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WHEN HE PULLED INTO the dirt driveway of the Jackson residence—which was nothing more than a double-wide trailer home set up atop a brick foundation—he could hear the baby crying from somewhere in the home. He parked the Expedition ten feet from the front door and walked up the three steps of the manufactured home.
The main door stood open, although the storm door blocked him from entering. He could see through the glass into the living room. The television was on, but the room was deserted.
He knocked on the door and called out for Benny Jackson but received no reply. He tried the storm door. It was locked.
Moving back down the three steps, made his way around the home, and peeked in the back windows. His view was blocked by heavy shades, so he moved back to the front and tried knocking several more times without reply. From somewhere in the home the baby continued to cry.
The situation seemed creepy and he felt his gut churning. Where was Benny Jackson and why wasn’t he attending to his child?
Drawing the snub-nosed revolver from his hip holster, he stepped back and kicked the storm door, smashing the hand-lock in with one huge boot-clad foot. He pulled the door open and entered the living room quickly with his gun held out in front of him.
To his right a kitchen. The design of the mobile home was an open concept; most of the rooms open to each other with no dividing walls. The kitchen was also deserted. For a moment, he felt as though he were transported back in time to the 1970’s. All the cabinetry was stained dark brown and all the major appliances and the linoleum were Harvest Gold, that funky shade of yellow that was all the rage when he and Mary moved into their first apartment.
He cocked his ear and listened. The baby was crying somewhere in the back of the home. Holding his revolver in front of him, he made his way toward the back rooms.
Down a narrow hall, he paused at the first door and put his ear to it. He heard nothing, so he opened the door and stepped quickly inside. It was a small bathroom with only a shower stall. He checked the stall but found it vacant.
The second room was the baby’s nursery. The baby was in the crib and by the smell Ames guessed the child hadn’t been changed for hours. He walked to the crib and stared down at the baby. The pudgy infant stopped crying when he saw Ames.
“That’s a good fella,” he said. He poked his finger playfully at the baby’s belly and smiled as the baby giggled. He tickled the baby under his chin. “I’ll be back in a minute, little guy. Don’t you start crying, again, you hear me?”
He left the room and to his surprise, the baby remained silent. He moved down the hall to the only other room. As Ames opened the door and stepped into the master bedroom, a man jumped out of bed and moved quickly to what appeared to be a closet. Ames held up his revolver and yelled, “Sheriff’s Department! Stop now or I’ll fire!”
The man disappeared into the closet and Ames followed quickly after him. Before he could close the distance, the man reappeared with a side-by-side double-barrel shotgun.