Page 59 of In a Haze

This neighborhood is quiet—and mostly dark. I can see, even without a lot of light, that every inch of space here is manicured, whether it’s part of someone’s property or shared common areas. The sidewalk beneath our feet is cobblestone, not concrete, and the air smells fresh and warm, scented with flowers and shrubbery.

The longer we’re here, the more familiar it feels.

The more it feels like home.

We walk up the lawn toward the massive home. When we approach the door, Joe bends over to look at it. “Shit.”

I don’t have to ask him why. It’s a smart lock. There are no keyholes—meaning his paperclips won’t work.

But I skim my fingers over the rubbery buttons and then close my eyes. No numbers come to mind—and, yet, I think I can do this. Taking a deep breath, I push the numbers my fingers want to as each one emits a tiny electronic beep.

Then I turn the knob—and it opens.

“Shit,” Joe whispers again. “I’ll be goddamned.”

I open the door and look around. It’s dark in here, but my memories begin to flood in. Nothing concrete, no “scenes”—but I know what this place looks like. Every piece of furniture, every room, every window, every door.

Upstairs are the bedrooms. This main floor is where we’ll find Representative Don Clawson’s at-home office.

And, hopefully, evidence of his dirty deeds.

It’s cooler in here than it was outdoors and my feet especially sense the chill of the marble we’re walking on. But, after we walk through the great room, we’re in a sitting room with fluffy carpet underneath.

Don’s office is to the right. As I walk that way, I run into a chair I didn’t see and that I didn’t expect to be there. Either my memory is faulty or things have changed some since I was last here. It could be either or both. But I reach the door and turn the knob.

After Joe has followed me in here, I turn on the light switch. Sure enough, it’s an office. There’s a desk, a phone, a computer. To the side, there’s a liquor hutch, complete with bottles of booze, glasses, and an ice bucket.

I move to the desk, because there are no standing filing cabinets in here. There’s only one and it’s part of the desk, and I’m going to look in there and through the drawers. Joe asks, “Want me to look in that closet?”

“Sure.”

It’s small but there might be something there. Joe pulls out some yard signs and rolled-up banners. “There are a bunch of boxes in here. Do you think there might be something in there?”

“Maybe.”

“Do you want me to take a few out?”

“Yes.”

In the meantime, after a cursory glance, I’ve determined there’s nothing important in the desk and I’m booting up the computer. I might go back through it, but for now, I want to see what the computer holds. While I wait, I turn around. Joe is walking out of the closet (not as small as I’d initially thought) with a box. Just as he passes through the door, I see the bottom of the box giving way and stand up, lunging to stop it before it makes a loud noise. He must feel it, too, because he brings it down fast.

My heart is still beating hard as we lift the lid. It’s full of white ceramic coffee mugs that say, in blue and red,Clawson for Congress. These seem a little familiar to me.

Box after box after box has these stupid coffee mugs and I wonder if Don even used them for campaigning. Finally, though, at the very back, there are a couple of boxes that have papers instead of mugs. I notice through the window that the horizon is starting to get light and then I look around and notice an ornate clock beside the door. “Joe, look.” I point to it, and it says it’s a quarter till five. “I thought we got here before four.”

“Why’d you think that?”

“The van clock said three-something.”

“I think it’s on standard time. Nobody updated it to daylight savings.”

“Well, it’s getting light out. We might want to hurry.”

If I recall, Don is an early riser, especially during the week, but then I realize he might not even be here. He might be in Washington. As I sift through the papers in the box, though, I believe he’s probably here. After all, he visited me just a couple of days ago.

“I think these are just receipts and tax documents.”

“Same with these here,” Joe says, and even though he’s whispering, I can hear the frustration. I’m feeling it, too, and I wonder if maybe there’s some other place we can look in the house before sunrise.