32

            When the Jesus freaks arrived, Mike had been in the unfinished house next door for about half an hour, camped beside a first-floor window in a dark, dusty space that would one day be someone’s bedroom.  He had no intention of waiting for the loonies to ambush him in his own home.  He’d found himself a perfect fighting hole and hunkered down to wait.

            He had a Winchester 1200 pump-action shotgun, a Taurus .44 magnum, plenty of ammo, binoculars, a pillow to cushion his backside, and a canteen of cold water.  Using the binoculars, he kept a vigil on the wooded rear perimeter of his property, as he was certain that was the direction from which they would approach.    

            He wasn’t disappointed.  Sometime past three in the morning, two black-clad figures stealthily scrambled across the back yard, easily defeated the lock on the patio door (it was cheap anyway), and entered his house.  They moved with the swift efficiency of highly trained professionals, and both of them were armed.

            He’d had them in his sights.  Had the Winchester loaded and ready to blow.  Only one thing had stopped him from spraying them with buckshot before they’d breached his home, and he was almost ashamed to admit it to himself. 

            It was the woman.  She was absolutely stunning.  Latina, long midnight-black hair woven in a ponytail, jewel-like dark eyes, and though it was difficult to tell from the tracksuit she wore, looked like she had a hard body, too. 

            He’d always had a weakness for beautiful women.  That was why he hadn’t settled down yet, in spite of his family’s endless chiding about when he was going to give them grandkids.  There were too many hot women out there for him to turn in his bachelor card and miss out on all the fun. 

            What he told people was that he would settle down only when he found The One.  The perfect woman, the lady of his dreams, someone gorgeous yet tough.  He’d yet to find her, though a few had come close, and he was convinced that if he settled on someone else, just to get married and shut everyone up, then Miss Right would appear, and he’d feel like a fool for not having waited for her. 

            There was no way the woman in the tracksuit could be The One—she was a member of that fruitcake religious organization, for starters—but he’d be damned if she didn’t look the part.

            Just figured.  He sees a woman that looked as if she could be The One, but she happens to be a nut job.  Life was crazy like that.

            He wouldn’t have minded popping her partner, though, the short, stout dude with the pale face and boulder head who’d talked all that crazy shit on the phone, but there was no point.  They weren’t going to find anything in the house.  Anthony and Lisa had left over an hour ago, and there was nothing inside that would tell these freaks where they had gone.

            He hoped Anthony would contact him soon.  Shortly after they’d left, he’d uncovered some interesting stuff on Kelley Marrow.  He’d e-mailed it to Anthony’s account on Jarhead, as he had asked, but was antsy to talk to him about it. 

            Binoculars pressed to his eyes, he watched his house.  He hadn’t drawn the blinds on one of the windows facing him—it was a window to his master bedroom—and he saw the woman flick on the ceiling light and step inside, gun drawn.  She quickly swept around the room, ponytail swaying.

            He licked his suddenly-dry lips.

            He felt like a Peeping Tom—one watching his own house.  How nuts was that?

            She peered inside the closet, the master bath.  He was glad that he’d maintained his Marine discipline of keeping his living space totally squared away.  You could have eaten a meal off those tile floors in the bathroom and bounced a quarter off the tightly drawn bed sheets.

            Concluding her search, she switched off the light and left. 

            He sighed, lowered the binoculars.  After this, he could use a cold shower. 

            Perhaps twenty minutes later, the intruders left the house via the patio door.  They were empty-handed.  They blended into the forest like shadows, and were gone. 

            He wondered if he would see the woman again.  He hoped that he would, and face-to-face next time.  He had to know if she really believed all the crap her partner had been saying.  Just out of curiosity. 

            He waited a few more minutes, and then he took his guns and entered his house through the rear door. 

            Nothing appeared to be out of place.  Except one thing—the lid on the trashcan bulged, as though packed to capacity, and he saw something gleaming underneath. 

            Bomb?           

            Carefully, he lifted the lid with the barrel of the shotgun. 

            “What the hell?”

            The can was full of empty beer bottles—every bottle of the twelve-pack he’d been keeping in the refrigerator, looked like.  Underneath the bottles, he glimpsed squashed cans of soda, and a brand-new, unopened bag of potato chips. 

            At the sink, a residue of beer foam clung to the basin. 

            Automatically, he knew the short, nutty guy had been responsible.  Probably thought beer, chips, and soda were sinful.  Freak must’ve been dropped on his head at birth.   

            He was going to look through the rest of the house, when he noticed one other thing out of place, too.

            All of the rental property keys that had been hanging on the rack in the kitchen were gone.