Saint/Sinner by Sam Sisavath Page A

houses out here as a vacation spot instead of a permanent residence. He would have loved to know for sure, but they hadn’t had time to investigate the surrounding area when they first arrived. It was yet another reason why he hated taking jobs without the lead time for proper preparations.
    “Report in as soon as you can,” Jack said into his mic.
    “What about Jones?” Jerry asked.
    “He’s dead.”
    “Aw, man.”
    “The dog took a chunk out of his neck. Bled out in the room.”
    “So they didn’t shoot him?”
    “No.”
    “Still, death by fangs… Damn.”
    “Concentrate on what you’re doing out there. I have everything under control at the house. Everything’s back on schedule, and we’ll be done by morning.”
    “What are you going to tell the client?”
    “About what?”
    “Didn’t they say not to hurt Walter?”
    “Yeah, well, desperate times,” Jack said. “Just get your part done.”
    “Back atcha,” Jerry said. “Over and out.”
    Jack resumed walking through the living room, looking left, then right, trying to find an answer to the question that had been nagging at him ever since he found Jones’s body: How the hell had the dog gotten into the house after they had locked all the doors and windows?
    They had locked all the doors and windows, hadn’t they? Of course they had. Then again, that was Jones and Jerry’s job, and what was that saying about doing something yourself if you wanted it done right?
    The question was going to drive him insane the more he thought about it. Maybe it didn’t matter anyway. The dog was gone; it’d gotten what it came for: its owner, the woman Allie. There was no reason for it to come back, because there was no reason for her to come back. If she was smart, anyway, and Allie had proven to be pretty goddamned smart.
    He shook his head and headed back to Walter’s room to check up on the work-in-progress, when gunshots echoed in the distance from outside the house.
    From the woods.
    Jack stood still and listened. He couldn’t tell how many shots had rung out, but they had to have come from a distance because he could just barely make them out, and wouldn’t have if the house weren’t so quiet.
    He hurried to the front doors, clicking the PTT as he went. “Jerry, report.”
    There was no response.
    At the door, Jack made sure it was still closed. They had deactivated the alarm as soon as they had secured Walter and the women as a precaution, and he had to lock the door the old-fashioned way now by manually twisting the deadbolt into place.
    “Jerry, answer me.”
    Still no response.
    He peered through the security glass at the top of the door. Walter’s vehicle was the only one parked in the front yard, the SUV he, Jones, and Jerry had arrived in earlier still hidden in the woods. It was too dark beyond the halo of the lights to make out anything that wasn’t a trick of moonlight.
    “Jerry, goddammit, you still out there?” he said into his mic.
    “Quit your nagging,” Jerry finally said in his ear. He wasn’t quite whispering, but it was close. “I’m trying to work here.”
    “Report.”
    “They’re in the house.”
    “Which house?”
    “The neighbor’s. One of the neighbors, anyway. I got them cornered inside.”
    “What about the dog?”
    “Hell if I know. I’ll radio back when I’m done over here.”
    “Roger that.”
    The earbud went silent, and Jack pushed off the door and walked through the house again.
    He liked Jerry. Well, as much as you could like someone you didn’t know existed until five days ago, anyway. He guessed if someone were to press him on it, he didn’t have anything against Jones, either. Not that he minded Jones’s demise too much. Money split two ways was a lot more attractive if his math was correct, and he was pretty sure it was.
    The tap-tap-tap of computer keys from the second guest bedroom was a welcoming sound, even though Jack kept one ear open for further reports of gunshots. The fact that he