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

towel draped forgotten on the fence.

He paused in the lot and checked his BMW before climbing eighteen steps to the walkway. He passed curtained windows, slipped a key into the deadbolt, and paused to think.

That’s weird.

The levers didn’t move: the deadbolt wasn’t locked. Could he have forgotten when he left last night? Was dementia setting in, or had drugs fried his brain? Either way, he was getting pretty slack.

He pressed a second key into the cylinder lock and pushed. The apartment smelled mountain fresh.

He kicked shut the door, stumbled to the kitchen, and gulped a tumbler of water. Then he leaned against the stove and gazed at the appliances. Who said he’d never keep this place clean? He untwisted green glow sticks, hooped around his neck, and threw them on the counter.

Clatter-rapp.

He pulled open the dishwasher, yanked out a wire tray, and unloaded it of mugs and plates. He stacked them in a cabinet with saucers and egg cups, pushed its door shut.

And froze.

Lying on the counter, not a foot from his hand, was a pale blue cardboard package. It was stamped with pictures of brown Swiss rolls and the grinning cartoon face of Little Debbie.

12 Cake Rolls—Twin Wrapped—Net Wt 13 Oz

The pack was open and empty.

Shit. What the fuck? That wasn’t here. Little Debbie products made him puke. Someone had been here. This wasn’t like the deadbolt. He couldn’t have made this mistake.

And now he rethought. He didn’t make a mistake. He did double lock the front door.

Somebody had gotten in during his hours at Bluestreak.

What’s more, they mightn’t have left.

Something like this happened at Cleveland Avenue. He snagged a burglar: caught him in the act. He came home one afternoon after a canceled lecture and found a guy going through their stuff. The intruder took off, and Ben let him go, but afterward wished he hadn’t. When Luke got back, they did a check on what was missing: eighty-five bucks and a watch.

He studied the kitchen: nothing else looked suspicious. But kitchens aren’t rooms to burglarize. He felt his blood pounding… Maybe they weren’t thieves… Maybe they’d another agenda. Or maybe they were thieves and dangerous if cornered. This wasn’t a good time to lose your phone.

Silently, he opened a drawer under the counter and lifted out a nine-inch knife. Then he edged toward the dining area and listened… and listened… but heard only birds on the roof. He crept through the living room and paused beside his bookshelves. He spotted nothing missing or disturbed.

The curtains were shut against the morning light. But there—something else—on the floor. Right by the window—beside his stone Buddha—he saw a milk carton and cellophane wrappers.

No question: he was freaked. This was serious shit. A burglar would hardly take time to snack.

Gently, he retreated, swung open the front door, and propped it back with a stool. If someone was here, they’d be in the bedroom or bathroom. There was no other place to hide.

He’d brandish the knife, back off slowly, and shout all the way to his car.

He thumbed the blade’s edge. He’d use it… Do it. Don’t even think… Just do it.

Then he edged toward the bedroom, right arm forward. He could feel his heart pumping in his fingers.

At the doorframe, he saw the Gibson… Thank Christ for that… On the floor: red Joe Boxer shorts. He’d bought them months back in a store on North Halsted—but hadn’t worn them lately or left them there.

He turned sideways to the door and peered past the hinges.

Nobody stood behind.

He breathed.

The bedroom was brighter than the rest of the apartment, with one curtain half open to the walkway. He stepped through the door and—there—by the window, he saw the intruder on the bed.

He was naked, gym-toned, with cropped brown hair, and lay like a runner mid-sprint. If he wasn’t a couple of years shy of thirty years old, you’d think he was sucking his thumb.

Around his feet: a tangled sheet. By the bed: a pair of boots—black, Cuban-heeled. Ben had worn them. Beside the boots: a leather bag and a canvass backpack. On the backpack, a shirt: cream, button-down. On the shirt: a fleur-de-lis pattern tie.

Ben withdrew the knife and laid it on the backpack. The fuck you doing here bro?

They’d practically had a fist fight Memorial Day weekend about keeping spare keys to the apartment. Luke had refused them, storming out to his Spider. “Seven hundred miles each way?”

But Ben prevailed. The meaning was the main thing. He wanted Luke to have his keys.

Fifty-six

LUKE FELT a bounce, a sheet breeze across him, and a shoulder press against his back. At least Ben wasn’t dead, behind bars in California, or trying to squeeze some lady in between them. Luke exhaled, “What’s up,” heard a mumbled, “Uh-huh,” took several long breaths, and fell asleep.

When next he woke, it was nearly noon Central, and Ben had wrapped an arm round his waist. Luke rolled over and looked at his friend, who appeared to have been punched in the face. His left eye was stained mauve, yellow, and red. He’d taken one hell of a whack.

Luke extended a finger and touched Ben’s nose. It felt swollen, maybe a ridge, possibly broken.

Eyelashes flickered. The window reflected. That familiar blue glistened.

“I know.”

Luke rolled away. “So, what’s up buddy?”

“Not a lot. Welcome to my world.”

Luke threw back the sheet, vaulted across the room, took a piss in the bathroom, and headed to the kitchen for coffee. He returned with two mugs and set them on the floor, then showered and climbed back into bed.

“So… What’s going on?”

“You know you’re still wet?”

“And there was me thinking I was wet.”

AT PARKER’S Bagels on Monroe Drive, yellow umbrellas shaded the brunch crowd, where the Chicago pair sipped Americanos. Between them, a table was spread with half-eaten sandwiches, a pair of Maui Jims, and Luke’s Motorola One cellphone.

“You were saying?” Luke spoke through roast beef and cheddar cheese. “Sorry to miss your call Friday.”

With mention of the message from the Ukiah