“Joanne?”
“I’m here, Dineen.”
Where were the policemen? Were they taking their time responding because of that article in the newspaper? Surely their loyalties lay with Chief Eddington. Were they driving over here in shared smugness—that woman deserves any trouble she gets?
I couldn’t see a front window from where I sat. I should move into the living room or my office—areas now unchecked. From there I could watch for police lights. Even though I didn’t believe anyone was in those black rooms, the mere thought of entering either one sizzled my skin.
“Dineen, I’m going to move where I can watch—”
The doorbell rang. I jumped so hard my veins rattled.
“They’re here.” I shoved from the chair. “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. Footsteps approached. Ron Blasco appeared in the entryway, the beam of my flashlight at his waist level. Mike Trent pulled up beside him.
“All clear, Mrs. Weeks.” Blasco gestured with his head. “We checked everywhere inside.”
I tried to swallow the stone in my throat. “Did you see the rain trail, how it led from the back door down to the car?”
“Yes. And we checked that rear door. It’s locked and bolted.”
“Like I told you, I did that. I found it open.”
“Understood. We saw no signs of forced entry.”
I knew that already.
“What do you think about the water trail?” I pressed.
The officers exchanged glances. Mike Trent spoke up. “We can see why you were suspicious. But it’s also very possible that the door was left unlocked and not quite latched. The wind forced it open and blew in rain, right in that line you saw.”
Yes, that was possible. Probable, even, if it hadn’t been on this night, after a hooded and masked stranger nearly caused me to wreck on the road. But I couldn’t tell them that.
Could I?
I surveyed the officers, Hooded Man’s warning in my head. How to tell them I’d been stopped on the road without telling them why? And without the why I would just sound paranoid.
“Yes,” my mouth said. “I suppose that’s possible.”
Blasco cleared his throat. “We’re going to check outside around the perimeter. If you’ll just wait here another moment.”
I moved away from the door. They stepped outside and down my two porch steps into the blistering rain. I stood in the doorway, the squall wrapping me in a cold drool. I couldn’t stand it. When the officers disappeared from sight, I shut the door, shivering.
A few minutes later they were back, freshly soaked.
Ron Blasco shook his head. “We saw no footprints, no signs of disturbance around your house. Granted, on a night like this…” He raised a hand, palm up. “Still, we’re satisfied that all’s clear.”
I nodded, numb. “You’ll make a report, though—that you came out? It’ll include what I told you?”
“Absolutely.”
I bit the inside of my lip. What more could I do? “Thank you for coming.”
“No problem.” Mike Trent offered a quick smile. “Don’t hesitate to call again if you need us.”
From the doorway I watched them trot to their car and slide inside. The flashing lights cut off. They drove away from the house, onto their next mission. Or maybe back to the station. For their sakes I hoped it had electricity.
I stepped inside, closed the door, and locked it. Checked the bolt twice. A third time. The black stillness of the house hovered over me, disaster waiting to strike.
Could my back door have just blown open? Could I have carelessly left it unlocked when I went to Dineen’s for dinner? Try as I might, I couldn’t believe that now, not after seeing that trail of water.