Trouble in Paradise

The house was built on a small slope so that it stood high on its foundation in the back. There was a door to the cellar and a window on either side of the door. There was no cover between her and the house. But it was only about twenty feet. There's no way to sneak, Molly thought. If I'm the perp I'm walking around the house looking out windows, keeping an eye out for the cops. If I'm right, I got three chances in four that she's looking out the wrong window. I either make it or I don't. It's the best I can do. This was where normally you radioed for backup. Today there was no backup. She took in as much air as she could and blew it out and sprinted for the back of the house. No one shot her. Nothing happened. She crouched against the high foundation in relative safety. She was pretty sure she couldn't be seen from the house.

Crawling to stay out of sight, she went past the cellar window and tried the cellar door. Locked. She looked up at the cellar window. The one on the left was locked; she could see the latch. The one on the right had no latch. She reached over and pushed up on one of the mullions. The window didn't move. She took the flat end of the tire iron and slipped it under the bottom of the window and pried up. The window went up without much noise. Molly dropped the tire iron and waited. No sound. No movement. She slid as close to the edge of the window as she could and peered around it. There was a laundry room. The laundry room door was closed. No one was in the laundry room. Molly stood and boosted the window wide open and climbed through. She stood in the laundry room and listened. The house was quiet. But then she heard footsteps on the floor above. She stood motionless. The footsteps moved away. She strained to hear them and realized as she listened that she had been right. It sounded like someone walking from one room to another, looking out the windows.

Crouching next to the washer and dryer, Molly took off her shoes and socks. It made her pants too long, and she rolled the cuffs up over her calves. Then she straightened and took out the gun.

She'd never fired it at anyone. She was a good shot on the range.

She opened the laundry room door. It was dimmer in the rest of the cellar. The cellar stairs ran up from the front, the oil burner to the right. She could see the electrical board on the wall to her left.

Barefooted and silent she went across the cellar and up the stairs.

Policy was never to cock the piece until you were going to shoot.

Standing on the top cellar stair, struggling to take in enough oxygen to keep up with her heart rate, Molly looked at the service pistol for a moment and then carefully pulled the hammer back. Fuck policy! She put her hand on the knob and listened again. She heard the footsteps get closer, moving slowly. Then they went past the door and faded into another room. Molly opened the door and stepped through in a crouch, the pistol aimed in the direction of the footsteps.

Bright. She was in a front hall. There were glass lights on either side of the front door, and sunshine streamed through the glass.

Dust moats danced in the light. She saw no one. She stayed where she was frozen in her crouch, holding the gun with both hands, her finger on the trigger. Not policy either. Then she heard movement in the next room. She moved toward it silently, almost without volition, feeling nothing now, not even fear, her concentration so focused ahead of her that nothing else registered. In the living room, looking out the window, was a well-built blond woman in a black sweatsuit and white sneakers, carrying a black shoulder bag. Molly took two soundless barefoot steps into the room, and the woman became aware of her. She half turned, fumbling at her shoulder bag.

Molly said, "Freeze. Police." She stepped forward and got a handful of the woman's hair and pressed the muzzle of her service pistol into the woman's neck and slammed her against the wall face first.

"Don't move a fucking muscle," Molly said.

*.

She hated how choked her voice sounded. The woman stayed where Molly had put her.

"What's your name?" Molly said.

Faye.

"Okay, Faye. Let the purse slide off your shoulder."

Faye did as Molly told her and the purse fell to the floor. With her left foot Molly kicked it away.

"Now lace your hands behind your head," Molly said.

She moved the gun back enough so the woman could move her hands up. When the woman's fingers were laced, Molly got a good grip on the interlaced little fingers. Then she holstered her weapon, still cocked, and took her handcuffs off her belt and handcuffed Faye's hands behind her. Then she stepped away, took her service pistol out of the holster again. She didn't lower the hammer. She didn't know if Faye was alone.

"Where's Abby, Faye?" Molly said.

With her face still pressed against the wall, Faye answered, "Upstairs."

"She all right?" Molly said.

"Yes."

"Let's you and me go take a look, Faye. You first."

They went slowly up the stairs to where Abby was handcuffed to the bed. There were tears, Molly noticed, ru

SIXTY-FIVE.

Staying close to the edge of the road, unlit by streetlights and undisturbed by traffic, Jesse felt as alone as he had ever felt. More alone even than the day after Je

He heard the three shots before he could see the restaurant. He crouched beyond some trees and listened. Nothing. Just the silence that followed the shots. He moved forward again slowly. The smell of the leaf mold under his feet was strong and mixed with the salt smell of the ocean. He could hear the water now, moving against the shore, and then he could see the restaurant in the dim light of the slim moon. There was no movement outside. The dim flicker of candle light showed through the windows. Near the back of the restaurant, there were no windows. Jesse dropped to his hands and knees and crawled carefully, staying in the shadows, toward the Dumpster. When he reached it, he squatted on his heels behind the Dumpster and looked. There were two shapes on the ground a few feet from him. He slid along on his belly now and reached the shapes. Two men. He felt them carefully. It was too dark in the shadows to see much. One with his throat cut. One shot more than once. That must have been the three shots. Nearby on the ground were two shotguns. Jesse felt in their pockets. Both men were carrying extra shotgun shells.