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Had Shipka left the island without leaving word for him? It seemed strange. But the morning had been, well, a little strained after their conversation about Hickok. Jason knew his defense of Hick—even though it had really been more questioning than actual defense—had disappointed Shipka. Probably a number of things had disappointed Shipka. Which Jason felt sort of bad about, but it was probably better in the long run that Shipka understand Jason was not good boyfriend material.
Not right now, anyway. Not while he was still smarting over getting dumped by Sam Kennedy.
Even if Shipka didn’t feel like spending the evening with Jason, it was weird he hadn’t turned any lights on. Why would he choose to stumble around in the dark?
Was it possible he hadn’t made it back from interviewing the Patricks?
That was a worrying thought. Shipka didn’t strike Jason as the outdoorsy type. If he’d gotten lost or taken a tumble, he could be lying out there in the drizzly cold night right now.
Shit. Awkward or not, Jason needed to make sure Shipka was okay.
He shrugged back into his jacket and left his cottage, squelching across the expanse of frosty grass and mud until he found the opening in the hedge. Frigid rain stung his cheeks. The sound of the lake lapping against the pylons, the ghostly knocking of the boats against the dock seemed to fill the night. He crossed the little rocky beach and climbed the wooden steps to Shipka’s cottage.
Up close, the dark windows and resounding silence seemed even more unsettling. Jason rested his hand lightly on the butt of his Glock.
Something was not right.
He knocked firmly on the front door.
A long moment passed.
Jason knocked again, more loudly.
“Shipka?” he called. “Chris?”
Silence.
Jason tried the door handle. The latch clicked and the door swung open with a tiny squeak. Jason pulled his weapon. His heart was kettle-drumming in his chest.
“Shipka?” he called. “Are you there? It’s West.”
The hush was terrifyingly absolute.
Why? Maybe Shipka had simply gone out and left the door unlocked. Why assume the worst?
But Jason did. His scalp crawled with unease.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
He brought his weapon up in high ready and took a couple of deep, steadying breaths. In recent years, the Bureau’s handgun training had focused heavily on tight quarters and close-range shooting scenarios. At least sixty-five percent of law enforcement officers were killed by assailants from less than ten feet away. Even so, it was a very long time since he’d had to make a dynamic entry—and never on his own. On your own was always a bad idea.
But with backup at least half an hour away?
“FBI,” he yelled. “Show yourself.” Using his free hand to push open the door, Jason stepped across the threshold, scanning as much of the interior as he could see—which was not much. The room was unlit, full of black angles and deep shadows. He could make out the bulky outline of furniture. No entry hall. The front door led straight into the living room.
Even standing outside, Jason could feel a rush of heat. The cottage was unnaturally warm. Like the temperature had been cranked to high.
He
flattened himself to the door entry point, hugged his way around the jamb to “slice the pie” with his pistol, and entered the room. Now that he was in motion, it was easier. His training kicked in, and he was moving automatically, punching that first, deep corner, flipping around and clearing the opposing corner.
He swept the room with his weapon. No one was waiting for him, no one was hiding behind the rattan chairs and sofa, the trunk-style coffee table and side tables. Nothing seemed out of place. There was no sign of a disturbance.
He leaned back against the wall, breathing quietly, listening. Maybe he’d got this wrong. Was he overreacting after his own bizarre experience? Maybe Shipka had simply left the island.
It was raining harder. He could hear the guzzling sound of water rushing through the roof gutters, and the soggy chime of a ship’s bell. No other sounds. Not so much as the creak of a floorboard.
The smell of rain and damp earth drifted into the too-hot room. They couldn’t quite mask the other thing he smelled.
