The moon rose above the horizon, lighting the night sky. It was the hunter’s moon—large, bright, and full—the brightest of the year. Shadows appeared on the ground, all radiating out from the mystical light that legend claimed guided Native American hunters on their quest to fill their larder with game before the winter snows. A gust of cold autumn wind whistled through the pine trees. Summer was gone.
“All the crazies will be out tonight,” Officer Dugan said. “Every time there’s a full moon, crime goes up twenty percent.”
“That’s a myth,” his partner said as he drove the squad car through the upscale suburban Pennsylvania housing development. Each home was set back on an acre of well-landscaped lawn with manicured shrubbery. The police officers navigated the quiet streets looking for anything that seemed out of place on this quiet October night. The neighborhood had been plagued by robberies during the past year, but the police were always too late, and the thief never left a single clue.
“Studies show that all that stuff about the moon having an effect on people’s behavior is a load of bunk,” said Officer Riddle. “It’s an urban legend; nobody believes that stuff anymore.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Officer Dugan caught sight, in his side-view mirror, of what looked like a bear with large red feet riding a bicycle. The bear appeared to be carrying another small animal lying across the handlebars.
“That sounds great, Riddle, but could you pull over? I think we have an urban legend trying to wave us down.”
The police car screeched to a stop, and Officer Dugan watched as the bear on the bicycle waved a large paw and raced toward their car. Within seconds the bear had shape-shifted into a man with a dark beard wearing a ladies’ mink coat with several other furs balled up on the handlebars.
“Help, officers,” he yelled. “My house is being robbed. I saved my wife’s coats, but he’s still in there.”
Officer Dugan stepped out of the car and opened the door to the backseat. “Is your wife or anyone else in the house?” he asked as he ushered the man into the car and rested the bicycle on its side at the curb.
“Don’t forget the other coats,” the man cried as he ignored Dugan’s question and pointed at the ball of fur across the handlebars. “My wife would kill me if I didn’t save her furs.” Dugan tossed the furs into the backseat with the man, who was now pointing back in the direction from which they had come. “Turn around,” he demanded. “It’s the house with the fieldstone front two blocks down. I was in the shower when I saw this man in a stocking mask pass the bathroom door. He ran when he saw me, but I don’t know if he’s still in the house. I just grabbed my wife’s coats and slippers and ran out.”
Officer Riddle called in their location as he stopped in front of the victim’s house with all the lights on the police car flashing. The first floor of the house was dark, and the front door was wide open.
“Take the back, Riddle,” Dugan said as he drew his weapon. “Is anyone else in the house?” he asked for the second time.
“I, I don’t think so,” the man said.
“You don’t think so?” Dugan repeated. The man gazed toward his next-door neighbor’s house. Dugan followed his line of sight and saw a woman with wet hair wrapped in a large bath towel. She disappeared through the front door.
“No,” the man said. “No one else is in the house.”
Dugan looked at the man, then shook his head. “Stay in the car,” he said, and ran to the open front door.
Dugan pulled his flashlight from the nylon holder on his utility belt, held it under his weapon, and scanned the darkened entryway. He poked his head in and out quickly, and then slowly worked his way into the room. The beam of light bounced around the living room, moving rapidly from corner to corner, exposing any space large enough for a man to hide.
Dugan paused and tilted his head to listen for any sound that might betray the burglar’s presence. A subtle creak of a floorboard, barely discernible to his ear, came from the next room. Dugan held his weapon out in front of him. He raised his arm and tilted his head down to wipe the sweat from his upper lip on the sleeve of his uniform shirt. He took three slow, deep breaths to calm himself. This was the first time Dugan’s weapon had been out of its holster in an actual on-duty situation since he left the police academy ten years ago. He swallowed. His throat was dry and scratchy. Dugan pulled his hands in close to his chest, pointing his gun up at the ceiling as he flattened out against the wall leading to the kitchen doorway. He readied himself to burst through the door. He silently mouthed the words: “One.” He licked his dry lips. “Two.” He took a deep breath. “Three.” Dugan charged through the doorway, gun first, yelling, “Police—don’t move! Don’t move or you’re dead!”
“Don’t shoot! It’s Riddle, it’s Riddle!” the officer shouted in a frantic, high-pitched voice.
Dugan raised his gun and slumped back against the wall. “What are you doing here? I almost shot you, you dumb shit.”
“I’m sorry. The back door was open,” Riddle said. “He must have gone out before we got here. I thought it was over.”
Dugan holstered his gun and put his hand on Riddle’s shoulder. They stood side by side, Dugan’s hand massaging the base of Riddle’s neck, and Riddle patting Dugan on the back.
“Let’s call it in,” Dugan said. “Yeah, we’re done here.” Neither man looked the other in the eye. Both exhaled deeply as they walked to the car.
***
The vertical posts from the guardrail of the interstate blended into a blur as Mortimer Banks sped down the highway, now several miles from the scene of the robbery. He flipped his cell phone open and pushed speed-dial three. He shouted into the phone, his voice quivering with anger.
“You were wrong! He was home. What kind of half-assed information are you giving me?”
“Take it easy, Mort,” Sylvia said. “His wife is out of town, and he plays cards on Wednesday night. No one should have been home. What happened?”
“The wife was gone all right, but this guy and his neighbor were washing each other’s backs in the shower when I came in. You were wrong. The house wasn’t empty.” Mort swerved across two lanes of the empty highway as he shook his fist in the air.
“I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.” After a long pause, she said, “How did we do?”
Mort took a deep breath. “The watch was there, just like you said.” His voice was calmer now that he had gotten the rant out of his system. “I picked up a few rings, not worth much, and a cheap bracelet. The watch was the only thing worth taking.” Mort snapped his phone closed and tossed it on the passenger seat. He reached into his pocket and dumped the contents of a small blue velvet bag onto the car’s console. Mort smiled as he groped through the pile of jewelry and fished out a diamond tennis bracelet. He held it up in front of him. Forty matched diamonds set in a yellow-gold bracelet sparkled in turn, reflecting the light from the lampposts that flashed by the windows.
Mort made some mental calculations, waving his finger in the air as he computed the amount of profit he should receive from the bracelet and the rings. Keeping most of the profit for himself had become the rule rather than the exception. After all, he took all the risk, and what Sylvia didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Mort and Sylvia had been working together for about a year—ever since he’d violated parole. He had amassed a fair amount of money over the year and now thought seriously of moving on. Sooner or later someone was going to realize that at least one item in each theft had been bought at Stanton’s, and once they made that connection, Sylvia would be caught. He didn’t intend to be within miles of this town when that happened. This partnership had to come to an end, and after tonight’s screw-up, the sooner it ended the better.