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The house itself, built of masonry blocks with a front façade of red brick, was also in really bad shape. There were several holes in the wall where bricks were completely missing. The house hadn’t been painted in far too many years, leaving bare wood that had rotted in places. Racks of rusty burglar bars covered the solid metal front door and the four doublewindows—two upstairs and two at street level—and the first-floor windows were fitted with poorly cut pieces of weather-warped plywood.
To the right of the concrete steps, on the sidewalk and up against the foot of the house, Curtis saw five or six black trash bags. They were packed full, piled high, one on the bottom with a big torn hole. They looked to have been there for some time, easily days if not weeks.
Curtis went up the flight of four concrete steps leading to the battered front door. He saw out of the corner of his eye what at first he thought were two black cats. They’d been along the wall behind the trash bags. Then they’d bolted away, running behind some weeds in front of the small wood-framed window of the basement.
Those aren’t cats. They’re goddamn rats!
He now noticed that the basement window was open, pulled inward from the top. The rats had disappeared into it.
Curtis shook his head in disgust.
As he reached the bar-covered metal door, a breeze blew past, bringing with it a vile stench. He gagged.
He looked at the garbage bags.
Jesus! Whatever it is has to be in there.
It’s worse than raw chicken—or maybe dead rats—that’s gone bad.
He looked to the window where the rodents had run inside.
Or . . . could it be coming from the basement?
What a shithole!
He pulled back his sleeve, testing the air. The breeze had stopped and the stench had subsided.
For now.
I need to see who’s home, then get the hell out of here. . . .
There was no doorbell—just a crude little hole where it had once been mounted—so he balled his fist, reached between the bars, and pounded on the metal door.
As he waited for some kind of life to wake up inside—other than the vile vermin—he glanced at the FedEx envelope in his hand.
Its bill of lading had a return field that read: United States Department of the Treasury
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.
Washington, D.C. 20500
Will grinned. He knew that was the address of the White House, and had listed it as an inside joke. He had no idea where the hell the U.S. Treasury had its main office—and didn’t give a damn, because he knew the “recipient” wouldn’t know, either.
The field for “Recipient” read: Kendrik Mays
2620 Wilder Street
Philadelphia, PA 19147
Also on the bill of lading was a bold black X in the box beside the line that stated: GOVERNMENT-ISSUED ID & PERSONAL SIGNATURE OF RECIPIENT REQUIRED FOR DELIVERY.
After knocking again and waiting another few minutes, he’d yet to hear anything moving inside the house.
Dammit! Not even another rat.
Another dead end.
Move this one to the bottom of the stack with the other dead end.
