So Kate had hidden in the cellar and puzzled over wires that offended the House's sense of balance. Or something. And the House had told her exactly what, popped breaker and smoke and all. It wanted a circuit re-routed, a job that called for Kate's big Milwaukee drill and holes bored through a few feet of seasoned red oak timber. No wonder the previous electrician hadn't run the wires that way.
Kate stubbed out her cigarette, climbed down, stretched, and glanced around the yard. She could skip mowing the lawn this week, dry weather up 'till today. Another of the old apple trees had dropped its leaves way early, on its last legs. She'd cut it up for firewood. The thunderstorm hadn't blown off any more of the ragged shingles that were her next job — original roof, thirty years into a twenty year warranty.
She slipped her key into the deadbolt lock and turned. Too easy. The door was unlocked already. She froze.
Long habit, reinforced by conscious effort — she always locked houses where she worked, no matter how careless she might be about the door of her own home. Caretaker jobs, renovations, whatever — if she left a client's house unlocked, her name could be shit within five minutes. Maybe less. Just one case of stolen antiques or vandalism on a summer cottage . . .
She'd locked that door, damn sure. Kate backed away.
She walked out to the truck and pulled her gun from the glove compartment. It gave her the creeps again, that Nazi automatic Grandfather brought back from Germany, the gun that had put 9mm holes in both her and Alice. But she was used to it, shot better with it than the .44 Mag she'd bought for putting down injured moose out on the highway.
Snap in the magazine, load a shell in the chamber, check the safety. Spare magazine in her hip pocket. Intruder search. She hadn't done that since the academy, not much need for it in Stonefort. Maybe she ought to call for backup.
Yeah, sure, Rowley. Bring in the SWAT team because you forgot to lock up. The boys will still be laughing five years from now.
And she hadn't had time to work on the place since last week. If there'd been a break-in, the burglar would be long gone. Nobody pillages in late afternoon.
She scouted, front and side and back and other side, slipping from bush to apple tree to rusty Sears lawn-mower shed, feeling like some damn fool playing paintball but giving any perp plenty of time to run out the front door while she checked the back. No broken windows. Shade pulled down in the big bedroom, and she'd left all of them up. No tire tracks in the driveway.
Then she was back at the front door, muzzle of the old Browning pointed at the clouds, left hand on the knob. At least she knew the layout — she'd lived in the damned house for seven years. Or was it eight? And Lew never moved the furniture.
Through the door, crouched, her front sight searched the living room. Nothing. Into the hall, tight against cold wallboard, bedroom, bathroom, bedroom, master bed. Closets. Nothing. She'd stripped the beds and hauled the mattresses and bedding to the dump — no place to hide under them.
Hall again. Living room, check behind the sofa, check under, all clear. That left the kitchen-dining, then the basement. Kate slid along the wall and then swung out, two-handed grip, pistol searching through the doorway. It found a large body sitting at the kitchen table, back to the door. Dumb. Maybe deaf, as well.
"FREEZE! Hands behind your head!"
Instead, the fool turned in the chair and smiled. "Hi, Mom."
Kate staggered back, free hand searching behind her, finding a floor lamp that crashed to the carpet and popped and scattered glass, finding the wall again, sliding around Lew's chair, finding the door frame and free air and light drizzle cold on her face and arms. She kept backing away from the house, butt finding the truck fender, gun ready but eyes not seeing. Inside the truck. Doors locked. Eyes closed, heart thumping and skipping, sweat running down her back and slick under her armpits.
Jackie.
Jackie with puckered shiny purple scars straight out of a horror movie, forehead and right side of her head, hair shaved into a Mohawk.
Jackie.
Tears and moans and shakes and might-have-beens.
Finally Kate blinked and sat up. Rain poured down outside the truck, dark gray blinking bright with lightning between the clouds, automatic counting one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two, thunder rumbling after ten seconds, two miles away. Her hand shook, the Browning still trapped between cold fingers, unfired. Safety off, dammit. She clicked the lever back where it belonged, popped the magazine, and cleared the chamber, locking the action open. Autopilot actions, firearms safety taking over for a blank brain.
Her teeth chattered.
The sky flashed again, she counted, thunder rumbled, three miles this time. The storm was moving on, not moving in. Kate twitched and found the dashboard clock, ticking antique, working again after thirty years of silence. Charlie paid attention to details.
She'd lost nearly half an hour.
The spare magazine was trying to poke a hole in her butt. She heaved herself up, hauled the damned thing out of her hip pocket, and dumped it on the seat next to the rest of the arsenal. Which she didn't need.
Open the truck door, step down, lean against the doorpost in the rain until her head cleared and the lawn stayed level. Shut the door, hear the chunk of the latch working right instead of having to lift up on it to click. Details.
She had to face this. Had to. Duty. Straight ahead, the only path she knew.
Jackie had known she was outside, seen her, heard her open the door. Waited. She should still be inside. Still waiting.
