I quietly crawled up the stairs to the top of Nina’s deck, keeping my head below the floor until the last possible moment. There were sliding doors that led to the kitchen. They were locked. I was always telling Nina and her daughter to keep them locked when they weren’t actually on the deck. Now they decide to listen to me. Nina had offered me a key, offered it more than once, only it was to the front door and I had refused it on the grounds that I had no business being in her house when she wasn’t there. I crawled back down the stairs.
Nina’s house had been built on the side of a hill. The deck was level with the first-floor living room, dining room, and kitchen and the street beyond. The basement opened into the backyard. The basement door was tucked beneath the deck. It also was locked. But it was cheap; Nina had not replaced it as I had suggested and I was able to loid the lock with a credit card.
I whispered into a Bluetooth mini headset that was wrapped around my ear and paired with a cell phone that Greg Schroeder had taped to my chest.
“The house is dark. No sign of movement. I’m going in.”
“Roger that,” Schroeder said Schroeder wanted to be the one to enter the house while I waited in the Cherokee for his signal, especially after we found his operative in a car about a half block from Nina’s house, dead, a bullet in his head. Nina was my responsibility, though. Besides, he was so agitated I couldn’t trust him not to shoot up the place.
I slipped inside the house and gently closed the door behind me—I didn’t want a gust of wind to slam it. I removed my shoes and waited for my eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. I tried to control my breathing, tried to remain calm, even as I removed the nine-millimeter Beretta from its holster and thumbed off the safety.
After a few moments, I tapped the microphone on the headset twice.
“Roger,” Schroeder said.
We had arranged signals beforehand. Once inside I wouldn’t talk, only tap. Two taps meant I was on the move and Schroeder should stand by. Four taps meant I was in position and he should bring the car up. If I got into trouble I was to yell for help.
I padded across the basement to the stairs. I crept up the stairs to the closed door at the top and cautiously turned the knob. It gave without a sound, and I nudged it open, revealing Nina’s kitchen. I lingered for a moment, listening with all my might, and heard nothing except the blood pumping through my veins and the thunder of drums that was my heartbeat.
I moved in a crouch past the door into the kitchen. I held the Beretta with both hands and swung it first to my right, then to my left. Appliances winked at me in the scant moonlight that streamed through the kitchen windows. To my left was a long corridor that led to the living room, as well as one of Nina’s four bathrooms, the second-floor staircase, and the front door to her house. Straight ahead on the other side of the kitchen was an arched doorway leading to the dining room.
I skated forward, my stocking feet sliding on the floor tiles, the nine leading the way, until I reached the opening. I poked my head past the arch. A chair had been pulled away from the dining room table and was set facing the living room. A figure was sitting in the chair. I recognized Nina from the shape of her head and the tilt of her shoulders. A glint of light reflecting off a smooth, glossy surface told me that her arms and legs had been bound to the chair with duct tape.
I waited, afraid to move until I knew exactly where Teachwell was. Headlights from a passing car flickered through curtains and around drapes and briefly gave the room an eerie sense of movement. For a moment I discerned the silhouette of a man standing at the edge of the large bay window. I heard his voice.
“It’s him,” he said. And then, “No, not yet,” as the headlights swept past.
I tapped the headset.
“Neighbor, four houses down,” Schroeder said. “Are you ready?”
I had a clear shot, but Nina’s chair was too close to the line of fire, and I wouldn’t take the chance in case I missed and Teachwell returned fire. I retreated back into the kitchen, trying hard to ignore the throbbing pain in my back and ankle, until I reached the corridor. The corridor was carpeted, and I was sure Teachwell would hear the rasping sound my socks might make on the material as I moved along.
Now or never, my inner voice said.
I tapped the headset four times.
“Here we go,” Schroeder said.
I waited in the kitchen until headlights appeared through the tiny windows.
“Wait,” Teachwell said. “Yes. That’s a Cherokee.”
I moved down the corridor, staying well clear of the walls to eliminate any chance of bumping and thumping, until I reached the arched entrance to the living room. I rounded the corner. The silhouette had shifted position slightly. It was now hunched in front of the window and peeking through the crack between the drapes.
Headlights illuminated Teachwell’s face as Schroeder swung the Cherokee into Nina’s driveway. It was blank and stark, yet his eyes flashed with anger and injury. Or maybe it was just the light. I braced myself against the base of the arch and sighted on the center of the shadow. My finger was slick with sweat inside the trigger guard.
“Don’t. Move.”
He didn’t.
“McKenzie,” he said. There was resignation in his voice; he reminded me of a poker player who knew he had a losing hand yet bet his cards anyway. “How did you know?”