Leslie's Journal - Allan Stratton [34]
When I get to his house, her Camry’s not in the driveway. Is she away, or just upstairs comatose, the car in the garage? I check my watch. It’s not quite noon. I can’t believe she’s out already; Jason told me she sometimes sleeps all day.
I ring the doorbell. It’s one of those chimes that are supposed to sound elegant but just sound phony, like the ones at upscale shoe stores. No answer. I ring again. Still nothing. Time for drastic action—I grab the brass door knocker and bang away for all I’m worth.
Silence.
What now? I can’t leave. Not without what I came for. But with all the noise, the whole neighborhood must be watching. If I try to break in, they’ll call the cops for sure.
I get this wild idea. I wave at the empty living room window, like there’s somebody inside, then say in a loud voice, “Oh hi, Mrs. McCready. You want me to meet you in the garage? Okay.”
What, am I crazy? Like that’s supposed to fool anybody?
Relax. If the neighbors are nosy they’ll have seen me around here with Jason. They’ll already be back to watching TV.
I take a deep breath. The garage door lock’s been broken since Jason gave it a boot a month ago. I raise the door a bit, slip inside and close it behind me.
I know the hiding place for the house key is under the watering can by the garbage pail. Why do they even have a watering can? As if Mrs. McCready’d be caught dead holding one. As for Jason’s dad, he’s never home long enough to water.
I let myself in. The warning from their security system starts beeping, but that’s okay. Before the alarm goes off, I punch in the code and disarm it. I’ve seen Jason punch it so often, I know it by heart. 8-7-4-2, the last four digits of their phone number. What a stupid code. Like, do they want to get robbed?
Okay. I’m inside. The alarm is turned off. So far so good.
All the same, I’m afraid to move. Even though nobody’s around to hear me, I’m terrified of making a sound. It’s as if I think the furniture is alive, listening for intruders. How do guys steal for a living? Aren’t they afraid to give themselves heart attacks?
I have a flash that maybe I’m not alone, that Mrs. McCready really is here, that she didn’t hear me because she’s downstairs working out on her X-Trainer. “Mrs. McCready?” I call out. “It’s me. Leslie.”
Silence. I’m alone.
I don’t have much time. I better move fast.
Jason bragged he hid the memory card upstairs. That means his bedroom. Anyplace else, his folks could find it by accident.
I’m there in a heartbeat. But where do I look? How do I find it? It’s barely the size of a dime.
I take a deep breath. Have to start somewhere.
I drop down, check under his bed, between his box spring and mattress. Throw over his rugs. Empty his desk. Shake out his books, knock over his lamps. Stand on a chair, run my hands above the wings of his ceiling fan. Tear the posters off his wall. No luck.
I turn to his closet. His mom does his clothes, so it’s likely not there. But where else to look? I search the pockets of his pants, jackets. Rip out his drawers, toss socks and underwear everywhere. Reach to the back of his sweater shelves. Nothing.
On the closet floor, there’s a cardboard box to the left, a tackle box to the right, and eight pairs of shoes in between. I shake out the shoes, throw them behind me. I rummage through the cardboard box, pitching the works: A baseball and glove. Ratty jockstraps. Condoms and lube wrapped in a T-shirt from Florida. But no memory card.
I’m down to the tackle box. I snap up the lid. I catch a quick flash of lures and fish hooks. And then—
The phone rings. My heart stops. It rings again. Silence. Either they’ve hung up or the voice mail’s kicked in. I hold my breath as if somehow the person who’s calling can hear me. Am I insane?
I glance around the room. Holy shit. It looks like a crime scene. It is a crime scene. No time to put things back. There’ll be cops. I’ll be charged with a B&E!
I panic.