steering wheel–though it might not be a person at all but a talisman
hidden elsewhere in the vehicle, a magical object beyond his
understanding and to which his destiny is linked for reasons yet
unclear.
The killer almost starts the Honda to follow the attractant, but decides
the stranger in the Ford will return sooner or later.
He puts on his shoulder holster, slips the pistol into it, and shrugs
into the leather jacket.
From the glove compartment, he removes the zippered leather case that
contains his set of burglary tools. It includes seven springsteel
picks, an L-shaped tension tool, and a miniature aerosol can of graphite
lubricant.
He gets out of the car and proceeds boldly along the sidewalk toward the
house.
At the end of the driveway stands a white mailbox on which is stenciled
a single name–STILLWATER. Those ten black letters seem to possess
symbolic power. Still water. Calm. Peace. He has found still water.
He has come through much turbulence, violent rapids and whirlpools, and
now he has found a place where he can rest, where his soul will be
soothed.
Between the garage and the property-line fence, he opens the gravity
latch on a wrought-iron gate. He follows a walkway flanked by the
garage on his left and a head-high eugenia hedge on his right, all the
way to the rear of the house.
The shallow backyard is lushly planted. It boasts mature ficus trees
and a continuation of the sideyard eugenia hedge, which screen him from
the prying eyes of neighbors.
The patio is sheltered by an open-beam redwood cover through which
thorny trailers of bougainvillea are densely intertwined.
Even on this last day of November, clusters of blood-red flowers fringe
the patio roof. The concrete floor is spattered with fallen petals, as
though a hard-fought battle was waged here.
A kitchen door and large sliding glass door provide two possible
entrances from the patio. Both are locked.
The sliding door, beyond which he can see a deserted family room with
comfortable furniture and a large television, is further secured by a
wooden pole wedged into the interior track. If he gets through the
lock, he nevertheless will need to break the glass to reach inside and
remove the pole.
He knocks sharply on the other door, although the window beside it
reveals that no one is in the kitchen. When there is no response, he
knocks again with the same result.
From his compact kit of burglary tools, he withdraws the can of
graphite. Crouching before the door, he sprays the lubricant into the
lock. Dirt, rust, or other contamination can bind the pin tumblers.
He trades the graphite spray for the tension tool and that pick known as
a “rake.” He inserts the L-shaped wrench first to maintain the
necessary tension on the lock core. He pushes the rake into the key
channel as deep as it will go, then brings it up until he feels it press
against the pins. Squinting into the lock, he rapidly draws the rake
out, but it does not raise all of the pin tumblers to their shear point,
so he tries again, and again, and finally on the sixth try the channel
seems to be clear.
He turns the knob.
The door opens.
He half expects an alarm to go off, but there is no siren. A quick scan
of the header and jamb fails to reveal magnetic switches, so there must
not be a silent alarm, either.
After he puts the tools away and zippers shut the leather case, he steps
across the threshold and softly closes the door behind him.
He stands for a while in the cool, shadowy kitchen, absorbing the
vibrations, which are good. This house welcomes him. Here, his future
begins, and it will be immeasurably brighter than his confused and
amnesia-riddled past.
As he moves out of the kitchen to explore the premises, he does not draw
the P7 from his shoulder holster. He is sure that no one is at home. He
senses no danger, only opportunity.
“I need to be someone,” he tells the house, as if it is a living entity
with the power to grant his wishes.