Chapter 39 #2
He stared upward to his point of entrance, the one window on the third floor where a light was visible. He’d seen no one in the room for over an hour, and, he’d noticed, that particular window was always cracked a bit.
A lucky break.
He’d already scoped out the house on his previous nocturnal visits and noticed the cameras that covered the front and back entrances, and he assumed the house would be locked.
But a large magnolia tree was close enough to the home that, with some effort, he could climb to the upper story and transfer to the window.
It would be difficult, but he was up to the challenge.
He had to be.
The next problem would be the dogs, including that cur that had belonged to Billy Huber.
He’d observed the mutt in the car with her a few times when he’d followed her, sometimes in his vehicle, other times in the church’s SUV.
He’d also seen that the dog’s rear end was healing.
Unfortunately. That was his fault. He’d been careless when the stupid mutt had put up a ruckus at Billy’s house on the night he’d sent Billy to his maker.
He hadn’t taken the time for a kill shot, and the creature had survived.
To be taken in by the reporter.
Well, not this time.
He patted his pocket, felt his pistol with its silencer, and smiled to himself.
Bye-bye, Arlo, you miserable cur.
“I need to do this on my own,” Reed said, thinking of Jamison Kittle, what their friendship meant, how deep was their bond.
“What? No!” Sol kicked back her chair and stood. “You can’t be serious! You want to go alone?”
“He’s my friend.” That did sound a little lame, like a whiney seven-year-old.
“A friend who killed his wife and went to a lot of trouble to cover it up. You can’t—”
“This is personal, Sol.”
“And dangerous.” She was already grabbing her bag. “We’ll need backup, too.”
“Jamison Kittle is an officer of the law.”
“Who has sharpshooting medals and killed his effin’ wife.” Sol was adamant. “He’s desperate. Backed into a corner.”
“He wouldn’t try to kill me,” Reed insisted, even as he thought about the fight near the pool the other day. For a few minutes, Jamison had been out of his mind with rage.
“Tell that to his wife. I bet she said the same thing. Now, come on. Let’s go.”
He knew she was right. All his training, his every instinct told him to follow protocol, to ignore the emotions running hot through his blood, to block the memories of brotherhood he’d shared with Jamison Kittle, but deep down, he had to fight this one out by himself. “I need to—”
“You need to shut up and quit being a hero. Shit, stop listening to your heart. Use your damned head!” She stopped then, crossing her arms over her chest as she stared at him as if he’d grown a second head.
“You know what? I’ve got a better idea: You stay here.
I’ll go. I’ll get whoever’s on duty to come with me.
I think Deputies Maddox and Freeman are on tonight. ”
“No!” He wasn’t going to let her bully him. “This is my battle, Sol.”
She cocked her head to stare at him. Long and hard. “Are you out of your frickin’ mind?” she demanded, not backing down an inch. “Maybe I should have you put in a cell until this all goes down.”
“I’m the senior officer.”
“Oh, crap, Reed, don’t pull rank on me. I’ll tell everyone you’re having an emotional breakdown. That you’ve lost it. That I can’t trust you.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.” She started for the door.
“Do it, and I’ll let the sergeant commander know that you go to crime scenes unauthorized. Alone. To do whatever.”
She froze. “You … You’ll do what?” Her eyes thinned, and her face was hard.
“Look, I don’t know what you do, and it seems to work, but yeah, I was pretty sure I saw you on a bike on CCTV by Mavis Greenlee’s house.
I think, if I go over all the tapes of the roads near the homicide scenes with a fine-tooth comb, I’ll find more footage of you on your bike or maybe in your pickup with a bag of some kind and then you’ll have to explain yourself. ”
“Damn,” she muttered, her lips barely moving, her eyes growing dark.
They both knew her unauthorized activity could cost her the badge and job she’d worked years to achieve.
There would be an investigation, and what she did at the scenes would be exposed and possibly get her fired, while also ruining her chances of being hired by another department.
“You’d go down, too. For not coming forward earlier.”
“So be it.”
For a minute, she didn’t say a word, then uttered, “I’m coming with you. Don’t argue with me. It won’t work. I’ll stay in the car for a few minutes. Give you some time alone to bring him in. But if you go inside his damned house and aren’t back to the car in five minutes, I’m coming in.”
“Guns blazing?”
She ignored that. “Final offer.”
“And no backup? No FBI.”
“Unless things go bad.”
“Okay,” he finally agreed. “Let’s go.”
Climbing the tree was easier than he’d imagined.
Getting through the window proved more difficult.
It was tight, his shoulders brushing against both sides as he held on to the jamb and swung his legs across a wide desk to land on the floor of this converted attic room.
Thankfully, the lamp was lit, so he’d been able to see what he was doing.
With some difficulty and a lot of dexterity, he’d avoided knocking over the computer mouse, a cup of pens, and several legal pads that had been left on the desk.
Once inside, he saw that he was in the reporter’s office. Bookshelves lined the walls, her own books filling one shelf, The Third Grave, with its author photo visible, her latest publication.
He knew.
He’d done his research.
He caught sight of the empty dog bed and reminded himself again to be wary. He figured that he could walk through the house easily and no one would become alarmed. Enough people lived here that a footstep or a creaking floorboard wouldn’t cause much concern.
But the dogs were a different story.
As quietly as possible, with his nerves strung tight and his pulse pounding in his ears, he crept down the spiral staircase to the hallway on the second floor. Double doors on one wall. The primary bedroom. Where he’d find Nikki Gillette. He eased along the hallway.
Another door.
The bathroom with a night-light softly glowing in ever-changing colors.
He peered inside.
Empty.
At the end of the hall, two more doors and what appeared to be a closet between them. Blue, flickering light from a television appeared under the door of one—possibly the sister’s room, and the other must be the child’s room. Did the toddler share it with the preteen he’d seen? Or was she alone?
He withdrew his pistol, held it tightly, his finger on the trigger.
His heartbeat ticked up as he reached the final door.
Oh so quietly, he turned the knob.
Heard the latch click.
Shoved the door open and stuck his head in first.
Another night-light provided some illumination.
Only a crib.
No other bed.
The older girl must be bunking with her mother or somewhere else in the house. Good.
Better yet, no dog. To be certain, he swept the beam of his tiny flashlight around the perimeter of the room.
Nothing.
He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, turned off the flashlight, and pocketed his gun. Silently, he crossed the carpet to the crib.
The child was lying on her back, one little arm flung out, her mop of curls framing her face. Dead asleep. Her tiny lips moved on a quiet sigh. So angelic. And perfect bait.
He took out his roll of surgical tape to cover her mouth and prevent her from screaming.
As he leaned over the crib, a strip of tape stretched taut, he heard a low growl.
The dog?
Where?
But he’d checked. He didn’t move a muscle.
Swallowed hard.
Nothing.
But …
He reached into the crib.
Another warning growl.
What?
He was sweating. But all he had to do was grab the kid.
Oh, no, she was moving, and her eyes were open.
Big and round.
She started to scream, and he slapped the tape over her mouth.
All hell broke loose!
A huge graying animal, barking like mad, burst from beneath the skirt of the crib. Snarling, it leaped up, knocking him over, white teeth flashing.
The kid—trying to scream, tearing at the tape—scrambled to her feet.
He jumped up and grabbed her.
The old dog, the half-crippled one he hadn’t paid much attention to, clamped onto his leg.
Teeth sunk through his jeans.
Pain seared his calf.
“Aaah!” he cried, biting off his own scream.
Too late!
He heard running feet in the hallway.
Whirling, holding the wriggling, panicked kid in front of him, he saw Nikki Gillette.
Standing in the doorway.
A pistol leveled at his chest.
“Put her down,” she ordered, though her words seemed a little slurred and she swayed sightly. “Duke Wheelan, put my baby down this second, or I’ll blow your head off.”