The sound of a car engine registers in Lori’s awareness. Someone going to work on a Saturday morning, or to an early breakfast at the pancake house. The engine idles behind her for several moments, the sound of anticipation itself. If she had the ability to sit up, she would lower the window, wave the car past. Perhaps it isn’t a car, but the hum of her own dreaming. But then, unmistakably, the sound of a door closing. Someone is finally coming to check on her. A concerned neighbor, or perhaps the police. It’s a wonder that it’s taken this long, a wonder that so many others have driven past indifferently. From behind this thought stalks another, darker possibility. This is no concerned neighbor, but a stranger with malign intentions. She lies helpless in her seat, conscious of the distance between the door’s locking mechanism and her own immobilized fingers. She is the perfect victim, supine and defenseless.
The inside of the car is silent as she waits, adrift in space. The passage of time has become strangely palpable, each moment billowing around her. In these suspended instants before a tap on her window, any outcome remains possible. And yet she is certain it’s Mitch who has come. She knows, in her blood, that it is her husband behind her, emerging from their old Acura, the one Mason drives to school with the mysterious gash on the passenger door. That’s the car he would have chosen for the hunt, for trolling through town for hours. Now that he’s found the Lexus here on Iron Horse Road, he will be walking toward it, his chest thundering with gratitude and fear. This can’t be good, he will be warning himself. If she’d simply broken down, why hadn’t she found a way to call, or walk home?
Lori is awake now, more awake with each second. At last, she opens her eyes to the moon roof and sees the gentle blue sky. It’s a sweet morning, she can see, very sweet. He will have almost reached the driver’s side window by now, preparing himself to look in. She’ll be seeing his face any minute, unslept and creased with worry, brown eyes as soft as the day she met him. He will peer in at her with an expression of relief and concern, of decades of life already lived and decades remaining, and then he’ll open the unlocked door and lift her out of the car. Just like that, he’ll lift her and take her home. She turns toward the window and waits. His face will appear any minute now.
WAMPUM
MICHAEL HAS already unlocked the pistol case. He keeps his eyes pinned to the road, to the vague weavings of the car in front of them, as they cross through town to the address on the invitation. The gate is open, winged by stone pillars and carriage lanterns. As Michael navigates the driveway, Rosalie surveys the grounds through the passenger window. Michael knows that she has seen other fine properties of course, but this is of another tier. He is aware of the weeks she’s spent preparing for this evening, having found the invitation where he’d buried it deep in the recycling basket. This is not something you ignore, she chastised, holding the card aloft.
The tennis court comes as no surprise. The green clay blends into the surrounding emerald acreage, the pleasant dips and hills, a miniature Ireland here on Pelican Point. The Christensens are the type of people who would build a court whether they play tennis or not, he thinks, the type who trust they will learn the game eventually, hire a private instructor, spend weekend afternoons rallying together. They are determined to reap their rewards, seize each moment as their due. They are, in this way, so much like children, Michael thinks. When the final collapse comes, they will simply and effortlessly crumble. It would be a kind of liberation to live like this, free from the burden of constant vigilance. He exhales audibly and Rosalie flashes him an admonishing glance.
They are met at the end of the driveway by a dark-skinned man in a bomber jacket. Michael’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. The man signals to them, gesturing alongside his body.
“Ah, a valet,” Rosalie says, keeping the dazzlement out of her voice.
Michael knows he will have to be fast. The valet opens the passenger door for Rosalie. The moment the door closes behind her, Michael reaches under the seat and slips the subcompact into the outer pocket of his sports jacket. He is out of the car before the bomber jacket has reached the driver’s side. He feels a rush of relief. Let the guy adjust the seat and change the radio station all he wants.
As the BMW slides away, he takes off his glasses, which are strictly reserved for driving and theater performances. He and Rosalie circle the house on foot, following the valet’s direction. It’s a sprawling Tudor with severe, half-timbered gables over a hulking stone base. The effect is heavy, almost medieval, out of sync with the waterfront setting.