Hidden Vices by C.J. Carpenter Page A

another log on the fire, but she was much more alert this time as she lay on the couch. She picked up the coffee table books describing the history of New Jersey. She read for the next few hours before going to bed with her gun beside her.

    Megan woke and curled herself tighter under the covers, listening to the wind as it mounted the house. There was a curious rhythm to the noise, easily sending her back into a light trance. But she couldn’t regain sleep. The bedroom was borderline freezing and her foggy focus now turned to the lack of noise from the furnace kicking on.
    She wrapped herself in the down comforter, leaving only her face visible, and waddled to the hallway to check the thermostat. It read fifty.
    â€œFuck.”
    Resigning herself to necessity, she went into the kitchen to check the Mighty Mack binder. She found the section on heating and read aloud: “If the heat goes out, push the red button on the back of the furnace three times, then pray.”
    â€œOh very funny, Mr. Mack.”
    Megan had been shown where the furnace was, so she scurried down to the lower level muttering, “Why does heat always go out in the middle of the night? Why not at noon?” She pushed the button three times but didn’t pray to God—that was something she’d stopped doing over the course of the last few years. Instead she prayed to the furnace. It turned on in less than a minute. She closed up the back room, walking by the lower level’s sliding glass doors. The whistling noise outside prompted Megan to look out. She saw the line of arborvitae trees swaying so strongly they looked as though snapping would be inevitable.
    â€œDamn.” She turned, letting the drapes fall back into form, missing the shadow as it moved to the upper deck.
    A slight smell of oil filled the house, which was reassuring; the heat was definitely back on. Her only goal was to get back to sleep and not wake until noon. She rechecked the thermostat. The number had already risen a degree. She was relieved until a slam against the side door made her jump. She dropped the comforter as if the air had just shot from fifty to ninety degrees. Her shock quickly turned to anger. “You son of a bitch! Jake Norden, if that’s you, this time I’m going to use my gun.”
    Megan threw on boots and a jacket, then double-checked that her gun was fully loaded. She approached the side entrance door as slowly as walking through a minefield. She lifted the blind. Nothing. Slowly she opened the door, trying not to make a sound as she stepped outside, which was nearly impossible in a house fifty years old. Adrenaline insulated her from the harsh wind hitting her face. She pressed her back up against the house, side stepping toward the back yard. Taking a deep breath, she turned the corner with her gun drawn. The only menacing object within range was the barren magnolia tree. No one. Just Megan, standing in flannel pajamas in the middle of the yard at three in the morning, pointing her gun at a tree. Not exactly a declaration of mental health on her part.
    The force slammed into her from behind. She pitched forward face first, hitting the cold frozen ground. He jumped on top of her, pinning her down with the sheer force of his weight. Megan had the wind knocked out of her. She couldn’t yell out, not as if anyone would hear her anyway. She searched the ground for her gun. It wasn’t in sight. He tore at the back of her head, and she managed to elbow him and turn on her back. He lunged at her again before she had the chance to draw her knee up in hopes of kicking him in the groin.
    It was useless. She’d lost the battle.
    â€œGet off of me, you damn dog!” Megan yelled, pushing at his fur-covered chest, trying to gain leverage. “Off!” She pushed again, having little effect on the overexcited pooch. Time for another tactic: “Good crazy dog, good crazy dog,” she crooned. The mutt calmed enough