“A deal,” Abe said. “If it exists and if it shows up.”
“Just our luck, it won’t.”
They followed the hillside in silence. Abe studied the house and its grounds as he walked. The yard looked deserted. The windows at the house’s side and rear were dark. He was certain that lights would be on if anyone was inside either cleaning the rooms or standing guard.
“If we find it occupied,” he said, “we’ll abort.”
“Right,” Jack agreed.
“As of last summer, at least, they apparently didn’t have an alarm system or guard…”
“Just the beast.”
“So unless they’ve tightened up security since then, we shouldn’t have any trouble along those lines.” The slope eased downward into a ravine. At its bottom, Abe trudged through the low brush to the rear corner of the fence. He followed the fence, watching the distant road until the house blocked it from his view. Glancing over his shoulder at Jack, he said, “Any cops show up, we ditch our weapons. If we can’t pull a disappearing act, let them take us for breaking and entering. That’s a minor charge next to resisting arrest or firearms possession.”
“We can always pick them up later,” Jack said.
Abe stopped near the center of the fence. He tossed his blanket over the spikes. It dropped silently to the grass on the other side.
“Watch out for those points,” Jack said. “You’ll be singing soprano.”
They both hit the fence at once, grabbing the crossbar, leaping, bracing themselves with stiff arms, planting a foot on the bar between the sharp uprights and springing down. Abe snatched the blanket from the ground and dashed across the yard, past a ghostly white gazebo, into the dark moon-shadow cast by the house. With Jack close behind him, he climbed the porch stairs.
The floor creaked under his weight as he stepped to the back door. He peered through one of its glass panes. Except for murky light from the windows, the interior looked dark. He moved aside. “This is your game,” he whispered. “You want to do the honors?”
Jack rammed an elbow through the lower right pane. A burst of shattering glass broke the stillness. Shards rained down on the other side of the door, clattering and tinkling as they smashed against the floor.
“Such finesse,” Abe said.
“Got the job done,” Jack told him, and started to reach through the opening.
“Wait. Let’s give it a couple of minutes, see if anyone shows up.”
Abe watched the door windows. He listened carefully. No lights appeared inside the house, and he heard only the night sounds of the breeze and crickets and a few distant birds. He also heard his own heartbeat. It was loud and fast. He licked his lips. His stomach felt knotted and there was a slight tremor in his leg muscles. He didn’t like waiting.
“Okay,” he said finally.
Jack put an arm through the broken pane. He felt around for a few seconds. Then Abe heard the dry snap of a clacking bolt. Jack withdrew his arm, turned the knob, and opened the door. Its lower edge pushed through fallen glass as it swung wide. Jack twisted his hand on the knob to smear his fingerprints, and let go.
Abe followed him into the room. Turning on his flashlight, he swept its beam over cupboards, a long counter and sink, an old wood-burning stove.
Jack whispered, “Should I get a shot of the kitchen?”
“Let’s start upstairs and work our way down. Grab one of here on the way out, if you feel like it.” Abe shut off the flashlight and led the way down a corridor between the staircase and wall. Stopping in the foyer, he glanced at the parlor, at the hall leading to the gift shop. Both were dark and silent.
Fighting an urge to hold the banister, he started up the stairs. No matter how softly he put his feet down, every riser creaked and groaned in the silence. If nobody heard the window break, he told himself, nobody will hear this. The thought stole into his mind that perhaps the smashing glass had been heard. Instead of coming to investigate, it had decided to lie in wait.
It.
This place is getting to you.
At the top of the stairs, he looked to the left. Moonlight from a casement window cast a pale glow into the corridor. He saw no movement. To the right, the hall was black. He remembered a window at its far end, but the curtains of the Jenson display blocked out any light from that direction.
“Let’s do the kids’ room first,” he said. “Work our way toward the front.”
With a nod, Jack walked quickly up the hall. Abe followed, watching his friend shove the curtains aside as he passed close to the wall. The motion of the fabric forced an image into Abe’s mind of something alive hidden within the enclosure. His skin prickled when the velvety folds swung against him. He rushed through the gap.
On the other side, he looked over his shoulder. The curtains still swayed as if stirred by a wind. He switched the flashlight to his left hand, reached behind his back, and drew out his revolver. The walnut grips were slippery with his sweat, but the weight of the weapon felt good. He held it at his side as he entered the bedroom.
With an elbow, he nudged the door. It swung almost shut. He pressed his rump against it until the latch snapped into place.
Jack found the drawcords and pulled. The curtains skidded apart.
“Make it quick,” Abe whispered. He shoved the flashlight into a pocket of his windbreaker and stuffed the barrel of the revolver into the front pocket of his jeans.
The room had two windows, one on the wall facing town, the other facing the backyard and hills. Stepping over the wax bodies of Lilly Thorn’s murdered sons, he hurried to the far window. He looked out at the rooftops of the businesses along Front Street, at the lighted road. A single car was heading north. He shook open the blanket and covered the window. “Okay,” he said, and shut his eyes to save his night vision.
Through his lids, he saw a quick blink of brightness. He heard the buzz of the automatic film advance.
Jack whispered, “Say cheese, fellas,” and snapped another picture. Then one more. “Done,” he said.
Abe swung the blanket over one shoulder. He pulled out his revolver and returned to the door as Jack closed the curtains. Faced with the prospect of opening the door, he wished he hadn’t shut it. His left hand hesitated on the knob.
Calm down, he warned himself.
He thumbed back the hammer of his .44 and yanked the door wide.
When nothing leapt at him, he let out a trembling breath. He kept his revolver cocked and stepped into the corridor.
“Fingerprints,” Jack said in a cheery voice that seemed too loud. “I’ll get ‘em.”
Abe heard the knob rattle. Then Jack moved past him and crossed the hall to the nursery door. He tried the knob. “How are you at picking locks?” he asked.
“Forget it,” Abe told him.
“I could kick it in.”
“Just grab a shot of the closed door. Hardy can run it with a mysterious caption. Hang on while I get the window.” He eased down the hammer and pushed the gun into his pocket as he rushed to the end of the corridor. Holding the blanket high to shield the window, he closed his eyes until Jack took the picture. Then he slung the blanket over his shoulder again, drew his revolver, and turned around.
Jack was gone.
The curtains surrounding the Jenson exhibit swayed a bit.
Abe’s stomach tightened. “Jack?” he asked.
No answer came.
He listened for sounds of a struggle, but heard only his own heartbeat.
He walked quickly toward the enclosure. Trying to keep the alarm out of his voice, he said, “Jack, hold it in there.”
The bottom of the curtain flew up. He jerked back the hammer. A dim, bulky shape rose from a crouch. “What’s wrong?” Jack asked.
“You trying to spook me?”