36

            As if God were clapping a set of giant cymbals, a clash of thunder jarred Anthony out of sleep. 

            He’d been dreaming about being on a bass boat with his father.  The front of his dad’s checkered shirt was saturated with glistening blood, and the fabric was ripped as if by a rifle round.  Horror froze Anthony speechless in his seat—but his dad was speaking to him in his familiar amiable way, utterly oblivious to his gruesome wound.  I’ve been waiting on you, son, he said, absentmindedly adjusting the fishing rod.  Your mom and I both have been waiting on you to get to the bottom of things.  How much longer are you gonna keep us hanging, huh? I thought you had my I’ll Show You Gene.  How long’s it gonna take for you to show those folks some real justice . . .        

            Suddenly awake, he bolted upright on the sofa, automatically grasping the Beretta he’d left in reach on the carpet.  He chambered a round and paused, breath bottled in his chest. 

            Disturbed by his abrupt movement, Lisa stirred awake, too.  Her eyes were wide. 

            “What’s going on?” she asked.

            “Wait.”  He raised his finger.  Listened.     

            Rain marched across the roof and machine-gunned the windows.  A boom of thunder rattled the walls and floor. 

            But the inside of the house was silent, and felt as empty as the vacated place that it was.

            He checked his watch, squinting to read the hands in the gloom.  Five minutes past four.  They’d been asleep for less than an hour.           

            “Well?” Lisa asked. 

            “It’s nothing,” he said.  “The storm woke me, that’s all.”

            “Okay.”  She closed her eyes and lay against him again.  But he gently moved from underneath her.

            “Sorry,” he said.  “I can’t sleep any more.”

            “Can I?”  She kept her eyes closed.

            “Sure.  I’ll wake you if I need something.”

            Perhaps it was due only to the dissonant music of the storm, but his nerves were as taut as guitar strings.  He approached the front window, peeled back the curtains, and looked toward Mike’s rental house.

            A spectral flicker of lightning temporarily obscured the view.  When the brightness faded, he saw that the light he’d left burning in the second-floor bedroom was off.  Blackness shrouded the property.

            While the floor lamp still glowed in their hideout, the thunderstorm could have prompted a power outage that had killed the light in the rental if the homes drew electricity from different lines.  It was a plausible explanation.

            But he didn’t like it.

            Gun drawn, he swiftly searched the entire house and garage.  They were alone, and the jeep was as they’d left it.  There were no signs of an intruder. 

            But he wasn’t satisfied.        

            Back in the living room, he pulled on a baseball cap—and then shrugged into his concealable body armor vest.  He strapped a nylon utility pouch around his waist and filled it with two magazines of 9mm ammo and a speed-loader of ammo for the .45. 

            As he prepared, Lisa came awake again.  “What’re you doing?”

            “I was about to wake you up.  I need you to stay alert for a little while.”

            “For what?”

            He hung his night-vision binoculars around his neck. 

            “I’m going to go outside and look around.”

            “What?  Why?  Is there something wrong?”

            “It’s probably due to a power outage, but the light I left on at Mike’s house is off.  I’m going to look into it.  I want you to stay here while I’m gone.”

            Fear brightened her eyes.  “You think they found Mike’s place?” 

            “I didn’t say that.”

            “But you’re thinking it.  I know you—it’s all over your face.” 

            After three years of marriage, she could read him as easily as a book.

            “Let me come with you,” she said.  “I don’t want to be alone.”

            He shook his head.  “Like I said, it’s probably nothing, just me being paranoid.  No point in you going out there and getting your hair wet.  I know how fussy you can be about your ‘do.”

            “Very funny.   I still want to go.” 

            He holstered the Beretta, and grabbed the Colt revolver. 

            “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes,” he said.  “You got your piece?”

            She unzipped her purse and showed him the gun.

            “Keep it close,” he said.  “Stay away from the windows, too.”

            “But—“

            “Please, Lisa.  I need you to wait here.”

            “You’re in one of your stubborn moods, I see.”  She placed the purse on the sofa cushion beside her.  “But you better come back soon, or I’m coming out there to get you.”

            “Fair enough.”

            He kissed her, and quickly moved through the house to the back door.  He stepped through the doorway and closed the door behind him. 

            Cold rain immediately drenched him, bounced off the bill of his cap.  He wished he had thought to bring a rain jacket.  But he had fought in worse conditions.

            He clasped the .45, muzzle pointed to the ground.  Moving low and fast, sloshing through muddy puddles, he rounded the rear corner of the house.  All clear.  Keeping close to the wall, he moved along the western face, crept around the big AC condensing unit, and neared the front corner, where a downspout dispensed a gurgling river of rainwater into the grass.

            Rumbling thunder shook the earth beneath his feet.  A crack of lightning briefly brightened the night.

            He inched around the corner, the house shielding half his torso.  He placed the binoculars to his eyes and swept the lenses across the rental.

            The green display revealed nothing of concern. 

            But his intuition was buzzing.  He was certain the fanatics had somehow found the house and cut the light.  He didn’t know why they would have done that—perhaps they wanted to toss the place in darkness—but he felt them out there as surely as he felt the cold rainwater dripping down his neck. 

            It was time to turn the tables, go on the offensive, and force them to give him some answers.

            Crouched, he moved away from the house, across the grass, toward the street.  Thunder rocked, lightning flared, and the .45 suddenly leapt out of his grasp with a ping!, spinning away into the rain in a burst of orange sparks. 

Rifle fire.  Shit!          

            Muffled by the storm, the shot had originated from the area of Mike’s rental.  The sniper must’ve been concealed in the shrubs, waiting—and he’d known exactly where to expect Anthony to appear.

            These people somehow knew he and Lisa had been hiding in the house.  But how could they know that?  Did they know everything?

Figure it out later.

            He ran for cover.