Playtime (17 page)

The sun arcs across the sky as Blaine waits. And
waits. A couple of hours go by. He is about to go ahead and ease on up to the
side of the house again when the back door opens, and Sketch comes out and
heads for the Beamer. Blaine wonders if the Miata is stored in the garage.
Probably are several vehicles in it, anyway. It is big enough. He gets in and
backs the car down the drive, without a glance in Blaine's direction. 

 Blaine takes a deep breath. Now or never. He
thinks about his gun stuck up in the branches. Leave it behind now when he
really might need it? Screw that. He reaches up and grabs it, sticks it back in
his pocket. In for a nickel, in for the pot. He gets up and moves swiftly
towards the back door, takes a little lock pick that had come in useful before
for him from his pocket and jiggles it in the lock. The lock is just an
ordinary one, and he has it open in seconds. It had been quick when he saw Sketch
punch the code. He hopes what he thinks he saw is right. He tries it. The
systems always give you a few seconds to punch in the code before going off. The
alarm indicator pulses green. Nothing else shrieks or buzzes or goes off. He is
in. He shuts the door and resets the alarm with the same code in case Sketch
returns. 

 The inside décor matches the money of the house.
Stainless steel freezer, refrigerator. Huge kitchen island. Granite counters.
He sees all this in glances as he races through the rooms. The main living area
is huge, light and airy with 20 foot ceilings and windows. Stone fireplace the
size of an elephant. He moves on toward the back. Bedroom, another, laundry
room, game room with a pool table. Nothing out of place: all neat like just
cleaned. 

 He makes his way back to the large wooden
staircase and starts up. At the top of the stairs is a hallway that runs the
length of the house. He goes right. The first room is Sketch's office at home,
it looks like, with two expensive computers and a large mahogany desk. Then
another bedroom. Finally, at that end an exercise room with a full assortment
of treadmills, weights, elliptical trainers. Nothing else. Blaine is starting
to think this had been a fool's errand all along. The cops would have been here
if they had any serious suspicions, wouldn't they? It is only idiot citizens
like himself who so underestimate them. 

 He turns and heads back down the hall to the other
end of the house. Another bedroom. A room that looks like it could be where a
maid works, with an ironing board and cleaning equipment. The other end and a
final bedroom with a huge gun safe set against one wall. How many bedrooms does
one son of a bitch need? He checks the handle on the safe. Locked, of course.
Nothing else out of the ordinary. What now? 

 He stops, considers briefly. His heart is
thudding in his chest, and he is breathing like he has been running. The only
places he hasn't looked are the closets. He starts where he is and backtracks
through each and every room opening closet doors. Nothing. Nothing. More
nothing. Pauses again to listen when he thinks he hears something, realizes it
must have been his own breath rasping through his throat. Then he hears it
again. He is sure of it. It is a thump. He slides along the wall of the hallway
trying to figure out where it came from. Is Sketch back in the house?   

 He peers out through the tall window that
overlooks the drive but doesn't see the Beamer, thinks his nerves must be going
on him. Remembers the nights he has heard stuff in his own house and gone
racing to investigate, gun in hand. Wooden houses creak and moan all the time,
especially when you are running the heat or AC. The AC is droning quietly in
the background now. It had been running in the background since he entered.   

 Then he hears it again. He is sure of it. Some
kind of thumping noise. Very faint. It doesn't sound that far off. He looks
back down the hall trying to place exactly where it is coming from. But he has
looked at everything down that way. It doesn't make any sense. Maybe a pipe
thumping in the wall.   

 He hears it again, from the same general area,
and he walks down the hall in that direction. Hears it again, closer. He goes
in one bedroom and hears it again. It sounds like it is coming from the next
room, the one with the cleaning equipment and ironing board. He races back to
that room. Hears it again. Now it sounds like it is coming from the first room.
He races back that way, checks the closet again. Nothing. He walks back into
the hallway, puzzled, about to put it down to those creaking house
eccentricities he had been thinking about, when he suddenly realizes that the
distance between the two rooms appears larger than it should. He looks down the
hall at one door, back at the other then goes to the entrance of the first
trying to gauge the distance. If he's thinking right there is a gap of around
eight feet or so between these rooms that he is not seeing in the way they
look. He races back to the first, looks again. He has the terrible feeling he
is running out of time.   

 Thump. Thump. 

 He opens the door to the walk-in closet again.
Notices that clothing and suitcases and odds and ends are stored to the left
and right, but there is a bit of a gap in the center. There are strips of
paneling running up the walls, a style of wainscoting, it looks like.
Decorative.   

 But on closer inspection, he can see that on one
set of strips and directly on the bottom of the closet shelf there is a crack
that runs into the wall. He runs his hand along those strips, probing and
tugging. Finally, at one spot he tugs and it gives, and that area of wall
swings open. Beneath is the outline of a door. Only five feet tall and maybe two
feet wide but definitely some form of door. 

 Thump.   

 It sounds like it is coming from right in front
of him. Suddenly he hears a noise from down below, the sound of a door closing.
Sketch is back. Blaine hastily shuts the hidden door and puts the closet back
the way it had been, looks for someplace to hide. He hadn't seen the way into
whatever the hidden door led into. Maybe it was computer- controlled or remote-controlled
in some fashion. He pokes his head into the hallway, hears noise down below and
darts into the room across the hall. Looks for something to hide behind. Seeing
nothing that looks possible except the closet, he eases the door open and looks
in. Another walk-in. Plenty of room. He steps in and eases the door shut behind
him.   

 This closet has those doors that look like blinds,
with tiny cracks that run between them. He can see out in a limited fashion.
His breath sounds like thunder in his own ears, and he wills himself to calm.
Gradually the thunder subsides somewhat, and he can hear the house around him
again. He hears the clatter of silver and a refrigerator door thump shut,
drawers open and close. Sketch must be making himself something to eat.   

 He briefly considers making a move to get out of
the house, discards that option almost as soon as he has the thought. If it
weren't for the thumping noises and the door, that would be the thing to do.
Maybe the noises and the door are innocent, but he does not believe that. His
gut and his heart are telling him that Renee is there somewhere behind that
door. Getting out is not an option now. He feels the reassuring metal of the
Mag in his pocket. Only one way to go now and that is forward. If she
is
behind that door, he cannot leave her alone with Sketch again. No telling what
that bastard will do, or has done. Thinking of what he may have done already briefly
sickens him. He swallows, his throat dry. He cannot bear the thought. If Sketch
has hurt her, he is a dead man. No matter what the consequences are. His blood
is roaring in his ears again and he wills himself to calm. No, the only way he
is leaving here now is with a look inside that room. He takes the gun out of
his pocket, holds it loosely in his hand. Sketch may have laughed at it down on
the sand, but he will be laughing another way if Blaine has to use it this
time. 

The blood must have really been roaring in his ears,
because he is caught completely by surprise when the closet door swings open,
and he is staring down the barrel of a Desert Eagle .45. 

 "Just drop it," Sketch says. "One
wrong move with the hand it's in and I will splash your brains all over the
walls." 

 He knows he could get a shot off, but figures he
will get hit also. If he takes a hit off that gun he will be done, and then who
will help Renee? He loosens his hold and the .22 slides from his grasp and
lands on the carpet with a dull thud. 

 "Smart move," Sketch says. "You
weren't going to do any damage with that thing anyway. Why don't you buy
yourself a real gun?"   

 "You know what they say about guys that need
a big gun?" Blaine says. He's watching Sketch, hoping for a mistake. 

 "I'm pretty sure we've had this conversation
before," the big man says. "You're beginning to bore me, Blaine."
He steps back a couple of steps and waves the gun for Blaine to come out of the
closet. "About time you came out of the closet, my friend." 

 Blaine comes out and forward a few steps, looking
for an inch of opportunity, but the big man sees it in his eyes and backs off a
bit more. He has the coldest blue eyes that Blaine has ever seen. He gestures
for Blaine to move to the right, and stoops and picks up the .22, slips it into
his pocket. 

 "I thought you believed what I said out on
the sand," the big man says. "I was hoping I was done with you." 

 "I actually did believe it," Blaine
says. "You're a hell of a liar, if it was a lie. I just didn't have
anywhere else to look." 

 "Thank you," Sketch smiles. "I'll
take that as a compliment." 

 "Where is Renee?" 

 "Who?" the big man asks. "I don't
know any Renee. Just a poor, brain-injured son of a bitch who has lost touch
with reality, and broke into my house searching for God knows what. A prowler I
had to shoot." Blaine moves forward a hair, and the big man straightens
his arm, ready to fire. "Don't get tricky. Stay back." 

 "If you shoot me, you're going to get some
heat," Blaine says. "Nielson knows I'm looking for you. Your little
house of cards here will come tumbling down." 

 Sketch eyes him quizzically, thinking about that,
shaking his head as he does, but Blaine can see the wheels turning as the big
man weighs alternatives. "You believe everything you see and hear?"
he finally asks and smiles at Blaine with those large, white teeth. After a
second, Blaine links that back to his computer, but keeps his face impassive.
He thinks about letting Sketch know he knows about his secret room. Maybe he
would stick him in there with Renee. At least they would be together. He
decides against it for now, just on the general principle that the more your
enemy doesn't know you know, the better, though he can't see any use for that
information right off the bat. Maybe if the big man thought he didn't know
anything, he would relax his guard some.   

 "So why don't we just call it even,"
Blaine says. "I had you under the gun once, now you've had me that way
once." He forces a smile. "Call it square, call it a draw. Hell,
everybody's entitled to be wrong once." 

 "That's not quite the way I see it,"
the big man says. "I didn't follow you out of some club, pull a gun on you
on the beach, or break into your house." 

 "Maybe you've got a point," Blaine
says. "But I've looked around and haven't found anything. Maybe it's time
to admit I was wrong and just let the cops handle it. Unless you've got something
that you need to tell me," he says, staring at the big man intently. 

 But those porcelain blue eyes never even waver.
The big man stares back like a land shark. "Turn around," he says. 

 Blaine tenses, wondering if this is it, if he
should make his move, and the big man reads him like a billboard. "I'm not
going to kill you," he says. "I just want to secure your hands so I
don't need to worry about you every second. Besides, you don't think I want to mess
up the entire room with blood splatter, do you?" 

 Blaine gets a chill, but turns and puts his hand
out behind him, and a moment later he feels a plastic loop slide over them and
tighten. "That's better," big man says, and gives them an extra
little tug to snug them up. "I don't think you'll give me too much trouble
like that." Blaine can hear the smile in his voice and sees it when he
turns around. He's standing there, apparently helpless, with his hands secured
behind him with what feels to be something similar to those plastic cuffs the
cops use, but he actually almost feels better. Overconfident is how he wants
the big man. Much rather have him that way than tense and jumpy. With
overconfidence, at least he has a chance. 

 But that feeling goes away when the big man slaps
him. Not hard enough to draw blood, but plenty hard enough to hurt. Blaine
stumbles back, and the big man stalks him, hits him with another open hand.
Blaine sees the enjoyment in his eyes as he sets up, drills him with one more. 

 "Thought you were pretty cute out on the
beach, didn't you?" Sketch says. "Shoe's on the other foot now, isn't
it? What you didn't realize was, I was holding back some out there. You really
think I was that easy to whip?" 

 "Take these things off my hands,"
Blaine says, "and we'll see how tough a guy you are." He has backed
off into the corner facing Sketch, crouched down to be a harder target to hit.
"The cops find these markings on my wrist they won't buy your prowler
story anyway." 

 Why not?" the big man says, "I was
trying to restrain a prowler who got loose and attacked. I'm just a homeowner
protecting my property. You don't think this is my first dance, do you? I've
been taking care of business for a while, Blaine. Though what I really am is a ladies'
man," he says, with that cold smile again, and Blaine can't help himself,
all thought flees, and he launches himself forward head-first at the big man,
trying for the head butt, but Sketch backs a step, shifts to the right and
slaps him easily to the side. Blaine tilts back the other way and runs at him
again. Again the big man slaps him to the side then laughs. "This is kind
of enjoyable," he says, then sweeps in, shoves Blaine while kicking his
feet out from under him. Blaine lands hard on his side on the floor, struggles
to get up to his knees as the big man watches, laughing. "Not that easy
without your hands, is it?" he says and knocks Blaine down again. 

 Blaine is breathing hard and trying to think of
some way to turn things around, even the odds up, when he hears a splintering thud
of a sound from downstairs, like wood being cracked, and he sees the big man's
eyes go wide and knows he hears it too. 

 Suddenly, the butt of the Desert Eagle smashes
into his head, and all goes dark. 

He has only been out for a second, he thinks, when
his eyes blink open again. Big man is gone, and he moves to try and rise, but
his feet will not obey him, and when he looks down he sees another of the
plastic strips has been used to secure his legs. Damn, he thinks, and wonders
what the noise had been. Then he remembers the knife he always keeps in his
back pocket. Knives come in handy in so very many ways that he never travels
without it. It is a just a small pocket knife but sharp. He moves his hands
over to his pocket, and strains, gets the fingers of one on the knife and draws
it out. Getting it open is not that difficult, but positioning it to cut the
plastic is a bitch. Finally, he puts it on the plastic and begins drawing it
back and forth, trying to gain purchase on it. He had flexed his hands when
Sketch snugged them up, and there is some slack. He feels the knife begin to
cut in, but a small bit of play is all he has, and it is slow going. He saws.
He saws. Then he feels the plastic give, and his hands are free! They are not numb,
and he wastes no time and goes straight to work on his feet. The plastic is
tighter on them. Strips his little gloves off and stuffs them in his pocket. He
is not sure where big man has gone or what he is up to. He needs every chance
he can get. He cuts through the tie and stands up, eagle eye on the door,
hopping and clasping his hands to restore good circulation. Where is Sketch?