66: Poole’s eyes fluttered. He caught a glimpse of the hallway, tried to stand, and blacked out again.
He wasn’t sure how long he had been out the first time or when he woke again. When he woke for the second time, he stayed down. He scanned the hallway through watery vision. He tried to listen to the house, but the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears fought him, drowning out nearly everything else.
He lay there for minutes, perhaps seconds. Time and consciousness weren’t fluid anymore but instead became a rope ladder without a top, without a bottom, something he only tried to cling to.
The drumming at his ears faded, replaced with the steady tick of a grandfather clock down the hall. He could see the side of it, but the face was turned the other way, the sweeping hands pointing toward something else.
He freed his right hand and tugged his Glock from the shoulder rig.
There was no sign of Bishop.
Poole sat up slowly, first to a crouch, waiting for the dizziness to leave. His left hand found the tender spot on the back of his neck where Bishop had struck him. There was a lump the size of a fist back there. No blood, though. He might have a concussion but couldn’t be sure. Poole found his feet and forced himself to stand. A wave of white washed across his vision, and he steadied himself on the wall to keep from passing out.
The gun felt heavy and almost fell from his fingers. He gripped tighter, purposely pressing his finger into the sharp corner of the trigger guard, the bite of pain helping him focus.
Poole started down the hall, his arms outstretched in a double hold, the gun’s barrel pointing at the ground ahead of him.
The entrance hallway led to an open-concept dining and living room with a kitchen set into the back corner, all sparsely furnished. He swept all three spaces, then focused his attention on another hallway on the far side of the house, to the left of the living area. Unlike the one at the front door, this hall was narrow. He found a small bathroom at one end and a single bedroom at the other. The sheets atop the double bed were pulled taut. Bishop had made the bed.
There was a dresser along the far wall. Three of the drawers stood open, all empty. Back in the bathroom, he found a wet sink but none of the typical toiletries.
He got the feeling Bishop had been here for a little while, that it was some kind of sanctuary. He hadn’t expected a federal agent to show up on his doorstep. He got spooked and cleared out fast.
Poole reached for his phone. It was gone.
He returned to the hall, thinking he dropped it during the struggle with Bishop, but it wasn’t there either.
Diener.
Poole went to the door, tugged at the knob.
Locked.
Bishop had taken the time to lock the deadbolt on his way out.
Poole fumbled with the thumb latch, his movements still not entirely his own.
The winter wind rushed inside.
Across the street, the door to the abandoned house stood open.
Poole darted across the road, still holding his gun out in front of him, partially aware of the curtain falling back into place at the neighbor’s house, her body highlighted by the large green display behind her as the golf tournament cut to a car commercial.
He didn’t realize he’d shouted Diener’s name until the sound of his own voice echoed back at him from the otherwise silent house, nor did he spot his body at first, propped up against the corner of the living room wall, his neck, coat, and shirt all soaked with blood.