David was surprised to find a convenience store at the address listed for Devonshire. He parked in front of the building, got out, and went into the store. While paying for a carton of orange juice he asked one of the two clerks if he knew Clyde Devonshire.
“Sure do,” the man said. “He lives upstairs.”
“Do you know him well?” David asked.
“So-so,” the man said. “He comes in here a lot.”
“I was told he had a tattoo,” David said.
The man laughed. “Clyde’s got a bunch of tattoos,” he said.
“Where are they?” David asked, feeling slightly embarrassed.
“He has tattooed ropes around both wrists,” the second clerk said. “It’s like he was all tied up.”
The first clerk laughed again, only harder.
David smiled. He didn’t get the humor, but he wanted to be polite. At least he’d found out Clyde had tattoos where they could be damaged in a struggle.
“He’s also got a tattoo on his upper arm,” the first clerk said. “And more on his chest.”
David thanked the clerks and left the store. He walked around the side of the building and spotted the door to the stairs. For a brief instant he thought about trying the door, but then he decided against it. He owed Angela that much.
Returning to his car, David climbed in behind the wheel and checked the time. He still had twenty minutes before his meeting with Sherwood: time for one more address. The next closest was Van Slyke’s.
In just a few minutes David turned onto Van Slyke’s lane. He slowed down to check the numbers on the mailboxes, looking for Van Slyke’s. Suddenly, David jammed on the brakes. He’d come abreast of a green truck that looked a lot like Calhoun’s.
Backing up, David parked the Volvo directly behind the truck. It had a sticker on the back bumper that read: “This Vehicle Climbed Mount Washington.” It had to be Calhoun’s.
David got out of his car and peered into the truck’s cab. A moldy cup of coffee was sitting on the open glove compartment door. The ashtray was overflowing with cigar butts. David recognized the upholstery and the air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. The truck was definitely Calhoun’s.
David straightened up and looked across the street. There was no mailbox in front of the house, but from where he was standing, he could see the address painted on the riser of the porch stairs. It was 66 Apple Tree Lane, Van Slyke’s address.
David crossed the street for a closer look. The house was badly in need of paint and repair. It was even hard to be sure what color it had originally been. It looked gray but there was a greenish cast to it suggesting it had once been pale olive.
There were no signs of life. It hardly looked like the house was lived in except for the indentation of tire tracks in the gravel of the driveway.
David hiked back to the garage and peered inside. It was empty.
David then returned to the front of the house. After checking to see that no one was observing him from the street, he tried the door. It was unlocked and it opened with a simple turn of the knob. He pushed it open slowly; the rusty hinges groaned.
Ready to flee at the slightest provocation, David peered inside. What furniture he could see was covered with dust and cobwebs. Taking a deep breath, David called out to determine if anybody was home.
If there was, no one answered. He strained to hear, but the house was silent.
Fighting an urge to flee, David forced himself to step over the threshold. The silence of the house enveloped him like a cloak. His heart was racing. He didn’t want to be there, but he had to find out about Calhoun.
David called out again, but again no one answered. He was about to call out a third time when the door behind him slammed shut. David nearly passed out from fright. Experiencing an irrational fear that the door had somehow locked, he frantically re-opened it. He propped it open with a dusty umbrella stand. He did not want to feel enclosed in the building.