The Dark House by John Sedgwick Page A

and peeling peach-colored trim that seemed all the more drab in the fading light. The houses around it were all neatly landscaped with well-tended shrubs, lush grass, and weedless flower beds. The Cape had only a parched lawn and a pair of scraggly rhododendrons by the front steps. But it did have a small satellite dish and, by the walkway, a sign out front bearing the words THE SLOANE RESIDENCE in cast iron.
    â€œWill you look at that,” Marj said from the driver’s seat. “That little fucker.”
    Rollins was in the backseat, his head low. The whole trip from Boston, he’d been scanning the rearview for any signs of the gaunt man. More than twenty-four hours had passed since the episode outside hisapartment, and Rollins was beginning to feel a little silly about his continued vigilance. As he kept telling himself, he had only sensed the gaunt man, after all, not actually seen him clearly. Still, as a precaution this evening, he was also wearing a Boston Red Sox baseball cap—a memento from that abortive baseball game of almost a year ago—with the brim down low over his eyes. Al Schecter had once mentioned how a hat helped conceal your identity.
    Rollins and Marj were in her Toyota this time. Marj had said she’d been afraid Sloane might recognize Rollins’ Nissan from the Elmhurst house, but Rollins had the odd idea that she was trying to assert control.
    â€œYou sure you want to?” he’d asked, as they left work.
    Marj hadn’t hesitated. “Sure I’m sure.” Then she’d thrown it back at him. “Why, you’re not?”
    â€œNo, no, it’s fine with me.”
    It had taken Rollins a little while to get used to her driving. She went a little faster than Rollins might have liked, and faster still when approaching yellow lights. But she was an attentive and confident driver, and before too long Rollins had stopped sneaking anxious looks at the road up ahead, and concentrated entirely on the road behind, watching to make sure they weren’t being followed.
    Rollins had found the address—14 West Marshfield Road, in this modestly upmarket section of Medford—on Sloane’s business card. Driving out tonight, Rollins had half-expected the address to turn out to be a vacant lot or some other dead end. But here it was, with that SLOANE RESIDENCE sign as a giant advertisement for itself. Sloane’s green Land Cruiser was in the driveway, by a rusting basketball hoop.
    â€œSlowly now.” Rollins tapped Marj’s shoulder (hitting bare skin on either side of the strap of her halter top) for emphasis as he craned around to get a good look at the house from the side window. The downstairs drapes were pulled, and the lights were all off on the street-side rooms above, making it hard to see anything inside. But, from the dilapidated exterior, Rollins picked up a strong impression of negative cash-flow.
    Marj drove down to the end of the street, then U-ed back for a second look.
    On the return, Rollins checked for possible sight lines from behind the house, but it backed up onto the wide waters of the Mystic River. “See any good angles from the back?”
    â€œNot without swimming.” Marj stopped again two houses down from Sloane’s, where they could see the murky water flowing past. “What about from over there?” She pointed to what looked like a kiddie park on the river’s far shore, maybe a hundred yards off.
    Rollins could barely make out a swing set and some tiny plastic horses in the twilight. “You kidding?” Sloane’s window would be barely the size of his fingernail from there, not to mention blurry. “My eyesight isn’t that sharp, you know.” The girl still had a lot to learn.
    â€œThat’s what you think.” Marj reached down to the floor in front of the passenger seat and handed Rollins a small shopping bag. “I got you something.”
    Rollins pulled it back over