Chapter 32 - The Click of the Deadbolt
The metal mechanism inside the lock turned with an agonizing, oiled smoothness that turned my blood to ice.
Whoever was on the other side didn't just have a lockpick; they had a key. Arthur had rekeyed those doors twenty years ago, and only four people had ever possessed copies: Arthur, myself, Caleb, and the spare that lived inside the fake sprinkler head by the garden hose.
"Get behind the island," Marcus breathed, his voice dropping into the flat, lethal cadence of a seasoned investigator. His sidearm was already drawn, two hands locked around the grip, leveled chest-high at the wooden door.
Patrice didn't hesitate. She grabbed Caleb by the collar of his jacket and dragged him toward the hallway threshold, placing her own body between him and the potential line of fire, her eyes darting constantly toward the ceiling where my grandchildren lay sleeping. Caleb looked completely shattered, his hands shaking so violently he could barely keep his footing.
"Marcus," I whispered, stepping right beside him. Arthur’s .38 felt heavy and familiar in my palm. "The porch light sensor was disabled, but the motion chime on the mudroom window hasn't tripped. They're coming straight from the breezeway."
"Myrna, get back," Marcus muttered without turning his head.
"This is my house," I replied softly. "And I don't run from cowards."
The deadbolt gave a final, resonant *click*.
The heavy oak door swung inward by an inch. The cold autumn wind rushed into the kitchen, carrying the sharp scent of damp pine, ozone, and something chemical—kerosene.
A gloved hand pushed the door open wider. Through the narrow gap, the silhouette of a tall figure in a hooded rain poncho stood framed against the darkness of the backyard. But it wasn't Tori. The shoulders were too broad, the posture too disciplined.
"Step back inside, old woman," a voice rasped from beneath the hood. It was a man’s voice, raspy and low, distorted slightly through a neck gaiter. "Kick the box out, and the children wake up tomorrow. Keep stalling, and I drop the rag into the vent."
In his left hand, illuminated faintly by the ambient light of the living room, was a glass mason jar stuffed with an oily white cloth. A cheap yellow lighter was clutched in his gloved fingers.
"Police! Drop it!" Marcus roared, surging forward from the cover of the refrigerator, his tactical light suddenly blinding the doorway with a thousand lumens of searing white brilliance.
The man flinched, shielding his eyes with his forearm, but he didn't drop the jar. Instead, he swung the heavy metal crowbar in his right hand with savage speed, aiming directly for Marcus’s head.
The crack of the crowbar striking the doorframe sounded like a gunshot. Wood splintered into the kitchen air. Marcus ducked beneath the blow, driving his shoulder into the intruder's midsection with enough force to rattle the entire doorframe, driving the man back onto the wet flagstones of the porch.
The glass jar slipped from the man’s fingers, crashing onto the stone steps below. The smell of raw fuel exploded into the night.
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"Patrice! The fire extinguisher!" I shouted, already moving toward the doorway with Arthur’s revolver raised, keeping my sights pinned on the rolling shadows grappling in the mud.
***
