Out front, Ken jumped across a narrow ditch and headed for the house’s double
entrance doors, which were still closed. He surveyed the surrounding
area and saw no one trying to escape. As twilight descended, Bordeaux Ridge
looked less like a tract under development than like a bombed-out neighborhood.
Shadows and dust created the illusion of rubble.
In the laundry room, Teel Porter turned, intending to step into the hail, and on
his right, in the group of yellow cabinets, the two-foot-wide, six-foot-high
door of a broom closet flew open, and this thing came at him as if it were a
jack-in-the-box, Jesus, for a split second he was sure it must be a kid in a
rubber fright mask. He could not see clearly in the backsplash of the
flashlight, which was pointed away from the attacker, but then he knew it was
real because those eyes, like circles of smoky lamplight, were not just plastic
or glass, no way. He fired the revolver, but it was aimed ahead, into the hall,
and the slug plowed harmlessly into the wall out there, so he tried to turn, but
the thing was all over him, hissing like a snake. He fired again, into the floor
this time—the sound was deafening in that enclosed space— then he was driven
backward against the sink, and the gun was torn out of his hand. He also lost
the flashlight, which spun off into the corner. He threw a punch, but before his
fist was halfway though its arc, he felt a terrible pain in his belly, as if
several stilettos had been thrust into him all at once, and he knew instantly
what was happening to him. He screamed, screamed, and in the gloom the misshapen
face of the jack-in-the-box loomed over him, its eyes radiantly yellow, and Teel
screamed again, flailed, and more stilettos sank through the soft tissue of his
throat— Ken Dimes was four steps from the front doors when he heard Tee! scream.
A cry of surprise, fear, pain.
“Shit.”
They were double doors, stained oak. The one on the right was secured to the
sill and header by sliding bolts, while the one on the left was the active
door—and unlocked. Ken rushed inside, caution briefly forgotten, then halted in
the gloomy foyer.
Already, the screaming had stopped.
He switched on his flashlight. Empty living room to the right. Empty den to the
left. A staircase leading up to the second floor. No one anywhere in sight.
Silence. Perfect silence. As in a vacuum.
For a moment Ken hesitated to call out to Teel, for fear he would be revealing
his position to the killer. Then he realized that the flashlight, without which
he could not proceed, was enough to give him away; it did not matter if he made
noise.
“Teel!”
The name echoed through the vacant rooms.
“Teel, where are you?”
No reply.
Teel must be dead. Jesus. He would respond if he was alive.
Or he might just be injured and unconscious, wounded and dying. In that case,
perhaps it would be best to go back to the patrol car and call for an ambulance.
No. No, if his partner was in desperate shape, Ken had to find him fast and
administer first aid. Tee! might die in the time it took to call an ambulance.
Delaying that long was too great a risk.
Besides, the killer had to be dealt with.
Only the vaguest smoky-red light penetrated the windows now, for the day was
being swallowed by the night. Ken had to rely entirely on the flashlight, which
was not ideal because, each time the beam moved, shadows leaped and swooped,
creating illusory assailants. Those false attackers might distract him from real
danger.
Leaving the front door wide open, he crept along the narrow hall that led to the
back of the house. He stayed close to the wall. The sole of one of his shoes
squeaked with nearly every step he took. He held the gun out in front of him,
not aimed at the floor or ceiling, because for the moment, at least, he didn’t
give a damn about safe weapons procedure.
On the right, a door stood open. A closet. Empty.