every hard surface that had previously absorbed this languid light now
reflected and amplified it. An eerie silver radiance suffused the
night, denying me concealment.
I dared not attempt to cross the broad brick patio. In fact I decided
to stay well clear of the house and the driveway. Leaving via the same
route by which I had arrived would be too risky.
I raced across the lawn to the acre of rose gardens at the back of the
property. Before me lay descending terraces with extensive rows of
trellises standing at angles to one another, numerous tunnel-like
arbors, and a maze of meandering pathways.
Spring along our mellow coast doesn’t delay its debut to match the date
celebrating it on the calendar, and already the roses were blooming.
The red and other darkly colored flowers appeared to be black in the
moonlight, roses for a sinister altar, but there were enormous white
blooms, too, as big as babies’ heads, nodding to the lullaby of the
breeze.
Men’s voices arose behind me. They were worn thin and tattered by the
worrying wind.
Crouching behind a tall trellis, I looked back through the open squares
between the white lattice crossings. Gingerly I pushed aside looping
trailers with wicked thorns.
Near the garage, two flashlight beams chased shadows out of shrubbery,
sent phantoms leaping up through tree limbs, dazzled across windows.
Sandy Kirk was behind one of the flashlights and was no doubt toting
the handgun that I had glimpsed. Jesse Pinn might also have a
weapon.
There was once a time when morticians and their assistants didn’t pack
heat. Until this evening I had assumed I was still living in that
era.
I was startled to see a third flashlight beam appear at the far corner
of the house. Then a fourth. Then a fifth.
A sixth.
I had no clue as to who these new searchers might be or where they
could have come from so quickly. They spread out to form a line and
advanced purposefully across the yard, across the patio, past the
swimming pool, toward the rose garden, probing with the flashlights,
menacing figures as featureless as demons in a dream.
The faceless pursuers and the thwarting mazes that trouble us in sleep
were now reality.
The gardens stepped in five broad terraces down a hillside. In spite
of these plateaus and the gentleness of the slopes between them, I was
gathering too much speed as I descended, and I was afraid that I would
stumble, fall, and break a leg.
Rising on all sides, the arbors and fanciful trellises began to
resemble gutted ruins. In the lower levels, they were overgrown with
thorny trailers that clawed the lattice and seemed to writhe with
animal life as I fled past them.
The night had fallen into a waking nightmare.
My heart pounded so fiercely that the stars reeled.
I felt as though the vault of the sky were sliding toward me, gaining
momentum like an avalanche.
Plunging to the end of the gardens, I sensed as much as saw the looming
wrought-iron fence: seven feet high, its glossy black paint glimmering
with moonlight. I dug my heels into the soft earth and braked, jarring
against the sturdy pickets but not hard enough to hurt myself.
I hadn’t made much noise, either. The spear-point verticals were
solidly welded to the horizontal rails; instead of clattering from my
impact, the fence briefly thrummed.
I sagged against the ironwork.
A bitter taste plagued me. My mouth was so dry that I couldn’t spit.
My right temple stung. I raised a hand to my face. Three thorns
prickled my skin. I plucked them out.
During my flight downhill, I must have been lashed by a trailing rose
brier, although I didn’t recall encountering it.
Maybe because I was breathing harder and faster, the sweet fragrance of
roses became too sweet, sharpened into a half-rotten stench. I could
smell my sunscreen again, too, almost as strongly as when it had been
freshly applied-but with a sour taint nowbecause my perspiration had
revitalized the scent of the lotion.
I was overcome by the absurd yet unshakable conviction that the six
searchers could sniff me out, as though they were hounds. I was safe