Checking Tommy's room first, Mike found the thin black thread still in place, unbroken. His son had not left his room during the night. The same held true for his Megan's room; the thread across her doorway was also unbroken.
Satisfied his children had not been sneaking around during the night, he removed the booby-traps and then went downstairs. He had almost an hour to kill before he had to wake the kids up, so he decided to make a pot of coffee and get in a little reading. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he entered the kitchen and flipped on the light.
"Son of a bitch..." He stopped in the doorway, frozen by the sight that lay before him. The faces were still on the tile floor, staring up at him, but something new had been added since his last trip downstairs. All of the cabinet doors now stood open and a row of pots and pans sat on the floor, circling the kitchen table like Indians around a covered wagon.
Mike was furious. Someone had entered their house while he slept, opened the cabinets, and carefully arranged the pots and pans. But how in the hell had they gotten in?
He hurried across the room and checked the door leading to the basement. The door was locked with a deadbolt and two different chain locks, including the new chain lock he had just installed last night. There was no way someone could have gotten in through the basement door.
The same held true for the back door. It was still locked and could not be opened from the outside. He checked the window over the kitchen sink, but found it securely fastened. The dowel rod he had wedged in the window's track was also still in place. No way someone could have opened the window from the outside without breaking the glass.
Leaving the kitchen he checked the front door and all of the other windows. They were all securely shut and locked, the chains and dowel rods still in place. Mike stopped and looked around. There was no way someone could have gotten into the house, not unless they could walk through solid walls.
Walking back into the kitchen, he stared at the pots and pans on the floor for a moment, then began to gather them up and put them back where they belonged. He didn't want Holly and the children to see the display, because he was afraid it would frighten them.
Hell, this is starting to frighten me.
He paused, a pot in each hand. Someone had been getting into their house, but nothing had ever been taken. Obviously robbery was not a motive. And except for Pinky's death, and the broken bear kachina, nothing in the house had ever been damaged. Instead faces had been drawn on the floor, statues turned around backwards, and pots and pans set out in a circle. Why? Was someone playing an elaborate practical joke at their expense? Or was someone going to great lengths in an attempt to frighten them?
The thought still brought a chill to his heart. At first he had suspected the strange events occurring in the past few days had been a joke of some kind, but now it seemed clear that someone was deliberately trying to scare them. But why?
A smile unfolded on his face. Suddenly, everything began to make perfect sense. He and his family had not been well received by the good people of Braddock. Some were jealous that he was a successful author; others — like the good reverend and his followers — resented the kind of books he wrote. Some might even associate him with his grandmother, labeling him as equally loony. Whatever the reason, someone didn't want him around and was willing to do anything to get him and his family to leave.
"Well, it's not going to work," Mike said aloud. "I will not be scared off by a bunch of half-witted hillbillies."
He set the pans down on the counter. "This has gone on long enough. If the sheriff's office won't do anything, then I will. This time it's war."
23
Mike had not intended to tell Holly about what he had found in the kitchen that morning, but she sensed something was bothering him. After seeing the kids off to school, she confronted him as they sat at the kitchen table. Rather than make up a story, he decided to tell her the truth. She was quite upset when he told her how he had found the pots and pans circling the table. What she said next took him by surprise.
"Mike, I think we should leave," Holly said, getting up to pour herself another cup of coffee. She filled her cup, added cream and sugar, then sat back down at the table.
"Leave?" Mike asked, as if he hadn't heard what she said.
She nodded. "Something is going on here. Something strange. I don't know what it is, but I'm frightened. If this place isn't haunted, then someone is getting into our house. There's no telling what this person might do. I'm worried about the children. What if he gets tired of playing games and decides to hurt one of them? I think we should call the police..."
Mike shook his head. "It won't do any good to call the cops. The sheriff won't believe us; he'll think I did this to get free publicity."
"Then let's get out of here. Right now. Today. We'll check into a hotel for a day or two. We'll be safe there."
"Run away?" He frowned. "Let them win? Show them that we're scared?"
"I am scared," Holly said. "And so are the children. There's a lot of things going on around here that can't be explained."
"Well, I'm not scared," he said, standing up to get himself his third cup of coffee for the day. He didn't really want another cup, he just felt the need to get up and move around. Holly's words were making him angry, and it was better to move about the kitchen than verbally lash out at her.
"No. I'm not scared. Not anymore. I'm angry instead, and I refuse to be driven out of my own home. We wouldn't let this happen back in New York, and I'm not going to let it happen here."
"New York was different," she argued. "We had friends there, and the police would listen to us. Here we have no friends, no one to help us."
"We have each other, and that's all we've ever needed before."
"It's different this time, Mike."
He shook his head. "I'm not leaving. Not yet. Not without putting up a fight first. If you and the kids want to leave, then go ahead. I'm staying."
Holly looked at him for a moment in silence, then said, "I'm not leaving without you."
He walked back over to the table and sat down. "Look, so far our little intruder had done nothing to indicate that he, or she, is dangerous—"
"What about Pinky? You don't think someone who murders helpless cats, and then cuts out their eyes, is dangerous?"
"If Pinky was murdered," he replied. "I'm not sure anymore. Maybe the sheriff was right, maybe Pinky died of natural causes and something chewed on him after he was already dead."
"You don't believe that."
"I'm not sure what to believe anymore. All I know is that, outside of Pinky, it looks like someone is playing a joke on us. Why, I'm not sure. Maybe they're trying to frighten us. The local kids around here used to do things to frighten my grandmother all the time.
"The things they did to my grandmother were mean-spirited, true, but they only did it because they knew it would frighten the old woman. Frighten her, yes, but they never did anything that could cause her any harm, never even broke a window."
"And to tell you the truth, I think my grandmother brought it on herself."
"How could you say such a thing?" Holly asked. "No one asks to be harassed, or scared."
"I don't think there was any problem until she started calling the sheriff's department on a regular basis reporting prowlers, little green men, and things that go bump in the night. Braddock is a small town, which means it's nearly impossible to keep a secret. It probably wasn't long before word got out that Vivian Martin wasn't right in the head."
"So?"
"So, you know how it is with teenage boys. They're all pumped up on hormones, just looking for a little excitement. Probably wasn't much to do back then — still isn't. Harassing an old woman, especially one deemed mentally unbalanced, would seem like just the thing to kill a little boredom. By then my grandmother had called the sheriff's office so many times nothing she said would be believed, so there was no way any of the teenagers would get into trouble."
"But why us? Why are we b
eing harassed?"
"Terrorizing Vivian Martin has been a tradition around here, passed on from one generation to the next. Sneaking onto this property to do mischief is probably like sneaking into the local haunted houses in other towns: something done on a dare."
"And then there's the flip side."
"What's that?" she asked.
"Maybe the former sheriff was delighted that someone was harassing my grandmother. Maybe he got tired of her calling about the faces on the floor."
"Your grandmother has been dead for over six months. Why is someone still painting these damn things on the floor?"
He shrugged. "Hard to tell. Maybe whoever is doing it finds it hard to break the habit. Or maybe this is his way of expressing himself."
"Expressing himself?" She laughed. "Can't he just go tag his name on the side of a building like all the other hoodlums?"
"Seems that would be a lot easier than sneaking in here at night to do this, less chance of getting caught. But maybe sneaking into this house is the fun part. Maybe doing something like this without getting caught is what excites him."
He pulled a cigarette out of the pack lying on the table and lit it. "Or maybe this has something to do with me."
"With you?"
He nodded. "Everyone around here knows that Vivian Martin was my grandmother. Maybe they think I'm just as crazy in the head as she was. Those who didn't like her probably don't like me either. Bloodline is taken seriously around here. Old feuds are handed down from one generation to another.
"Then there's the jealousy factor to consider. I'm a successful author. Maybe one of the locals resents that fact. And then there's your friend, the reverend..."
"Watch that ‘my friend’ stuff," she warned.
Mike smiled. "I imagine the good reverend would be rather pleased if we cleared out of the neighborhood. Maybe one of his congregation is behind the faces and the statues being moved."
"It wouldn't surprise me," Holly replied.
"That's why I refuse to tuck my tail between my legs and run away," he said. "These people may have gotten away with doing things to my grandmother, but they are not going to get away with doing the same things to me. I'm going to find out who's behind all of the pranks and why."
"And the shadows?"
"Hard telling what you guys saw, or what caused them. But shadows can't hurt you. Can they? If they do turn out to be earthbound spirits, like your mother said they were, then we'll just call in an exorcist or two and whisk them back to the spirit world."
"Just where are you going to find an exorcist around here?" she teased.
"Easy," Mike grinned. "In the yellow pages."
He pushed his chair back from the table. "I want to go into town, see if I can find an home security system I can install myself. An alarm system should make our local artist thing twice about sketching any more faces. You want to ride along?"
Holly shook her head. "I have plenty to do around here to keep me busy."
He frowned. "You sure you're going to be okay by yourself?"
"I'll be fine. I don't think anyone would be dumb enough to come around in the daytime." She smiled. "And Tommy's baseball bat is in the hallway closet in case they are."
He smiled back. "A wooden baseball bat planted firmly in the crotch should take the creative drive out of even the most dedicated artist."
Mike gave her a kiss on the cheek, grabbed the keys to the van, and headed out the front door. He made sure Holly locked the door after him, before he climbed into the van and started down the road.
He wasn’t sure where he could buy an alarm system for the house. The town of Braddock didn't have a Radio Shack, or a Sears. Nor did they have an electronics store. But they did have a Western Auto, which sold everything from auto parts to fishing gear. If anyplace in town would have what he was looking for, then that was probably his best bet.
The Western Auto store was located on Main Street
, directly across from Fran's Gift Shop. Leaving the van parked at the curb, Mike grabbed his checkbook out of the glovebox and entered the store.
He had never been in a Western Auto before, and was surprised to find it stocked with a wide variety of items. There were power tools, lawn mowers, radios, televisions, and various items for camping and hunting. They also had electrical generators, which would come in handy in case any bad storms blew through the area. He had heard that severe thunderstorms, and even tornadoes, were not uncommon in central Missouri during the springtime.
Turning away from the generators, he noticed several small satellite dish antennas on display with the televisions. He had promised to check on getting a satellite dish mounted in the backyard, but a smaller system would probably bring in just as many stations. Bigger was not always better when it came to modern technology and electronics.
Pocketing a couple of brochures about the satellite systems, he started searching the store for alarm systems. Unfortunately, the Western Auto store seemed to have everything but the one item he was looking for. Disappointed, Mike started to leave, but stopped when he spotted a row of glass cases in the hunting section. The cases were stocked with firearms and ammunition.
He suddenly remembered what Otto Strumberg had told him the day before, how no one broke into country homes because they knew the farmers had guns. Maybe what he needed wasn't an alarm system after all. Maybe he needed something a little louder, and with a bit more bite.
Living in New York City, he had never owned a firearm. For one thing handguns were illegal; for another he never felt the need to own such a weapon. Still, he was no stranger when it came to guns. On several occasions he had needed to research various handguns to make a particular novel he was writing that much more realistic. Readers could be the world's worst critics, willing to sacrifice a writer if he or she should get such details wrong. Not wanting to end up in a proverbial bonfire, he made sure such minor details in his book were always accurate.
Approaching the glass cases, he waited until one of the employees offered to help him. He didn't wait long.
"Can I help you, sir?" The employee's name was Rob. He was tall and thin, about Mike's age, with wavy brown hair and a thick mustache. He also had a very friendly smile, as if he was actually interested in assisting his customers.
"Yes... Rob," Mike said, glancing quickly at the man's name tag. "I'm interested in purchasing a handgun."
"Do you have anything particular in mind?"
"I'm pretty much open to suggestions," Mike replied, "but I would prefer an automatic."
Rob grinned. "Well then, let me show you some of our most popular models."
Rob unlocked the case and showed Mike several different makes and models of handguns, explaining the features of each. It turned out Rob was an avid gun enthusiast, and had competed in shooting competitions throughout the nation, so he really knew his firearms.
Ten minutes later Mike decided on a Glock model 23, a .40-caliber pistol with a ten-round clip. Pulling out his credit card, he was a little dismayed when Rob pushed a stack of paperwork across the counter for him to fill out.
"Jeez, it looks like I'm signing y life away."
Rob grinned. "Your life, your house, the wife, and the kids. It wasn't always this bad, but the bureaucrats in Washington gave into the demands of the anti-gun liberals. The dummies don't realize all they're doing is keeping firearms out of the hands of lawful citizens. The criminals will still have guns, no matter what the government says or does to stop them.
Mike picked up the paperwork and flipped through it. "Oh well, I guess it's a necessary evil. No use complaining."
"You won't have anything to worry about unless you've been to prison, or have been arrested for a felony."
"Nope. Never been to prison. And have never been arrested for a felony." Mike grinned. That's because I've never been caught."
Rob laughed, and handed Mike a pen. "There's also a seven-day waiting period."
"A what?" Mike asked, shocked.
"A s
even-day waiting period," the clerk repeated. "I'm sorry. I thought you knew. The law went into effect several years ago; more bureaucratic nonsense."
"No. I didn't know. I've only been living here a short time." Mike glanced down at the paperwork he held. "You mean I can't have the gun today?"
"No, sir," Rob said, apologetically. "State law makes you wait seven days. It's a cooling off period, in case you decide you don't really want a gun."
"I'm not going to change my mind," Mike argued. "I want the gun."
Rob nodded. "I would love to let you have the gun today, but it's not up to me. The government passed the law to keep people from buying handguns when they're angry."
"I'm not angry." Not yet, Mike thought. "What if I pay cash?"
"Won't make any difference."
"What if I throw in a twenty dollar tip?"
Rob laughed. "I'd be a happy man, but you'll still have to wait seven days. You can stop by then to pick up the gun, provided the background check doesn't turn up anything against you."
Mike was frustrated. "Look, let me give it to you straight: I want to purchase a handgun for protection. Someone has been breaking into my house at night, and I'm worried about the safety of my family. I have a wife and kids."
"I would love to help, but there's nothing I can do... not unless you want to buy a rifle, or a shotgun."
"I'd still have to wait seven days."
Rob shook his head. "The waiting period only applies to handguns. Don't ask me why, that's just the way it is. I guess the bigwigs in Washington don't realize that you can kill someone just as easily with a rifle as you can with a pistol."
Relief surged through Mike. "You mean I can buy a shotgun, or a rifle, and take it home with me today?"
The salesman smiled. "Gift-wrapped if you like."
Mike spent the next twenty minutes examining several different rifles and shotguns, finally deciding on a Winchester 1200, pump-action, 12-gauge riot gun. The shotgun held five rounds in the magazine, and another round in the chamber, yet with a barrel measuring only 18¼ inches it was very compact. He also purchased several boxes of .00 buck magnum shells, as well as a box of .08 shot , plus a padded carrying case.
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