impossible to hear as the sound echoed in his ears. His blood pressure rising, and with it the swishing sound of blood in his own head. Footsteps! Yes footsteps, he was sure of it! Getting louder, moving toward the door, then stopping. Had she heard him or noted the door to her bedroom was now closed? He was overcome with fear but the adrenalin blasting through his arteries kept him rooted in place, finger on the button of the pepper spray.
“Here it comes!” The night crawler readied himself for the assault but the opportunity never came. A few minutes passed and he could hear a toilet flush and feet moving back to the bed.
Quietly he waited, held his breath and listened, expecting the light to be turned off and the sound of intermittent snoring to begin again. Instead he could hear the box springs giving way to her weight, then again the metallic ‘CHKKK CHKKK’.
“Does this woman go the bathroom with a shotgun?” he thought, not wanting his initial impression to be true.
There was nothing he could do but wait. His back ached from having to stand so perfectly still for so long. His imagination was running wild, conjuring up all sorts of outlandish possibilities, each of which had a very negative impact on his health. He shuffled his feet, lowered the camera and spray to allow his muscles a quick break. They’d be useless in a fight if it came to that. Ambient sounds from the bedroom could again be heard coming through the door, the rustling of sheets and covers and bed springs reacting to her trying to get comfortable. The noises continued for a second or two before there was complete silence. He took a deep breath in and slowly blew it out continuing to be absolutely motionless and quiet, then as quickly as it had all started the light under the door vanished.
He waited, huddled by the door, until he could make out the delicate sounds of her sleeping and then returned to the work at hand. Time was running short and he had to be out of there soon to make it back to the van and home before the sun came up. He anticipated all hell would break loose in the morning once Mrs. Criddle woke up and discovered his antics of the night.
Methodically he packed up his things, matching everything that went back into the backpack with a list he had created earlier. Once he was sure that he had all his belongings he took the paint back to the living room and wrote in large bold letters above the couch, ‘We’re Back!’. Last but not least he needed a picture of the heart- stopping Katie. With the digital camera in hand he crept back to her entry, took a preparatory deep breath and put enough pressure on the door to swing it open.
The gap was just big enough for him to get through but he didn’t slide in until he ducked his head around the edge, checking to make sure she wasn’t sitting up in bed with a shotgun aimed at the door. He was relieved to see her lying on her back with her right leg again under the covers and her left leg slipped out from the sheets and lying bent into a figure four with the other.
Emboldened, he entered the room, lifted the camera and took a couple of pictures of his victim, as she lay so exposed to his penetrating eyes. Suddenly she shifted, pulled her left leg back under the covers and rolled over on her right side, her face now directed to the bathroom and the diffuse light coming from the partially open door. She pulled her knees to her chest and hugged herself in a fetal position before her steady, even breaths returned.
The intruder waited for her to settle down before moving even closer to Katie. He moved slowly and deliberately to the side of the mattress, careful not to bring his feet down too heavily on the hardwood flooring. Rounding the end of the bed, he could see a book and a pair of spectacles on the night table along with an alarm clock that read 3:18. Keeping his eye on the Criddle woman he swung his right foot forward, and in the same motion brought the camera up to get a profile picture of his sleeping prize. Without warning his right foot slammed into something shadowed at the base of the bed. Pain shot through his stocking clad toes, radiating upward through his leg and sending signals to his brain to scream in agony. Rather than uttering a string of blasphemies, he dropped to his knees, grabbed his aching foot and rubbed the injured digits. Katie had not budged and her slumbering remained stable as he nursed his throbbing extremity.
Once he regained his composure the prowler looked for the instrument of his discomfort, and there lying next to his swollen foot, was a prosthetic leg.
“Now I’d say that was some vital, need-to-know information,” he thought.
The attachment was skin-toned, designed for coupling at the knee with a metallic latching mechanism near the top. He considered taking it as a reward for his efforts, but excused the thought when he imagined himself walking down the road with a leg sticking out of his backpack. Finally rising to his feet, he took one last parting shot of Katherine and backed from her room.
The long walk back to the van would be agonizing but at the least the ‘outing’ was a success, and with one last quick surprise for the woman of the house completed, he threw his backpack over his shoulder, put his altered shoes on, scaled the fence and was on his way. Mission accomplished with only a broken toe or two to show for his troubles.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sunlight filtered through the discolored drapes hanging over the windows that faced the almost deserted parking lot. It had taken him a couple of hours to find a location that would be appropriate for their meeting, one that would be quiet, out of the way and without security cameras. The last thing he wanted to see was his face or his colleague's mugs prominently displayed on the evening news. In his line of work it never hurt to be too careful, always sweat the small stuff, was his moniker and he was proud of it. He had already gone over the motel room once but while waiting for his two associates he again looked under the bed, adjusted the blinds over the windows and looked for any listening devices. Clean, he breathed a sigh of relief.
Would have taken a mind reader to figure out this location, and he had even been so careful as to park a couple blocks away at a Denny’s, used their bathroom, then exited the establishment through the side door and made his way here. No one would ever be able to associate his car with this meeting or hotel room. He had turned his cell phone off a couple of hours ago and instructed his partners to do the same, didn’t want texts or calls on any cellular record that could pinpoint their locations at some later date.
Fifteen minutes later there was a knock on the door, two quick raps, a pause followed by three more in rapid succession. Jeremy peered through the peephole, recognized the guest and opened the door, ushering the man inside with a sweep of his hand.
“Did you have any trouble finding the place?” Jeremy whispered, as he closed the door.
“No, your directions were perfect, drove right to it,” the newcomer indicated.
Agitated Jeremy said, “I told you not to drive directly here, what were you thinking?”
“Hold on, hold on, I didn’t mean it literally. I parked at the Dixie whatever, like you suggested and walked here. That’s why I’m sweating so much, hotter than hell out there today.”
“Good,” said the congressional aide, “I don’t need to remind you how careful we have to be about these meetings.”
“I get that, I really do but do you think there are people who even have an inkling what we’re up to?” the short, heavier man said.
“No, at this point I’m sure no one has a clue, but we don’t want to give anybody any ammunition once things get heavy.”
“Where’s Felix? I’m anxious to see what he learned while he was in Valdosta,” Jeremy inquired of his partner.
“Should be here any minute. This morning I saw one of his coded messages posted on the network forum that we’re using and he confirmed he would be here.”
“Excellent, we need to make sure we’re all on the same page moving forward.”
The squatty little fellow was Ignatius Alvaro Savard, Iggy for short. His parents were students of religious history and couldn’t resist the name and were sorely disappointed when everyone called him Iggy and it stuck. Normally he was dressed in slacks, a men’s large shirt, casual fit rather than tailored, and slip on loafers. It was much too difficult to reach his own shoes these days. Today he looked like he’d just stepped off a cruise ship. His idea of inconspicuous was somewhat different than Jeremy’s. A straw hat covered his thinning silver hair, Ray-Ban Aviator shades now sat on the brim of the hat and beads of sweat ran down his neck and into the floral print shirt he’d purchased from Kmart. The khaki shorts fit snugly under his belly that hid the belt buckle also purchased at the
