BLIND TRIAL, Brian Deer [top 10 motivational books .txt] 📗

from a pocket in his pants, and flashed it along the side of the house. Halfway back, he saw shadows of saw marks in the clapboard, top-to-bottom through the three lowest boards.

Skeet tightened Velcro straps on a pair of black gloves, crouched, and tugged the wood.

Cruu-unch.

Shit, this was nasty. The earth jumped with critters. The crap he put up with for that company. But better suffer bugs than break any glass: the first thing crime scene guys look for.

He laid the boards aside, bellied down in the dirt, clamped shut his jaws, and rolled inside.

THE CRAWLSPACE dropped six feet to a cellar. Skeet nearly dropped all six. Inches before tumbling, he stuck the flashlight between his teeth, and grabbed hold of a beam. Fucking lucky. Below him, he saw a bed frame, a mattress against a wall, and a table that might take his weight. He lowered himself silently and sank to a squat, balancing on outstretched fingers.

He brushed dirt from his shirt and a spider from his collar. The air stank of mildew and dust. Pipes and cables hung from a row of heavy joists, and an aircon duct ran left–right. The Maglite picked out rusty car wheels, a pile of rolled carpets, yard chairs, a griddle, jars of nails and screws, and a pushbike with no handlebars.

Skeet sprang to the floor—scattering clouds of gray powder—and moved to a twelve-step staircase. At the top, a paneled door pushed open on a hallway with a polished board floor. No creak. With flicks of the Maglite, he saw a bathroom one way, a kitchen the other, and, ahead, two rooms. All dark.

He crept to the kitchen—with a tiled floor and center island—then through an open door to a dining room. From there, sliding doors led left to a living room. Everywhere the furniture was old.

Left again to the hallway and a study full of books.

The Shaggy Man of Oz

The Lost Princess of Oz

The Magical Mimics of Oz

The flashlight beam settled on an old wooden table, with a stack of framed certificates leaned against it. University of Pennsylvania… Tufts University… The School of Oriental and African Studies…

He returned to the hallway, gripped a wooden banister, tested a stair tread, and began to climb. He counted eleven steps to a second-floor landing, where he slipped away the flashlight, and counted six more steps in darkness. Then—right—another landing and a four-paneled door with a metal handle: oval, maybe brass.

That meant an old lever and noise, he thought. He wrapped the handle in his palm and tugged. His wrist twisted right, then he eased the door forward. A crack opened with the faintest squeak.

Enough light from the street poked in through the oaks to figure the layout of the room. It was carved into the roof space, squared-off below the gable, with French doors and two sash windows. The walls were pale. Gray or blue? Nightstands flanked a queen-size bed.

With his face squeezed tight between the door and frame, he saw a dressing table, closet, and chifferobe. Two heavy lanterns hung from chains. Between them spun the blades of a fan.

Windows: shut. Aircon: running. This room was the coolest in the house.

He pushed the door wider and made out a body, sleeping. This looked safe enough. But not certain. He’d made that mistake pulling night jobs in the past. Nothing worse than a freak-out when you’re working. He paused and listened… and listened… and listened… to the rasp of an old woman’s breath.

He stretched his right foot and tested the floor. Smooth. No carpet. No creak. He shifted his weight. Another step. No creak. The floor was okay.

All good.

Gently, he turned and retreated to the landing. More gently, he pulled the door shut. He twisted the handle, eased the door into the frame, and released it.

The faintest click.

Fifty-four

AT THE corner of Sixth and Juniper in Midtown, the scene outside Bluestreak—Atlanta’s newest nightclub—was like the hour before a game at State Stadium. Chattering posses in shorts and T-shirts climbed from cars. Dinner-suited bouncers barked crowd-control orders. Three admission lines snaked into the lobby.

At two in the ayem, Ben’s legs felt the damage of a seven-block walk from the pond. He hadn’t leaned long on the rail by the water: too soon it seemed the towers got to fighting. But it wouldn’t take much in the club to change the subject. With luck, he might even get laid.

“All alone?” asked a blond lady when he joined the shortest line.

“Looking for love.”

“Good luck.”

“Probably need it.”

Inside, he grabbed a Heineken and a shot of Early Times, downed both, and searched for his dealer. He found him loitering outside the first-floor restroom, pretending to be waiting for a buddy. They greeted with a handshake. Ben passed three bills. Another shake and two tabs came back. He stood at a urinal, dick hanging free, swallowed one, and slipped the other in his wallet.

The club’s quiet zone was around four blue pool tables where guys with sucky haircuts and not-so-washed jeans waved cues and rattled balls into pockets. Women were mostly seated: not many, and few alone. But chicks look hotter against a backdrop of guys. And when he cued it meant they got to check his ass.

Two women to his right had the look of possibility. But, as he watched, they held hands and kissed. Excellent. A spectacular foxy lady with a necklace like tennis balls appeared to be on the loose in the back. He scored eye contact—fleeting but meaningful—before some slob lurched over to join her.

And then it happened. How could it not? He saw a lady like Sumiko at a table. She was reading a book—a real paper book—and sipping from a glass of red wine. She might be Japanese, Korean, or something Eastern. Was this the magic of fate?

But he didn’t go over. “What’s won is done,” as some writer once put it. All Sumiko had wanted was a good, hard fucking before shacking up with a guy who looked like her