He tried the other door, but still nothing.He patted his pockets like he forgot his keys, in case anybody was watching.No big deal.I’ll just go back and get them.He walked up the block, crossed, and came back.The twenty-four-hour laundry had a bell on the door, and when it rang, his heart jumped in his chest.Pins and needles ran through him: his neck, his chest, his belly.Then the sounds of water sloshing, clothes tumbling, a fan set to high.The lights were too bright, and the glare made him squint.Washers on one side.Dryers on the other.Everything new.The smell of detergent.
Places like these sometimes gave them out for free, but if they did, he couldn’t tell where.He checked the trashcan.A Big Gulp cup.Paper that had gone through the wash.Nothing.Next, the big countertop running down the middle, where you could fold your clothes.He got onto his knees.Nobody else in the whole place, just him, just the hum of the machines.And there, on the floor, where someone had dropped it: a wire hanger.
What the fuck are you doing?
Instead of making a loop, this time he jogged across the street.The Mercedes was still there, parked at the curb.Nobody had come out to look at the guy who had tried the door handles.Nobody was waiting for him to come back.As he crossed, he untwisted the wire hanger and bent one end of it into a vee.
From his wallet, he took out a thin piece of titanium.They sold it online, and it was the size of a credit card.It had little cutouts all over it.They called it a multi-tool because you could use this corner for a screwdriver and you could use—well, hell, he didn’t know.But one thing he knew was that it was thin and strong, and that’s what he needed.
Standing as close to the Mercedes as he could, so that his body blocked what he was doing, he slid the piece of titanium between the glass and the weatherstripping.Then he applied pressure—enough that his muscles tightened, but not so much, he hoped, that the glass would shatter.A moment later, he had an opening wide enough to slide the vee of the hanger through.It took him two tries to get the hanger around the little pull for the lock.Then he yanked.
The door popped open.
And the Mercedes’ alarm went off.
The headlights began to flash.Jem ignored them.This was a good neighborhood.Nobody was going to rush out here with a gun.Right now, they were all thinking somebody had pressed the wrong button on a key fob, or someone had parked badly and bumped another car in the process.Maybe a kid had gotten hold of the keys.And in a couple of minutes, they’d think the car’s owner was asleep or away from home, and they’d start wondering if they’d have to put up with the alarm all night.And—
It didn’t matter.He was already inside.
The glove box held tissues, two pens, insurance paperwork and car registration, even the original manual.The ashtray was clean.No loose change.In the center console, he found Binaca and a handful of loose peppermints.
Nothing.Not a fucking thing.Not that he knew what he was looking for.
What are youdoing?
It had to be here.Somethinghad to be here.He flipped down the visors.He twisted around to check the pockets on the backs of the seats.The trunk—
But the stopwatch in his head told him he was out of time.People were going to start getting annoyed.They were going to come to their windows, open their doors, check what the hell was going on.
He opened the glove box again and threw everything on the floor, to make it look like someone had busted in hoping to score something—
What?
—valuable.As he crawled out of the car, though, he stopped.
The visor.
He grabbed the garage door remote from where it was clipped.Then he got out of the car, shut the door, and hurried toward the corner.Were those lights in the apartments across the street new?Or had they been on before?At the gas station, a woman was peering out of the plate-glass windows.
Why hadn’t he worn a hat?Why hadn’t he taken the time to go back to the Subaru and get that stupid Jazz cap out of the back?Why hadn’t he turned around and donenothing—gone back to the car and sat there like he was supposed to?
His hand tightened around the remote, and the plastic bit into his palm.
Mouth dry.Face hot.Eyes blurry—the streetlights, one after another, turned into one long smear of light down the street.You have to blink, he told himself.His breathing was fast, and the inside of his mouth felt like it was coated with gasoline.He thought, maybe, he could smell Grey Flannel.Like he’d walked through a cloud of it.
You’re afraid.
But that was stupid because there was nothing to be afraid of.Absolutely nothing.He was fine.There wasn’t anything to be afraid of.
And anyway, it had all happened a long time ago.
If anything had messed him up, it had been Decker.Bouncing around?Going home to home?That was just something that happened.He barely thought about it.Barely even remembered it.
The yard had looked perfect for baseball.
Do you want a dog?
Raised voices made him try to clear his eyes again.
