11

Cleaning out the apartment went more smoothly than he had dared hope. The neighborhood was even darker and quieter than Harry's had been. Garreth parked at the curb, slipped soundlessly into the house and up the stairs through the apartment door to release the dead bolt from the inside. None of the furniture went, of course, just her personal possessions, as on her flight from Telegraph Hill, and four heavy cartons he found in the bedroom closet held everything. No doubt the very boxes she had used to move everything in. Four soundless trips downstairs had them all stashed in the car, albeit somewhat tightly, then he relocked the dead bolt from the inside and left.

Coasting down the hill before he started the engine, it struck Garreth that of course packing her effects was simple; Lane had planned it that way. She kept only what had personal meaning, like mementos of her past, and things of value that were easy to carry, nothing cumbersome or that could be replaced with a charge card at any department store.

There was the small matter of what to do with everything once he had it out, of course, but he had had the drive over to North Beach to think about it. When he left San Francisco he had stored his own belongings. Lane's things could join them. From the apartment he drove down to Hannes-Katsbulas Storage on the Embarcadero, parked, and slipped through the wire fence around the warehouse.

Less than fifty feet inside, three huge Rottweilers charged around the building, teeth bared.

Garreth stared straight at them. "At ease, fellows."

The dogs slowed, foreheads wrinkling.

"Sit."

They sat.

He patted each on the head in turn. "Good boys. Okay, come on with me. Let's go find the security man." And he trotted on with the three escorting him.

The security guard was having a cup of coffee in his office. Garreth's appearance in the doorway brought him jumping up out of his chair, clawing for his gun. "Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?"

Garreth stared him straight in the eyes. "I have some things to put away. Will you please unlock the front gate for me?"

The gun barrel wavered . . . returned to the holster. The guard moved to obey. In ten minutes Lane's cartons joined Garreth's in the compartment assigned to him.

Garreth did not let himself linger. Just seeing the furniture, the boxes of his own books and photographs, and the big pastel an artist in The Cannery had done of Marti, set pain twisting in him. So many memories, sweet and bitter, were entombed here. Would he ever again have an apartment where it could all sit in the open? Did he ever want to? He locked the compartment.

At the gate he patted the dogs and caught the guard's eyes one more time. "Please forget about this visit."

The padlock snapped closed through the gate chain with the guard's eyes staring through Garreth, already having forgotten him.