He crept to the fence, keeping a low profile, lifted the backpack over the fence and hung it from the top, dangling on the other side. Carefully and quietly, he overcame his first obstacle, pulled the backpack from the fence and moved to a black, shadowed area of the yard. He waited and listened; his best defense now would be his keen senses. Nothing. He moved to the back door. No screen, but a dead bolt. A decorative glass inset occupied the top one third of the door; he brought his eye as close as he could to the glass, finding a place where the inside could be viewed with the least amount of distortion. No movement, no lights, no people, so far so good. He sat for a moment on the raised cement landing, adjacent to the door, removed his newly altered Nike’s and opened a zippered compartment in his backpack that held the glass cutter.
Returning to the door, he began etching the glass in a small rectangle that would be big enough for his hand and arm to pass through. He ran the diamond bit over the same spot repeatedly, until he felt he was almost there, took a small suction cup from his pocket and applied it to the center of the rectangle. The pro continued to cut, holding the suction device with his left and etching the glass with his right. He suddenly felt the slightest degree of give with his left hand. He stopped cutting, and gently, very gently, moved the suction cup right and left, back and forth, seeing the tiny slivers of glass give way as the opening was created. Finally, the piece lifted out and he sat it aside on the concrete far enough away that he wouldn’t step on it if he were in a hurry to get out. He returned the cup and cutter to the backpack but did not immediately extend his hand into the freshly cut opening. He waited for any indication of sound or movement, just in case he’d been wrong about the alarm.
Relieved that nothing happened, he cautiously inserted his gloved hand through the small opening until his elbow was at the door, bent his hand down and quietly spun the dead bolt. Once done, he reached to the handle and unlocked it as well.
“Obstacle two breached,” he thought.
The thief was in. It appeared the only light on in the entire two-story structure was the small hood lamp over the stove. His entry from the back door had placed him in the kitchen, with a sunken media room to his right. He removed a small LED light from his pocket and turned it onto the lowest setting. Light filled the room, much more than he’d expected, and he wrapped his hand around the end of the small device to mute the display. He held it in this fashion as he moved throughout the lower level. There was nothing unusual, only living space, with no bedrooms. Before he ventured up the stairs, he returned to the pack sitting near the back door and removed the pepper spray and hunting blade, snapping the latter to his belt just in case.
Flicking the light on again, this time his hand already in place, he moved to the stairs. His new socks slid quietly on the tiled kitchen floor, the carpet on the stairs was plush and would mask any noise from his steps. He moved a stair at a time, waiting a few seconds between each step; this was painstaking work and required the utmost patience. Finally, he stood at the top of the staircase, a long hallway before him, with doors on either side, none of them were closed, but one. He crouched low, keeping the light from the LED showing the way, but just barely. The first room to his right was what his mother would have called a craft room, pieces of fabric covered tables, with a sewing machine and ironing board taking up space, nothing of interest to him there. He stepped to the other side of the hallway, another open door, a computer room with a large desk, leather chair and bookshelves lining the walls.
“Possibly worth a look,” he thought, but moved on.
Each room of the upper floor was investigated and evaluated for possible objects of value. Ultimately, he came to the room he was looking for, the last room at the end of the hallway. The door was shut and no light could be seen underneath. He held his ear close to the door for any telltale signs of breathing, snoring, sex or the like. ‘Rob’ was pleased to hear nothing, but this brought some degree of concern. Had he been lucky enough to hit a night when the owners were away, or were they expected home at any minute? A small degree of panic set in and he looked at his watch.
“Hold it together, stay cool, stay cool!” Ran through his mind.
He turned off the light and placed the small device in his pocket, took the pepper spray in his left hand and slowly turned the doorknob with his right. The sound of the latch moving against the metal of the jam made him stop and listen; he could hear nothing, so he forged on. A moment later the two disengaged and the door pivoted inward, an inch, then two, as he applied enough force to soundlessly open the door. Again, he paused, before entering the darkened space. Still nothing. Making him as thin as possible he moved through the opening. Ghostly shadows danced on the walls as large windows allowed moonlight into the bedroom, slipping through angular tree branches swaying easily in the wind. The bed appeared to be unoccupied and no other sign of life, with greater confidence; he took the light in hand and turned it on.
“Yes!” he said, making a fist and pumping it forward in a crouched position like he’d just scored the winning goal of the Stanley Cup Final. “Nobody here but us would be millionaires.”
He wasted no time, knowing exactly where most people kept their most valuable possessions. He scoured the room looking for gold, silver, anything that he could sell easily. Pulling the casing from one of the bed pillows he collected his bounty, quite happy with what he was finding. The woman obviously had remarkable taste in only the finest of jewelry, which pleased him, as he stuffed her items into the bag. Satisfied that everything he wanted or needed was cleared from the bedroom, he trotted down the hall to the office. Again, he looked through the drawers, cupboards, closet, until he found a.38 caliber handgun hidden in the bottom drawer of the desk, sitting atop a strongbox, designed to be screwed-down to a concrete floor, but this one was free floating.
“Either new, or the jerk is too lazy to take care of his shit,” ‘Rob’ thought. “His loss is my gain.”
Unfortunately, it was locked, but not so heavy that he couldn’t just take the whole thing, which he did. He was surprised that the owner had not foreseen this. He also included the gun, tossing it in with the other items collected from the bedroom.
'Now to the business of scaring the shit out of the neighborhood.'
The intruder returned to the kitchen, with his booty in tow, placed the pillowcase on the table before stuffing the lockbox into the backpack for later discovery. He surveyed the kitchen looking for two important items, a large butcher knife and a carving fork. Finding both, he removed a can of spray paint from another pocket in the pack, the same red that was used to write, ‘We’re Back’, in the Criddle home. Then he bounded up the stairs, two at a time, to finish his work. In the bedroom he had previously noted a picture of the loving couple standing at the back of a chartered fishing vessel, a large fish, most likely a tuna or halibut, hanging from the rear fin and the couple smiling broadly, standing on either side, fishing poles in hand. Next to this picture was a 14x11” studio styled portrait of the man of the house, and on the other side of the fishing picture, a similar sized photo of the wife. Taking both pictures he smashed the frames on the side of the end table and removed the picture of the man first. He looked it over carefully before positioning it above the headboard of the bed, and drove the carving fork through his face, embedding the tongs in the drywall. With the man symbolically murdered, he turned his twisted attention to the female portrait. Positioning the picture symmetrically above the headboard, he drove the knife a good 6 inches through her face and into the wall. He stood back at the end of the bed and studied his work.
“Perfect! Time for the artwork,” he thought. He shook the paint can, listening to the ball bearing moving throughout the can, mixing the paint. Aiming the nozzle at the wall he began to spray. Large ten-inch letters began to fill the space on the wall between the pictures, “DEATH TO RICH PIGS”, again he examined his handiwork and was pleased with the results.
A moment later he was standing at the kitchen table collecting his thoughts and his things, when he heard the sound of a garage door opening. He looked toward the front door to see headlights fill the large windows and scan the walls moving from right to left. Sheer panic gripped him. No time, no time! He slung the backpack over his shoulders, took the pillowcase in hand, just as he heard car doors slam. ‘Rob’ swung the back door open, exited quickly, but took the time to close the door behind him. He ran for his freedom, with the pillowcase in the right and shoes in his left. Reaching the fence he tossed both over, sensing lights being turned on behind him. Climbing the obstacle was much tougher without shoes on but he managed just as the kitchen light came on, then the back porch light. He found his shoes, slipped them on without tying the laces, and at a dead run weaved his way through the pecan trees, headed back towards the church. He’d covered about 50 feet when he heard the first blood- curdling scream from the bedroom, followed by another, and another.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
