pocket and discover the pointed wine opener I took from Chuck’s living-room bar. It’s a meager weapon, unless I encounter a hostile bottle of Pinot Noir.
I push open the door.
There is enough moonlight for me to make out the décor: floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, Victorian furniture and trappings. Lots of insurance-company reimbursements funded these digs.
Then I hear the moan.
It is low, pained, husky and animalistic, like a dying animal. Or a dying neurologist.
I take two steps into the house and can make out the soft lump of humanity propped up against a desk at the far side of the room. Pete Laramer. His arms dangle loosely, palms up. He struggles fiercely to raise his right hand to his face.
Dark liquid stains his scrubs. The highest concentration spreads from just below his chest, the lowest edge of the rib cage, the apparent epicenter of a major wound. I rush toward him, then pause, taking stock.
“Heart okay . . . blood loss,” Pete manages to say.
I put my hand on his stomach to stanch the bleeding. Not a place you can tourniquet.
“Where are the girls?”
“Fuck you.”
He thinks I’m asking for purposes of attacking them.
“Are they safe, Pete?”
He takes a breath, and seems to accept my meaning. “Away with their mom. Fine. . . . Happier without their workaholic . . . unfaithful father.”
“Don’t talk.”
“You can love someone completely . . . love your family, need them . . . and still lead a double life.”
He’s wheezing. Punctured lung, or lungs.
“Bullet?” I ask. I’m trying to focus