The 56th Man Read Free

state park. After passing an apartment complex near the
bridge exit, he saw nothing but residential housing on the bluffs
overlooking the river. It was a sedate, older neighborhood, with
chrysanthemums, asters and dahlias draped down the slopes like
tossed bouquets. Across the road a chain of black-eyed Susans were
like token charms on the forest that shackled the river.
    He crossed Huguenot Road, collecting one or
two irate honks from drivers coming up from the toll bridge. To
him, that too was part of a normal traffic pattern.
    Riverside continued, sloping down until it
passed another park entrance, then flattening along a field that
was nearly level with the river. Traffic signs advised Ari that
there were pedestrians in the area and that the speed limit was 20
miles per hour. He found them nonsensical--both the limit and the
pedestrians, some of whom flagged at him with their arms. Slow
down? Why? This was a nice, clear stretch.
    The road turned away from the river briefly.
He stopped to check the nearest house number. Getting close.
    He took the next curve slowly, keeping half
an eye on the addresses. The houses here were larger, with thick
borders of hedges and trees, imparting privacy and a sense of
country living. He was approaching the river again. He made a right
at Beach Court Lane and drove past a man sweeping a wand-like
instrument back and forth at the edge of his yard. The man glanced
up. Ari suspected traffic was not that uncommon here, but not that
common, either.
    He stopped at the next house. The number on
the mailbox matched the one handwritten on the map. Someone had
slapped a SOLD sticker across the FOR SALE sign out front. If there
was a mistake, or a misjudgment, it was not his. Two bouquets of
mixed flowers lay on the ground on either side of the mailbox post.
Ari smirked. Was he being welcomed?
    He hesitated pulling into the driveway,
instinctively unwilling to stamp it with the burden of ownership.
He switched off the engine, got out, and strolled a half dozen
yards before stopping. Beach Court ended in a narrow turn-around a
stone's throw from the James. A large patch of woods blocked all
view of Riverside Drive and the houses further up the hill. All Ari
could see of his immediate neighbors were two mailboxes on either
side of Beach Court Lane. The man trimming his yard was
invisible.
    From the front, which faced the river, the
house looked deceptively like a split-level rancher. A slight
architectural variation became apparent from the road. The garage
was tucked into the side. It was much lower than the front lawn,
which dropped sharply to come level with the driveway. The bottom
story cut through a small hill, perhaps part of an ancient
embankment.
    He stepped out onto the immaculate lawn,
which swept downward to a narrow beach where several ducks were
taking refuge from the rapids downriver. A gazebo, raised on a
brick foundation against the threat of floods, provided an outpost
of calm near the water's edge. The decorative bushes that dotted
the yard were trimmed to an almost unnatural perfection. The real
estate people must have hired a professional landscaper to maintain
the yard.
    The slate roof imparted an expensive patina,
while little rustic touches contributed to the air of discreetly
advertised wealth. He could just glimpse another house about fifty
yards up the river.
    He circled around the side, where the true
size of the house was revealed--two floors and a basement--and
stutter-stepped down a sharp slope to a patio. From this angle, the
trees in the back loomed up like deep forest. Taking out a set of
three keys, he judged which would most likely fit in the sliding
glass door facing the patio and inserted it. He slid the door open
and entered.
    His shoes clicked on the highly polished tile
floor as he crossed to the center of the room. After standing
silently for a minute, listening, he called out, "Hello!" He did
not expect an answer. He was testing the acoustics, which