question.
Still, acting as an advisor and explaining my supernormal visions to a room full of cops was one thing. Being in the middle of an operation such as this one was an entirely different story. I beat back the rhizome of anxiety that was starting to spread and reminded myself that this wasn’t the first time I had done this. It wasn’t something new to me at all and, in fact, was even a bit mundane considering my last experience, which had been an all out assault on a killer’s house. That time I had been clad in a bullet proof vest and wallowing in the thick of it for the sake of rescuing a little girl he intended to ritually sacrifice for some still unknown purpose. The urgency of that situation combined with the adrenalin rush hadn’t afforded me the opportunity to feel this out of place on that night. I guess I was making up for it now.
“Great.” My friend nodded as he planted his large hand on a map spread across the hood of the patrol car and studied it carefully. Every now and then a cold breeze would whip around the end of the small building, lifting the edge of the carefully drawn grid and threaten to take the paper into flight. “That’s terrific. This prob’ly isn’t gonna be much of anything, ta’ be perfectly honest. Well, unless forensics is way off on their height estimation, ‘cause the description of this Roberts individual we got from his license info actually doesn’t match up with the physical profile of our bad guy. But, accordin’ to what Agent Mandalay and Rowan found out, he’s somehow connected with the threatening e-mail one of the victims received, so he might know somethin’. Basically, I’d just like to be ready in case he bolts.”
“The patrol areas overlap here, here, and here,” the uniformed man offered, using his finger to indicate points on the carefully inked grid. “If he runs and manages to get past you, he’s not going far.”
“Good deal.” Ben nodded as he spoke and pushed his own finger around the sheet of intersecting lines then tapped it on the final destination. “We’re just gonna knock on the front door, so you take up a spot on this side street here and keep an eye out.”
“Yes sir,” the patrolman replied with a curt nod and then proceeded to quickly fold the map.
“Okay folks,” my friend announced as he looked around our small huddle. “Let’s get movin’. Row, you ride with me.”
I followed him to his van and climbed in to the passenger side while Deckert shook hands with the uniformed officer and finished thanking him for his help then joined Agent Mandalay in her vehicle.
“Constance told me you think this is a dead end,” Ben stated as he twisted the key in the ignition and the engine kicked over.
“Honestly, yes,” I agreed. “After seeing the actual e-mail, I don’t really believe it has anything to do with the killer.”
“Lovely,” he replied while waiting for the other two cars to back out, watching intently in his side view mirror. “So we just spin our wheels some more.”
“I could be wrong,” I offered.
“Yeah, like I’ve seen that happen a lot lately,” he replied sarcastically. “No, if you’ve got one of your feelin’s, then you’re prob’ly right, but we gotta check it out anyway. So, you get anything outta that space cadet number you were pullin’ this morning, or did ya’ finally decide it was just a bad dream?”
“Haven’t given it much thought,” I admitted. “It’s been kind of a full day so far.”
“Uh-huh,” he grunted as he gunned the engine and pushed the van into a backward arc. “Get no argument from me on that.”
With a tired sigh my friend cranked the shift lever down into drive and urged us forward.
“Well,” he volunteered, “on the up side maybe I’ll get ta’ have dinner with my family for a change. Although, Allison did say she’s makin’ a meatlump tonight.”
“Don’t you mean meatloaf?”
“You ever had Al’s meatloaf, white man? Trust me, she’s makin’ a meatlump.”
The heart of Millchester was a West County suburb of the semi-affluent and moderately comfortable. Tree- lined streets hosting domiciles in the range of two hundred fifty thousand dollars. Some a little more, some a little less. For the area, your basic upper middle class subdivision. It was the kind of neighborhood where a reference to “the gardener” was pretentious slang for the third party service that manicured the lawn in the summer and plowed the driveway in winter. A place where “the club” was the private pool and tennis courts maintained by a subdivision committee.
As one skirted closer to the edges of the township, farther into the periphery, property values lowered perceptibly, and though kept up, houses showed more obvious signs of age and wear. Still, the community was one for those within a comfortable level of income. This was where Allen Roberts lived.
The house was a split-level brick dwelling that showed every appearance of being fairly well maintained. The driveway and sidewalk were clear of snow and the slowly melting piles of the white stuff rose above the rest of the tableau to outline the salt-stained concrete. An evergreen hedgerow wrapped around the foundation buried beneath drifts. Here and there random boughs would peek through applying small splashes of emerald against the stark white blanket.
We had arrived within five minutes of leaving the gas station/convenience store and parked on the street in front of the residence. Ben had conveniently positioned his van to block the mouth of the driveway with Special Agent Mandalay’s sedan only a few feet behind. We could see no movement through the unshaded windows, and it didn’t appear that anyone noticed us as we advanced on the home.
Detective Deckert split off from us as we reached the start of the sidewalk, and he continued up the driveway to the corner of the house. There, he positioned himself to keep watch on a side entrance.
“Are you guys always this edgy when you go to question someone?” I asked as the three of us ambled along the path and started up the short flight of steps to the porch.
Ben glanced back and asked me rhetorically, “When it’s even remotely possible they have somethin’ ta’ do with a psychotic killer? You bet your ass.” Then, looking over at Constance, he raised a questioning eyebrow, “So, you wanna draw straws?”
In answer, Agent Mandalay reached out and gave the doorbell a double stab with her thumb. Beyond the darkly stained oak door the muffled ping-pong of the chime echoed twice in rapid succession and was followed shortly by the dull thudding of someone descending carpeted stairs. After the raspy metal-on-metal grating noise of the deadbolt being twisted, the door swung open, breaking the weather tight seal with an audible swoosh.
A thirtyish man with sandy hair stood peering at us from behind the glass of the storm door. He was dressed in grey sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt; both bore the stylized music note logo of the local hockey team. After taking a sip from an oversized coffee mug, he canted his mouth into a disgusted frown then unlatched the exterior door and pushed it slightly open.
“I’m not buying anything,” he stated flatly before anyone else could speak. “And if you’re from some church, I’m an atheist and I’m not interested, so leave me alone.”
“Mister Roberts?” Constance queried, “Mister Allen Roberts?”
“Yeah,” he nodded and took another sip from the mug. “Like I told you, I’m not buying anything, so don’t waste your breath.”
“No problem, sir,” Ben replied. “We aren’t sellin’ anything. We’d just like to ask ya’ some questions.”
“Mister Roberts,” Constance continued, easily withdrawing her ID wallet and splaying it open as I’d seen her do before. “I’m Special Agent Mandalay with the FBI. This is Detective Storm with the…”
Her incomplete sentence hung in the air as all color drained from Allen Roberts face, and his eyes grew wide with surprised fright. I felt the fear skate up my spine as he projected it wildly, and my defenses automatically enveloped me to ward off the intensely broadcast emotion. Less than a second later, the coffee mug Roberts had been just bringing to his lips slipped from his grasp and exploded in a shower of ceramic shards across the threshold.
“SHIT!” he exclaimed in a panicked voice.
As the cup and its steaming contents splattered through the opening, Constance leapt backwards propelling herself against the wrought iron railing that ringed the porch. The blatantly unnerved man retreated from the doorway, making a hasty attempt to swing the oak barrier shut in our faces, only to have it wedge against one of the larger shards of the broken ceramic before reaching mid-swing.
