“I want to drive by Antoinette Burgess’s house,” I said to Claire. “Get a fix on the place.”
The disembodied voice of the GPS guided us to Clark Lane, a narrow, tree-lined street with a sign reading DEAD END. Green picket fences edged the front yards, and behind the fences was an assortment of homes from different decades — Victorians, ramblers, Craftsmans, and ranches.
The house belonging to Antoinette Burgess was a cedar-shingled A-frame with a wraparound deck and a satellite dish on the roof. I saw no lights on inside the house and no car in the driveway.
I parked the Explorer on a pile of fallen leaves at the curb, and Claire observed, “Looks like no one’s home, Lindsay.”
I thought, Excellent opportunity to poke around.
I turned off the headlights and said, “Be right back,” and got out of the car.
Chapter 75
THE FRONT YARD was unkempt; the grass hadn’t been mown, and the leaves hadn’t been raked. To my right, a weedy gravel driveway flowed past the house to an open, freestanding two-car garage.
I flicked on my flashlight and proceeded down the driveway, the pea stone and dry leaves crunching loudly underfoot.
The garage smelled of motor oil, and there was grease on the floor. I flicked my light across a rowboat in the rafters, stacks of plastic tubs, and cartons of what looked like motorcycle parts: sprockets, valves, and brake shoes.
There was nothing of interest here.
I left the garage and headed toward the back of the house. Flashing my beam through the multipane windows. I could make out worn furniture, a woodstove, and a baby’s car seat on the kitchen table.
My eyes fixed on the car seat. It was blue and it was empty. My heart rate jacked up another twenty beats a minute as I put my hand on the doorknob and twisted.
The door was unlocked — but a half second before I pushed the door open, I saw a tiny red flashing light reflected in the microwave door across the room.
Burgess had an alarm system, and the house was armed.
I let go of the doorknob, and at that moment, I heard the distant sputtering and roar of motorcycles, a sound that got louder the closer it got to Antoinette Burgess’s house.
The bikes were coming to this house, I was sure of it. I had to get out of here.
I turned off my flashlight and retraced my steps by the waning glow of twilight. Claire buzzed down the window and called out to me, “You hear that, Linds?”
“Couldn’t miss it,” I said.
I pulled myself up into the driver’s seat and started the engine as a stream of seven or eight single headlights drew closer.
My wheels whinnied as I jammed on the gas, spun out, and left the curb in a sharp U-turn.
“That was smooth. You think anyone could possibly have noticed us?” Claire asked as she gripped the dash.
“Hey, that’s me. Subtle as a jackhammer.”
We passed the motorcycle cavalcade coming toward us and I continued up the street with my eyes on the rearview mirror. Bikes wheeled up to the Burgess house and turned down the driveway toward the garage.
Was Antoinette Burgess in that motorcade?
Where was the baby?
I glanced back at the mirror and saw the silhouette of a biker who had stopped at the entrance to the Burgess driveway. The bike was still there and the biker was still astride it as I took the next right turn and sped away.
Crap.
It looked like someone had taken down my plate number.
Chapter 76