At a traffic light, I felt that sensation of being watched again. No black cars behind me. I glanced to the side to see a woman quickly face forward after staring at me in an amused way. I then realized that I had been rehearsing aloud.

Maybe I’d just wait until Stephen Gerard’s photos were developed.

I was almost to the house when I remembered that it had been a while since I had used my flashlight. I pulled into a convenience market parking lot, took the flashlight from the glove compartment, and tested it-sure enough, it gave only a dim glow. I bought batteries, and after checking to see if any black cars were following me, I was on my way again.

I turned down the alley that ran behind the Griffin Baer mansion, wondering if I would be able to park in front of the garage door again, or if Max’s BMW would be in that space. The BMW was not in sight, so I pulled as close to the doors as possible to allow any traffic in the alley to get past me. It occurred to me that I could check the plates on Max’s car, to see if they matched whatever plates might show up in Gerard’s photos. The garage was unlocked now, but I was so close to it, I ran the chance of scratching the Ghia if I opened the doors. I thought of moving my car, but decided I’d wait until I was leaving and take a look then.

The gate to the backyard was latched but no longer locked, so I went in that way and walked toward the house, carrying my flashlight. Several windows were open, and I smiled thinking of Max running around opening the place up, trying to get the mustiness out of the house. The wind would help- if it didn’t cover everything inside with a fine layer of sand.

A note on the back door said, “Bell broken. Come in.”

A man of few words.

I turned, entered the house, and found myself in a huge kitchen. There was enough light coming in through the windows to allow me to save my new batteries. The appliances, to my disappointment, were not what they had been in the 1920s and 1930s. Even a big white oven and a curvy refrigerator from the 1940s would have been okay with me, but they were boxy and blah and appeared to have been installed in the late 1960s. An avocado green electric stove. A harvest gold refrigerator. A glass-topped wrought-iron table. Lots of white tile interspersed with a line or two in the avocado color.

“Max?” I called. I heard my voice resonate in that not-quite-an-echo way sound travels through the emptiness of a big house.

I heard the wind whistle through the little gaps and crevices only the wind can find in a house. No other reply.

I walked over to one of the kitchen doors and opened it. An empty pantry. A second one opened on to a laundry room. Harvest gold washer and dryer. I was glad Max had enough money to replace appliances.

I crossed the kitchen and pushed on a swinging door that led to a dining area. Sun-faded orange carpet here, with dents showing that a heavy table had taken up most of the room. Max had his work cut out for him.

“Max?” I called again, a little louder.

I walked out of the dining room into a large open space and fell in love.

Wooden floors, alcoves and arches, built-in cabinetry and bookcases, a huge stone fireplace, an old chandelier. The room was spacious and bright, with high ceilings and large double-paned windows that looked out toward the park along the bluffs and the Pacific beyond.

The room was beautiful, the view was spectacular, but after that first admiring moment, I began to feel uneasy. Perhaps it was because the room was quiet. No sound of the traffic on Shoreline penetrated the windows. No sound of the sea, either. The open windows were all at the back of the house, it seemed. That didn’t make any sense-the coolest air would come from the ocean. Why didn’t Max open some of the windows on this side of the house?

Why hadn’t Max come downstairs, for that matter? With the windows at the back of the house open, he must have heard the Karmann Ghia coming down the alley-my father always complained that it sounded like the arrival of a Panzer division.

As if, I chided myself, you are so special, Max is listening for the sound of your car.

There was a short hallway leading to other rooms on the ground floor, but my eyes were drawn to a staircase with an ornate banister that appeared to be made of mahogany inlaid with a geometric design of brass and mother-of-pearl. I stood at the foot of the stairs and called up. “Max? Are you here?”

I heard a soft creak above me.

Upstairs, then.

At the top of the stairs was the short end of a wide L-shaped hallway. As I turned the corner and stepped into the longer section, I was nearly in darkness. A small amount of light came from one partially opened door at the end of the corridor. That was it. Nine or ten other doors, each of dark wood, flanked the rest of the hallway.

I turned the flashlight on.

I heard another creaking sound; it seemed to be coming from the open room at the far end.

“Max!”

I yelled his name at the top of my lungs that time. It felt good to shout, because the rest of my body seemed unwilling to move. Stephen Gerard’s confirmation that I was being followed by someone was getting to me. Even as I told myself it was just an empty house, my imagination led me to believe someone or something lurked behind each closed door.

I had just decided to leave when I heard a soft moan.

I stood frozen for a brief moment, then hurried down the hallway. What if Max had been hurt?

I stayed in the middle of the hall and glanced nervously at the closed doors as I passed them, expecting at any moment that someone would jump out from behind them to grab me. I reached the open doorway and looked in.

I heard myself give a little scream.

Max lay curled on his side on the floor, bound and gagged. His face and shirt were covered in blood. I quickly knelt beside him. “Max!”

His eyes fluttered open briefly, then closed again as he moaned-the same moaning sound I had heard moments before. I don’t think he really registered my presence. There was a cut above his brow, but some other wound had caused blood to flow down his neck and back.

I wasn’t sure what to do first. I glanced around. The room was an empty bedroom. The whole house was vacant-no medical supplies would be in the bathrooms or elsewhere.

I tried to remember my first-aid lessons.

Air. Everyone needed air. Worried that the duct tape gag might make it hard for him to breathe, I decided I should remove it. I turned the flashlight off and set it down, not needing it with the light coming in through the windows. Using both hands, one to hold his skin, the other to grasp an end of the tape-and wincing on his behalf-I slowly pulled it away from his skin and off his mouth. That made him moan again, but his eyes didn’t open.

Bleeding. I should try to stop the bleeding.

I carefully moved his head onto my lap, grabbed a pack of tissues from my purse, and held one of them to the cut on his brow. I gently searched through his hair for the wound on his head-I found a gash at the back and pressed the rest of the tissues to it. They quickly became soaked, as did my hands, my pants suit, and my blouse. I took off my jacket and tried using it to apply pressure.

I attempted to free his hands, which were taped behind him at his wrists, but that nearly caused me to drop his head on the floor, so I gave that up.

Maybe I should just go to a neighbor’s house to get help, I thought. I looked down at my blouse. Would anyone in this snooty neighborhood open the door if they looked through a peephole and saw a blood-covered stranger standing on the front porch? I doubted it, but maybe I could shout to them to call an ambulance.

As I worried over this decision, the closet door behind me flung open and a man in a ski mask rushed toward me. Before I could do anything other than look up at him in a dumbfounded way, he had covered my mouth and nose with a cloth soaked in something with a sweet medicinal scent. His other hand grabbed the back of my head and pressed me forward into the cloth. I tried clawing at his hands, which were gloved, but the pressure only increased. I quickly grew dizzy and felt slightly ill. The room was spinning wildly-spinning away my ability to think clearly. I felt an odd sensation of floating, even as I struggled in discomfort. Fear stayed with me-a cold, raw terror that wasn’t softened by my confusion. Within seconds, I felt myself hovering on the brink of passing out, tried to use the fear to fight against that. Now I was going to be sick after all, I thought. I became dimly aware of a second pair of gloved hands pulling mine away from the hand that pressed the cloth.