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“LET’S STOP PUSSY FOOTING around and get this done.” Romero was in motion, pulling out a toothpick and clamping it between his teeth. “Hey, Pop, we’re out. Thanks again”
The door chimed as Romero pushed out toward the parking lot. Pop poked his head out just in time to see their backs heading toward the call of duty.
“Come back anytime,” Pop called to their backs.
They tossed backward waves behind them at Pop. They loaded into the car. Romero gunned the accelerator. They were back on the dark road leaving the country rest stop behind and heading to the house owned by possibly a dead woman, or her hated son, or the coach, who may or may not be her son.
“There’s the welcome to Pennsylvania sign, so the driveway should be coming up,” Copeland reminded Romero.
He hit the high beams and the street lit up ahead as bright as the yellow brick road that led Dorothy to the wizard. “I see it.” Romero turned the wheel hard into the driveway. The car bounced over the gravel road and then it was back to smooth sailing as the tires hummed across the blacktop. The house sat so far back from the entrance it could have had its own street name. It was pitch black with the only illumination being the car’s headlights. Peering through the windshield, they saw a lit-up porch like a campfire in the middle of the woods. It looked as if someone was expecting company.
“I don’t know. For a house that’s not lived in, it sure looks like someone is coming back soon or is waiting on visitors,” Romero said as he peered through the window, slowing the car to a crawl.
“If someone is home, there’s no way we can make a surprise visit. One road in, one road out,” Copeland said. She scoped the house as much as she could. The porch light was bright. Probably a hundred-watt bulb, she thought. “Pull alongside the road as close as you can get to the house. Any funny business and I want the car for cover.”
“You’ve got it, Cope,” Romero replied.
The car edged to the roadside almost kissing the house. Two doors opened. Copeland and Romero unrolled themselves from the car. Romero’s door clicked shut. Copeland motored her seat forward to let Billy out. She eased her door shut. They stood in the blackness of night looking ahead at the house. Rumbles came from the sky overhead sounding like bowling balls rolling down the lane. A light breeze moved in. Night critters were loud, chirping and buzzing. The sky roared with thunder. The scent of approaching rain filled the air.
“This is just wrong,” Billy complained keeping his voice low as if there was someone around other than the crickets to hear. “This is like a scene from a spooky movie. Any moment the hatchet man or chain saw killer will burst through the darkness wielding weapons of torture.”
Copeland snickered quietly. “You’re such a kid, Billy.”
Romero started moving toward the steps, hand resting on his gun. “You got the warrant, Billy?”
“Right here.” He patted his pocket. Then he unsnapped his gun from the holster. He wasn’t taking any chances. Anything popping through the dark would meet with a bullet. He heard another snap. It was Copeland freeing her gun for possible action.
Up the steps the three went, parting at the door. Copeland shrank left of the door. Billy went right. Romero took the lead, leaning right and pounding the door. One knock and the door bounced inward. It was already open.
Copeland whispered, “Like Billy said, this is just wrong.” She could feel it right in the pit of her cop stomach, the gut sagacity, which more than often had proven to be dead on. The wrongness was crawling up her spine.
“Hello,” Romero yelled into the darkness. “Police. Anyone home?”
Not one sound pierced through the darkness. Romero extended his arm through the doorway, gun in hand. “Cover me.” His gunned hand swept around as he inched forward. Three steps into the house and he was stunned into stillness, “Shit!” His feet propelled him backward as lights popped on lighting up the foyer like the sun.
“Motion lights,” Copeland whispered.
“You sure?” Romero asked.
“Just stand out here and wait.”
They huddled at the doorway waiting.
“What are we....” Romero began just as the lights popped off.
“You see, motion lights,” Copeland said again.
Romero eased forward again, slowly, cautiously with his gun leading the way. The lights popped on again. He flinched as if he had forgotten the drill. He scoped out the entryway. It was bare—just wooden floors. A wide staircase swept upward. Billy and Copeland brought up the rear, guns at the ready.
Romero jerked his head toward the stairs, “Clear the second floor, Cope.” He jerked his head right, “Those rooms, Billy. I’ll clear these.” His head jerked left.
Each went their separate way, stealing through quickly and quietly like cat burglars. Lights were popping on as each room was entered. Romero had a tour of the dining room. A long wooden table with a lot of chairs covered most of the room. He counted them, sixteen. Why so many for two people, he wondered.
The table was set elegantly as if dinner guests would be arriving any minute. In the center sat a vase of red roses. He inched closer. Dust. The roses were fake and sheathed in a layer of dust as were the plates, glasses, and silverware.
He did a 360. The walls were naked from floor to ceiling. He moved on, into the kitchen. He holstered his gun and donned a pair of gloves. The fridge was his first hands on inspection. It opened with a pop off the rubber seals, sifting out cold air. A light lit up its contents. Bottled water, soft drinks, and beer. No food he noted. He closed it and ambled around the oversized wooden block island. There was crunching under his shoes. He peered down. Shards of glass. He swept the perimeter. The back door was missing a pane. Okay, Romero thought as he looked around. Someone, probably kids, broke in the back and left through the front leaving the door ajar. He went back to his professional snooping.
Copeland was staring down a lengthy hallway of dull wooden floors. They creaked with each step. She wasn’t sneaking up on anyone tonight with all the squeaking of the wooden planks rubbing together, but still she maintained the position; gun arm extended, feet creeping slowly, eyes peeled. Doors lined the walls. She stole a peek in each bare room, entering to check the closets for hiders. Empty, empty, empty. Then she entered the master bedroom. Not empty.