“Call you back.”
I tossed down the phone and made for the front door, my blessed ray of light cutting a swath through the darkness. In the hallway I could see red flashing lights through my living room windows, pulsing the furniture like a macabre disco. I threw back the door. Two policemen stood on my covered porch, hulking wet shapes against the raging night. Both of them carried flashlights.
“Thank you for coming.” I stepped aside, let them in. The door banged closed behind the last one.
“Sorry,” he said, and I thought of my garage rear door, how it could have slipped from someone’s hand…
Water dripped from the men onto the floor. My overworked mind blipped the surreal thought that the rain was winning. It wanted nothing more than to overtake my house, drive me crazy.
The officers’ badges read Mike Trent and Ron Blasco. They shone their flashlights around the hall, their faces looking bloated and shadowy in the umbra of beams. Trent looked in his late twenties. I’d never seen him before. Blasco, a father in his early forties, used to attend my church, although I hadn’t seen him there in months. He’d known Tom. Even fished with him on occasion.
“Mrs. Weeks.” He nodded. “We hear you may have had a break-in.”
I spilled my story, one hand at my neck. I told them nothing of Hooded Man. Only of the garage door slamming, the trail of water across the floor.
“Okay,” Blasco said. “Stay right here. We need to clear the house.”
They pulled their guns, aimed and ready. Together they entered the living room in the steely half crouch I’d seen so often on TV. Now it was real. Now it was my life.
The throbbing red from the patrol car outside beat against their bodies, purpled their uniforms. The light reflected the rain running down my windows, pulsing the officers’ faces with translucent rivulets of blood. I pressed against the front door, shoulders taut, and prayed. I’d prayed countless times for comfort when Linda disappeared, countless more for strength when Tom died. I believed in Jesus my Savior. I believed in prayer.
I also knew being a Christian didn’t always keep you out of trouble. Look at Linda. Now look at me.
The officers directed their beams around the room, searching beyond the couch, behind the TV. All clear.
They brushed by me into my office. Beyond that, they would search the bedrooms and baths, the laundry room. I couldn’t see them anymore, but I heard closet doors opening, the ripping back of a shower curtain. I hung on to their every sound, hugging them to my chest as reminders these men could save me. My muscles tensed into rocks, each cringing second drawing out…out…as I braced for noises I didn’t want to hear. A long squeal of car brakes too often leads to the crunch of metal. Here it would be a sudden shout, the blam, blam of bullets.
The policemen ventured back up the hall, intact, whole. I drank in their vague shapes as they passed by toward the kitchen.
One of them gasped. Feet shuffled. Flashlight beams swung.
My fingers clutched each other.
“Oh, man.” Blasco’s voice. “It’s a fish.”
“Yeah.” Trent. “My light caught those eyes.”
Billy Bass. I let out a breath.
I heard the policemen move forward.
The kitchen had to be safe. I’d just been there.
Only one place left in the house.
“Watch out in the garage!” I called. “He could have been hiding behind the car.”
He had been there, hadn’t he? Whoever he was. (Hooded Man? A burglar?) Rational thinking insisted he would be long gone. But fear drowned out its voice.
The door into the garage opened. Closed with a click.
I waited, heart tripping. The storm raged at my back, separated by a mere piece of wood that had never seemed so flimsy. In my mind’s eye I pictured the garage. My car, the furnace, water heater. So few places a man could hide. But enough. My fingers gripped the flashlight until they cramped.
No shots. No shouts.
The garage door opened again.
I tossed down the phone and made for the front door, my blessed ray of light cutting a swath through the darkness. In the hallway I could see red flashing lights through my living room windows, pulsing the furniture like a macabre disco. I threw back the door. Two policemen stood on my covered porch, hulking wet shapes against the raging night. Both of them carried flashlights.
“Thank you for coming.” I stepped aside, let them in. The door banged closed behind the last one.
“Sorry,” he said, and I thought of my garage rear door, how it could have slipped from someone’s hand…
Water dripped from the men onto the floor. My overworked mind blipped the surreal thought that the rain was winning. It wanted nothing more than to overtake my house, drive me crazy.
The officers’ badges read Mike Trent and Ron Blasco. They shone their flashlights around the hall, their faces looking bloated and shadowy in the umbra of beams. Trent looked in his late twenties. I’d never seen him before. Blasco, a father in his early forties, used to attend my church, although I hadn’t seen him there in months. He’d known Tom. Even fished with him on occasion.
“Mrs. Weeks.” He nodded. “We hear you may have had a break-in.”
I spilled my story, one hand at my neck. I told them nothing of Hooded Man. Only of the garage door slamming, the trail of water across the floor.
“Okay,” Blasco said. “Stay right here. We need to clear the house.”
They pulled their guns, aimed and ready. Together they entered the living room in the steely half crouch I’d seen so often on TV. Now it was real. Now it was my life.
The throbbing red from the patrol car outside beat against their bodies, purpled their uniforms. The light reflected the rain running down my windows, pulsing the officers’ faces with translucent rivulets of blood. I pressed against the front door, shoulders taut, and prayed. I’d prayed countless times for comfort when Linda disappeared, countless more for strength when Tom died. I believed in Jesus my Savior. I believed in prayer.
I also knew being a Christian didn’t always keep you out of trouble. Look at Linda. Now look at me.
The officers directed their beams around the room, searching beyond the couch, behind the TV. All clear.
They brushed by me into my office. Beyond that, they would search the bedrooms and baths, the laundry room. I couldn’t see them anymore, but I heard closet doors opening, the ripping back of a shower curtain. I hung on to their every sound, hugging them to my chest as reminders these men could save me. My muscles tensed into rocks, each cringing second drawing out…out…as I braced for noises I didn’t want to hear. A long squeal of car brakes too often leads to the crunch of metal. Here it would be a sudden shout, the blam, blam of bullets.
The policemen ventured back up the hall, intact, whole. I drank in their vague shapes as they passed by toward the kitchen.
One of them gasped. Feet shuffled. Flashlight beams swung.
My fingers clutched each other.
“Oh, man.” Blasco’s voice. “It’s a fish.”
“Yeah.” Trent. “My light caught those eyes.”
Billy Bass. I let out a breath.
I heard the policemen move forward.
The kitchen had to be safe. I’d just been there.
Only one place left in the house.
“Watch out in the garage!” I called. “He could have been hiding behind the car.”
He had been there, hadn’t he? Whoever he was. (Hooded Man? A burglar?) Rational thinking insisted he would be long gone. But fear drowned out its voice.
The door into the garage opened. Closed with a click.
I waited, heart tripping. The storm raged at my back, separated by a mere piece of wood that had never seemed so flimsy. In my mind’s eye I pictured the garage. My car, the furnace, water heater. So few places a man could hide. But enough. My fingers gripped the flashlight until they cramped.
No shots. No shouts.
The garage door opened again.
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