In back, a twenty-foot-wide flat space extended to where the scrubby hill sloped steeply up. More windows-four to be exact, two on either side of a screened backdoor, each as heavily curtained as the others. Beyond the screen, the rear door was steel with a peephole but no window.
Warrick pounded hard on the metal border of the screen, but got no response; and it proved to be locked.
To the far side of the house, the CSI noticed three small bushes, their leaves brown and withered…and Warrick realized he'd likely located the source of the crushed leaves found in Candace Lewis's carpet cocoon.
He didn't know how far Brass and the others were-or weren't-getting, out front; but he figured if Benson did happen to be inside, and Brass succeeded in chasing him out, this was the way the suspect would be exiting…so Warrick decided this was exactly where he ought to be.
Nerve endings on alert, Warrick imagined he could feel every molecule of the breeze slipping past him. The gun now felt more heavy than reassuring, and the impulse to drop his arms down to his sides beleaguered him; but he fought it, and kept the gun up, barrel pointed at the sky.
If he leveled it, it would be for one purpose only.
Warrick took a position off to one side, preparing himself for whatever came through that door. His back was against stucco, shirt cool and damp against his back, bumps of the wall digging into him, reminding him he was alive. A good way to be…
Nothing to do but wait.
Then his cell phone trilled, and he felt himself jump a little-no one was around to see that, thankfully-and he jerked the phone off his belt, about to shut it down when he recognized the incoming number as Brass's.
"What?"
"We don't think he's here," Brass said without preamble.
"He could be burrowed in," the slightly amped Warrick reminded the detective, "just waiting to jump out and say 'boo.' "
"Is there a car, any kinda vehicle, back there?"
Warrick glanced, then felt silly for not putting it together sooner: no car out front, no car in the back, middle of nowhere, equals…
No Benson.
"No vehicle out back," Warrick said.
"Join us," Brass said, sounding laidback. "We'll do our deal with the door, you and I, then while you CSIs start working your wonders, I'll move the Tahoe around back of the house. Assuming there's room…?"
"Plenty," Warrick said, taking in the flat space.
Warrick circled the building and met Brass at the rear of the Tahoe. They fetched the battering ram and lugged it to the stoop, to repeat the action from the other house. This door proved more secure, and it took a second blow to send the puppy sailing in, this jamb splintering, too, survivalist measures or not.
After leaning the battering ram against the side of the house, Brass told Grissom and Sara to stay put and keep a watch for Benson, should he return.
Then Brass went in first, Warrick after him, guns drawn. Warrick held a flashlight in his left hand and the weapon in his right, fanning them both around.
The single curtained picture window shrouded the room, but sun spilling through the open door aided the flashlights, if also creating dancing shadows. A certain strobe-like effect resulted, and Warrick had trouble adjusting for a few moments, not able to recognize even familiar objects.
The room was air-conditioned-cold in here, which explained why the generator was working with nobody (apparently) home. Warrick recalled Doc Robbins saying Candace Lewis's body had been preserved for some time, and a chill ran through him that had nothing to do with air conditioning.
Brass clicked the light switch and revealed a medium-sized living room that was at once cluttered and stark: parked in the middle were the only furnishings-a big lounge chair and a small, round table with a coaster and a remote control, opposite a huge projection TV against the far. The cluttered feel arrived by way of the right wall, which was consumed by shelving, the upper levels home to more electronic gear than the backroom at Best Buy-several VCRs, DVD players and recorders, laserdisc player, various cameras and more. The lower shelves were lined with hundreds of videotapes, all the homemade variety, with white spines hand-lettered in black felt-tip.
Even from across the room, Warrick could make out a row of tapes labeled CANDY, volumes one and two and three and on and on….
Shuddering, Warrick glanced around the other, vacant walls-no pictures at all, not mom, not Jesus, not even a velvet John Wayne.
Brass and Warrick exchanged lifted-eyebrow glances, and the detective led the way through an archway into a dining room, each going down one side of a scuffed, secondhand-looking wooden table and two wooden chairs with spindle backs. The chair on Warrick's side was rubbed white on one of the spindles-could this indicate Candace had sat here, handcuffed, while her host fed her during her imprisonment?
Beyond the dining area was the kitchen, but Warrick couldn't move any further without exposing himself to a hallway at left. Brass indicated he'd take the kitchen, and Warrick nodded toward the hall, a choice Brass confirmed with a return nod.
Warrick had taken only a few steps down the narrow corridor when Brass whispered from behind him, "Kitchen's clear, too."
The first two doors in the hall faced each other.
As before, Brass went right and Warrick left, turning into a room bearing the fragrance of a relatively recent paint job, the walls a flat white; probably intended as a bedroom, this had been converted into a kind of office-devoid of furniture but for a swivel desk chair facing a TV monitor on a small desk. A cable behind the monitor ran up the wall, and out of sight. What appeared to be a closet had its door padlocked.
Again, Warrick felt Brass right behind him.
"Bathroom," the detective said, sotto voce, "clean."
"We'll be the judge of that," Warrick said.
"I meant empty," the detective said.
They traded quick smiles, which made Warrick, at least, feel less tense; he started toward the padlocked door.
But Brass touched Warrick's sleeve. "Leave it for now. First we clear the house."
"Okay."
Brass led the way into another probable bedroom, this one on the right, also minus any bedroom furnishings, again vaguely an office: chair, monitor with cable rising of the back and padlocked closet. This one, however, lacked the scent of fresh paint.
The third bedroom, at the end of the hall, actually was set up like one: a bed with a cream-color spread, another shelf of homemade videotapes, and a TV/VCR combo atop a squat dresser. This closet door wasn't padlocked and, when Warrick opened it, he found only clothing-men's apparel, nothing fancy. The bed was king-size, but the tidy room had less personality than a Motel 6; again, the walls were blank-the only images in this house would be those appearing on monitor screens.
"Homey," Warrick said.
"Real dream house," Brass said, from the hall.
"Check the garage?"
"Yeah. Clear. Whole damn house is clear." Brass holstered his weapon, and Warrick followed suit. "Let's get you people started, before Benson gets back. I don't want Prince Charming seeing that Tahoe in back of the house, and bolting."
Warrick, Sara and Grissom unloaded their equipment and headed inside as Brass wheeled the Tahoe around back, parking it out of sight. Then the detective walked down the hill and positioned himself, out of sight among the scrub, to keep a lookout for their suspect. Brass and the CSIs would communicate via cell phone, if need be.
In the living room, Sara-field kit heavily in hand-was staring at the wall of tapes. She pointed to the row of tapes marked CANDY.
"No way I'm watching those," she said.