The house was remote, and the front porch sagged. Christopher had seen worse, but he had seen better, too. He was almost surprised it didn’t have a car on cinder blocks in the front lawn or an old washing machine beside the rocking chairs on the front porch. Hopefully Sherlock would get his ass in gear and put together a workable escape plan because he didn’t want to stay here any longer than he had to.
The Uber driver had dropped him off about a quarter of a mile from the home. Christopher felt the weight of Warren’s weapon in his pocket. It was a revolver, and it had six rounds in the chamber. He hadn’t fired a gun in almost thirteen years, which was a problem. Shooting wasn’t like riding a bicycle. A kid learns to ride a bike when he’s ten, and he could pick up a bike twenty years later and ride just fine.
To shoot a firearm well, though, you needed fine motor control, muscle memory, and keen eyesight. Your stance had to be perfect, your weapon had to be clean, and the environmental conditions had to be right. At any kind of distance, rain and wind could throw off what would be an accurate shot. An experienced shooter could compensate for the environmental conditions, but that took practice he hadn’t been able to put in.
The house was far from town. Maybe if he stuck around long enough, he could set up a backstop somewhere and get some target shooting in. He’d leave the country and retire somewhere nice, but he didn’t know where that’d be. No matter where he ended up, though, chances were that he’d be safer with a gun than without one.
As he walked closer to the house, a dog barked inside. It wasn’t the high-pitched yip of a Chihuahua, but the deep, throaty boom of something much larger. He was glad Sherlock had warned him about the animal. And he was glad he had the firearm. Something that size could rip his arm off.
When he reached the home, he stopped and looked around. A big oak tree shaded the lawn and front porch while hostas decorated the home’s foundation. The clapboard siding looked clean, and the windows were intact. A good contractor could have made it perfect for fifty or sixty grand, but it wasn’t a dump.
“Home sweet home,” he said, stepping onto the porch. The dog inside stopped barking. Christopher didn’t like dogs, but they sure made effective alarms.
The road in front of the home was straight for a quarter of a mile in either direction, affording him sightlines only blocked by trees. There were deep woods behind the house. If he put a car on the other side of those woods, he’d have an effective escape route, and with that dog, he’d know when anyone unwanted approached within a couple hundred yards. Sherlock had chosen well.
He put his hands in his pockets, one over his revolver and the second over a stack of seventy hundred-dollar bills. This place would be just fine.
I rolled over in bed and felt the world spin. My head pounded, but I wasn’t hungover. I was still too drunk for that. Roger had just sprinted out of the room so fast he ran into my dresser, almost knocking over a lamp. Now, he was barking his head off at something outside.
I swung my legs off the bed. Once my feet touched the hardwood, the world came into focus and stopped spinning. I wasn’t too drunk, at least. I wouldn’t have wanted to drive anywhere, but I could walk. That was something. My throat felt dry. I could still taste the bourbon I had been drinking at the bar. Sweat dampened my sheets and pajamas.
Roger had run through the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed, scattering everything I had worn earlier that day. I picked up my pants and shirt and tossed them in the hamper before leaving my bedroom. Roger ran from the front window. He bowed in front of me and then yawned.
“Do you want out?” I asked, rubbing my eyes. He stretched, bowing again. It was his way of saying yes. I grumbled and walked to the kitchen. “If you had to pee, you could have just told me earlier, asshole. You didn’t have to wake up the entire world.”
Roger maintained his characteristic silence until I opened the back door. Then he sprinted out into the night while I filled a glass with water. The sky was pitch black.
“It’s way too early for this shit, honey,” I shouted toward my open kitchen door. I heard nothing in response, so I stuck my head outside. When Roger had to go to the bathroom, he stayed in the yard. I couldn’t see him at all. “Roger?”
Then I heard him growl from the front of my house. Roger didn’t growl like that at squirrels, rabbits, or possums. Someone was there, someone he found threatening. With everything else going on, he was probably right. A little precaution would go a long way to keeping me safe. I went to the front hall closet and grabbed my Mossberg pump-action shotgun before running to the yard after my dog, all the while hoping this was just a stupid reporter.
**
It wasn’t a dog. It was a fucking horse, and it came sprinting around the house straight toward him. Christopher took his hands out of his pockets and backed off.
“Easy, boy,” he said, hoping to placate it. The animal stopped running about twenty feet from him. The fur on its back stood straight, and it leaned its weight on its front legs. Its mouth was open. The sound it produced was primal and menacing.
Christopher reached into his pocket for his revolver while taking stutter steps back. The dog matched his movements and slunk low along the ground, growling deep in its throat. This couldn’t have been right. The old lady knew he was coming. If she had a dog this vicious, she should have locked it up.
Somebody called from behind the house. The dog stopped growling and cocked his head to the side. Christopher had owned dogs growing up. Dogs growled when scared, but this dog didn’t fear him. He was protecting his home. If he ran far enough from the house, maybe the dog would stop.
Still, he looked toward the house, hoping the old lady would get her ass out there soon.
Christopher took shuffling steps backwards until he hit the oak tree he had seen earlier. As he slid around it, the dog growled once more and crept to the side, cutting off his avenue of escape.
“You son of a bitch,” he whispered, reaching into his pocket for his revolver. “Don’t make me do this.”
“Roger?”
“He’s out front,” said Christopher, not daring to raise his voice for fear of provoking the enormous animal. His revolver cleared his pocket as he backed around the tree. That at least gave him some cover for the moment. In his experience, most dogs could outpace him in a straight-line foot race, but they had a harder time cornering.
As Christopher tried to maneuver the tree between him and the dog, he saw movement near the side of the house. It was a woman, and she carried a rifle.
“Roger,” she called. He recognized her voice and felt his stomach drop. Christopher stopped moving and focused. It was Joe Court, and she wore flannel pajamas. Their eyes locked, and she raised her weapon to her shoulder. His stomach plunged into his feet.
Sherlock hadn’t sent him to a safe house; the son of a bitch had sent him to Joe Court’s house.
Christopher had just gotten played.