Code Crisis by Joe Purpura

Author:Joe Purpura [Purpura, Joe]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Greenleaf Book Group Press

FORTY-THREE

THE WEATHER REPORT CALLS FOR the pitiless furnace of northeast wind we call a “sundowner,” but at eight twenty this evening all I feel is the brutal weight of still air. The heady smell of eucalyptus concentrates into an arid, woody blend that burns eyes. Carolyn’s property is far enough up Picacho Lane to catch some of the rising onshore coolness, but no luck tonight.

I take five at the entrance, making sure I wasn’t followed by any more creepy gray sedans, then key in the code. The gate swings, and immediately something’s off. I’ve been up here without moonlight, yet tonight it’s a deep black cavern, almost a new shade of blue. Normally she’s got every light on so the place looks on fire, but I barely see the outline of her house against the last of the twilight.

Farther down the brick drive, I see a reflection of light from the house on the garage windows. I relax and picture her shoes off, flopped on the couch, something good on the Sonos. When I get to the circle by the front door, there’s no light, no life, just the bulk of her big-ass house looming even larger in the dark. The reflection wasn’t from house lights, but from a dim yellow fixture over the garage doors.

I wait, hoping she ran to the garage for something, and I’ll soon see that wide smile and dreamy eyes Carolyn deploys only after six. I stand by her front door, listening. Nothing. After entering the code, I put my shoulder on the carved beast of a door, lean in, and feel the hit of her cologne, her candles, fresh flowers, and lavender sprigs. Carolyn’s world.

“Hey, Slim! Where are you?” Silence, save for the whoosh of ceiling fans—good, no power failure.

I walk to the glowing light switches in the kitchen and flick everything. There’s Vermentino, cold and unopened, puddling condensation. Next to that, the distinctive cork from Templeton Rye, no bottle in sight.

My steps echo on tile as I walk to the fireplace in the kitchen’s eating area. Her midnight blue Rag and Bone clutch sits eager on the table. Good again, no burglary. There’s a shoebox, open and empty, spewing tissue paper. The sight makes me ill.

My heart bangs away, but I’m grateful for taking her up on carrying my Glock. I pull it and shout again, with no answer other than reverb off floors and empty hallways. I check upstairs and it’s empty. That leaves only the garage, detached and a long fifty-yard walk in the dark.

My cell phone light helps for two or three feet in front of me, yet it’s hard to remember my way. Left of the front door, then curving along the library’s windows, then slowing down for the change from gravel to flagstone pavers set into the grass leading up to the garage. But I misjudge and almost face-plant. Who the fuck builds a stone and grass “play area” for their goddamn car?

As I get close, I see through the side door’s window a flicker of light.

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