Roger darted from house to house, yard to yard, using anything he could find as cover. The few cars that he found with keys in them had dead batteries. He considered trying to break into a few houses to see if he could find the keys to whatever was parked out front, but decided the risk outweighed the probability of success.
He stopped near another stucco house with red tiles on the roof. He took a moment and actually looked at the house. It could have been an impressive home, if it didn’t look like every other house on the block. He stood at the porch and enjoyed the shade. He was actually thankful it was fall and not summer. The temperatures would have been unbearable if it had been July or August.
He glanced around the neighborhood and actually felt his heart skip a beat when he saw a Harley Davidson sign in a lower floor window. He slowly came to his knees and stared at the sign.
“What are the odds?” He stepped out from cover and crossed the street. As he reached for the front doorknob he had a sudden realization that caused his heart to sink. How many kids have posters and signs of Harleys, Mustangs, Ferrari’s, etc? That doesn’t mean they actually OWN one.
He twisted the knob and pushed the door open slightly. No stench of death wafted out to greet him. He pushed the door open and gingerly stepped inside. He sniffed the air and caught no odors that would cause him to immediately wonder if somebody lived here. He ran his finger across the end table in the living room and pulled back a nice layer of dust.
“At least a month’s worth.” He glanced into the dining room. “At least, if I had to guess.”
He walked slowly across the tiled floor and welcomed the darkened coolness of the house. He stopped in the kitchen and wasn’t surprised that the cabinets all stood open, boxes and cans scattered about. “Looks like the kitchen is closed.” He pushed past the debris and opened the door to the garage. A wall of warmth hit him as well as the welcome smell of gasoline, potting soil, and fertilizer.
His line of sight was blocked by a large black SUV, but he quickly worked around it. He stood in silence and stared at the magnificent machine parked on the other side.
A burnt silver Harley Davidson Fatboy with leather saddle bags and a clear windscreen. He threw a leg over the bike and sat on the seat. “Ooh…that’s nice.” He stepped from the bike and saw the Saddleman logo on the seat. “Nothing like comfort gel.” He smiled to himself, then realized he had to find the key.
He rummaged through the garage and came up empty. He worked his way back through the kitchen and into the bedrooms. Rifling through all of the drawers, he, again, came up with nothing. The entire time he destroyed the place looking for a key, the same thought ran through his mind, They’re probably in some asshole’s pants pocket and he’s out there right now, a rager, chasing cats and eating anything that looks like a manwich.
He pulled the drawers out on a small jewelry box and threw the thing across the room when it didn’t give up the prize. Roger plopped down on the bed and stared at the mess he’d made. “It’s got to be around here, somewhere.” He slowly stood and paced the master bedroom. “Where would I stash a spare key?”
His eyes fell on the closet door. He pulled it open and saw row after row of suits, sports coats, slacks, fine linen shirts, ties…the other side held the equivalent in women’s wear. “What the fuck? Was this guy an accountant?” He held the suit at arm’s length, then dropped it unceremoniously onto the floor.
“Okay, fine. Where would an accountant hide a spare key?” He pulled boxes of Italian loafers from the top shelves and dumped them. For the most part, he ignored the hers side of the closet. No self-respecting man would hide a spare key in his wife’s things. He paused and tried to imagine his life as a doctor, accountant, or lawyer…no. He still wouldn’t hide a spare key there.
He stepped out of the closet feeling more than just dejected. He wanted to break something. He inhaled deeply to scream, then thought better of it. It was even more frustrating that he couldn’t vent his anger.
He marched out of the room, intent on figuring out a way to hotwire the damned thing when something caught his eye. He stopped and backed up.
Hanging on the wall between the living room and the dining room was a small wooden placard with the word KEYS across the top. He stepped toward it, his eyes focusing on the single ring with a short, stubby key on it.
He smiled to himself as he reached out and pulled it gently from the little brass hook. “Bingo.”
Roger rummaged through the rest of the house. He found a small camouflaged backpack and shoved what he thought he could use inside of it. Underwear, socks, food stuff, and a cheap survival knife. Too bad Mr. Accountant wasn’t a gun nut. He’d feel a lot better if he had something that went bang tucked into his waistband.
Roger dropped the backpack into the saddle bag and disconnected the garage door from the opener. He lifted the door and stared out into the New Mexico afternoon.
“California, here I come.”
Chapter 17
Hatcher was deep in thought when Buck’s voice came across the static-filled headphones. “So, Skeeter is okay?”
Hatcher saw a glimpse of something painted across the young man’s face he couldn’t quite place just before Buck’s features returned to silent stoicism. He gave him a brief nod. “Yeah. She’s ornery as ever.”
Buck sat back, a satisfied smile forming. “I figured she’d be a handful.”
Hatcher snorted. “She stowed away on our mission to find
