Shit. It’s over.
He debated whether or not to slam the front door, walk to his office, grab his two pistols and shoot every single cop in the face.
The guard stepped closer and tilted his head. The sun was still rising, but it came from behind the house, shining on the guard and casting Elmore in a shadow.
The guard lingered a little longer, then shook his head.
“No, I don’t think so. It was dark last night, but I don’t think so,” he said.
Elmore almost breathed a sigh of relief, but stopped himself, knowing they’d hear it.
“Look again,” Rod said.
“I did look. The guy last night had a mustache. This guy doesn’t.”
Rod glared at Elmore and then stepped up to him, staring at his lips. Spencer grabbed Rod’s arm again, but Rod brushed it off.
“Stubble,” Rod said. “You have stubble. I wondered if you shaved your mustache off, but you have stubble. It’s been at least two days since you’ve shaved.” Rod stepped back and crossed his arms. Elmore could see he was getting quite angry about something.
What brought him here? How could he be so sure?
“Was it someone else, like a brother?” Rod asked Elmore, not letting his gaze waver. “Or did you wear a fake mustache. Wait, don’t tell me, it was fake, right?” Rod lifted his knee, slapped it and laughed as if he’d cracked a fabulous joke.
“Okay, I think this is enough,” Spencer said. “We’re sorry to trouble you, Mr. Ackerman.”
“No trouble at all, but I’m still confused as to what this is all about. What brought you to my door?”
Rod’s face lost all sense of humor. His eyes bore through Elmore, his lips pursed. “Sarah Roberts brought us here. We’re looking for her and I think you know something about that.”
“Rod,” Spencer said. “Come on, let’s go. We’re done here.”
“Not yet,” Rod said. “Mr. Ackerman. May we continue this conversation inside?”
“It’s six in the morning,” Elmore said. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m. Very. Serious.”
“No, it’s not a good time. I won’t be bullied by American cops.”
Spencer stepped off the stairs and started toward the black and whites. He stopped and turned back. “You coming, Rod?”
“I know you know more than you’re letting on,” Rod said. He moved closer to Elmore and whispered, “I’ll be back and when I am, it’ll be on my terms.”
Rod stepped off the front steps and walked backwards, studying the front of the house. He pointed at the roof. “What’s that up there?”
He doesn’t miss a thing.
“It’s a roof-top patio,” Elmore said. “I had it built in early 1986 when Haley’s Comet made a pass that March. I’ve always been interested in astronomy. That patio and railing is equipped with a chair that leans back to where I’m almost lying down and there’s a typical alt-azimuth mount for my ten-inch Schmidt-Cassegrain telescope. I even have a Mak-Newt in that baby — from Ceravolo Optical Systems out of Ottawa.”
I knew memorizing that astronomy shit years ago would come in handy one day. If he only knew what that tripod mount was really for, he’d arrest me on the spot.
“What does all that mean?”
Is he testing me? Does he know about this stuff?
“ What are you doing?” Spencer stepped back up beside Rod. “What has this got to do with anything?”
“Let him answer if he wants to. We’re just talking here. No harm.”
“It means,” Elmore began, “that the secondary mirror is flat and imparts no power as do others.”
“You go to all that trouble to build an observatory on your roof — why not have a larger telescope than a ten inch? Couldn’t you just aim that thing out your living room window?”
He’s trying to trip me up. Fuck this. I’ll bury him one day. Nobody tests me. Ever.
“ With telescopes, two contradictory rules apply: the bigger the telescope, the better. The smaller the telescope, the more often you’ll use it. Sure, a ten inch will outperform an eight inch and so on, but unless I built a huge observatory, a ten inch is all I need. Contrary to your earlier comment — that’s not an observatory. It’s a patio, a deck, a veranda — or whatever you want to call it. I use a telescope up there. That’s it.”
Rod stepped backwards a few more steps to get a better look. Then his face lit up like he remembered something. He grabbed his cell phone and dialed.
“Who are you calling?” Spencer asked.
They were far enough away from Elmore’s front door that he had to struggle to listen.
Rod held up a finger for Spencer to wait. Then he closed his cell phone and looked between Elmore and Spencer.
“No signal out here.”
“That’s odd,” Spencer said. “We called in just as we hit the driveway.”
“I know,” Rod said and then whispered something private to Spencer. He turned back to Elmore. “I will return. See you again soon.”
Could the American have figured out that I have a cell phone jammer? How?
Something was going on behind the scenes. Something Elmore couldn’t put his finger on. But he knew, whatever it was, he had to figure it out or it would finish him. This American cop was smart.
All the men got into their two vehicles and drove down his driveway, disappearing behind the line of trees at the end of his property.
Elmore slammed his front door and started pulling on his scab. Time was running out. They could get a search warrant and legally walk through his house. He had to do something and fast. Everything was over if he fell on police radar.
But what brought them here?
He ran into his office and grabbed one of the toenails from his container. After slipping it in between his front teeth to flick back and forth, he picked up his TagFinder and slipped it in his back pocket. It was a similar model to the ones used on bar codes at any Wal-Mart, but this one was better. It would locate radio frequencies and signals that many others couldn’t. Somehow the cops were on his doorstep this morning because something led them there. Something like a tracking device. It was the only plausible answer. Nothing else computed. Especially after what Rod had said when Elmore asked why they came to his door. Sarah Roberts brought us here. How could she? There was only one way and because of his signal jammer, whatever led them to his house wasn’t working properly. The only proof they had was that no signal worked near the house.
What did that asshole whisper to the other guy?
He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and grabbed the pistol, stuck it in the back of his jeans again and left his office, Jackie’s nail digging into his gums. In the kitchen, he mixed mayonnaise with a can of tuna and pulled out his baggy of dried Special K, or as it was better known, ketamine. After mixing enough in to knock Sarah out for a few hours, he spread it on brown bread, cut it in half, added corn chips and started for the basement.
It was almost seven in the morning. It would take at least thirty minutes to knock her unconscious when ketamine was distributed through food, but he had the time. Rod wouldn’t be back until tonight or tomorrow morning. A man like that was too determined. Elmore knew he’d be back, with or without a warrant.
Before opening the basement door, he set the food on the hallway cabinet and looked out the living room window. The front drive was empty.
He turned back to the food and the cabinet it sat on. The third drawer down held an empty syringe. He stuck the tip in and took care to fill it with liquid ketamine. If either of his prisoners caused trouble, he would forgo the food and simply inject them. It would work faster, knocking out a full-grown adult in less than five minutes.
He set the syringe on the tray, picked it up and opened the basement door.
“Okay, Sarah, time to eat. Then I can have my way with you. We’ll find out how these men got here today. I’m sure the answer is inside you somewhere and I’m coming to find it.”
Chapter 23
Sarah sat up when she heard the basement door open. Elmore came down the stairs, a tray in his hands.