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Unease slithered down his spine.
Maybe they did this all the time.
Maybe not.
His heart was beating hard and fast against his collarbone. His Glock felt weirdly heavy. Were his hands shaking? For God’s sake. Because a pack of four-footed throw pillows were yapping?
Pull yourself together, West.
No wonder Kennedy thought he couldn’t take care of himself.
He continued to listen, his ears sifting night sounds: the dogs, the metal squeak of the blinds, the scratch of brush against the house siding.
Stop. Go back.
There was no brush against the house. No shrubs. No trees. Nothing that should be scraping against the outside—and no wind to shake the branches anyway.
There it was again. Traveling beneath the side windows, moving around to…where? The back door?
Jason’s heart stopped. Had he locked that door?
He let out a breath. Yes. Both the front and back doors had secondary locks. Single-sided deadbolts. The back door had been locked when he turned in. He remembered checking.
Now that he was sure there really was something out there, Jason steadied. His training kicked in. There was protocol for this.
It could be an animal, of course. He needed to verify he wasn’t dealing with a raccoon before he summoned the sheriffs. That would be…embarrassing. At the least.
He listened, tracking the movement down the side of the house, very slight, very quiet. It very likely was an animal. Hopefully not a bear. Could a 9mm stop a bear? No, it wasn’t a bear. A bear would not be subtle. Whatever—whoever—was moving around out there, they were making an effort to conceal their activity.
Jason moved quietly to the front door, easing it open. He slipped outside, so keyed up he barely felt the cold through his sweatshirt or the frozen ground beneath his bare feet. He tiptoed down the length of the building, the pain of his ankle a far off, unimportant thing, his senses attuned to every sound in the fuzzy gloom.
The lights were on at the main house. The dogs were still going nuts as he picked his silent, careful way around the front and side of the guest house, and then risked a quick look around the corner.
First peek, he didn’t see anything. He ducked back.
Second time, his eyes searched the darkness, and his heart stopped as he made out a motionless form standing beside the back door.
He looked harder, focusing on that out-of-place figure. Were his eyes playing tricks? Was that really… Yes. A slight shadow among the other shadows. As he stared, he began to pick out the pattern of a flannel shirt, the glint of fair hair, the gleam of eyes.
Whoever this was, it was not Jeremy Kyser.
He brought his weapon up and stepped out, ready to use the corner of the house to shield himself if he had to. He said loudly, “Nice way to get your head blown off.”
There was an audible gasp. The shadow jumped and whirled his way, hands rising up defensively.
“Don’t shoot. Please. Don’t.” The shaking voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s me. Terry.”
“Terry?”
For a second, he couldn’t remember a Terry. Then it clicked. The kid at the magic store. Boz’s clerk. Terry Van der Beck.
“What the hell are you doing sneaking around here?”
“I-I have to tell you something.”
Jason snapped, “Try knocking on the door first. I could have shot you!”
“I can’t—I’m afraid he’s watching me.”
