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Good.
Confident, he stepped onto the upper level, guided by nightlights and the map he had in his head.
After killing the handyman, he’d climbed up several ladders and peeked into windows, orienting himself to the house and, most intently, the uppermost floor. Earlier in the day, he’d happened to catch a conversation between the owner of the house and the handyman, in which she berated him for not doing a good job, demanding he stay until he got it right: “Don’t forget the sleigh or Rudolph’s nose. Red. Rememb
er? And it has to be visible from the street. I don’t care how long you have to work, how late it is, even if it’s midnight!”
“Fussy old biddy,” the handyman had said under his breath. The Marksman had heard it all from his hiding spot, a trellis covered with evergreen vines on the fence line.
Now, muscles tense, gun held out in front of him, the song from his youth rolling through his brain, he moved on the balls of his feet, easing around the corner, heading straight to Remmi’s bedroom.
The door to the room was ajar. Lucky. He’d be able to shoot from the doorway rather than have to twist the knob. He would empty the clip at the bed rapid-fire, then hurry back down the stairway and into the kitchen, where he’d flee out the rear door. By the time the old lady or her aide woke up and either called the police or came up to investigate, it would be all over, and he would be in the wind.
Edging ever closer, he eased along the rail and then stopped. Did he hear a strange noise? Something that hadn’t been there a minute earlier? A . . . whirring? Probably the motor of the furnace kicking in. But the basement was three stories below him. Could the sound be coming from the old vents?
Don’t think about it. It’s nothing. You’re just keyed up.
The whirring continued as he stepped toward the bedroom.
This little light . . .
His heart was beating like a drum, and he was beginning to sweat, excitement at the prospect of the kill running through his blood.
Could he do it?
Murder his own blood?
Of course.
Three more feet.
Two.
One.
The door was ajar, not completely open, and he noiselessly pushed on it with the business end of the silencer.
No lights. He kicked himself again for not bringing the night-vision goggles with him.
Finger on the trigger, he made out the outline of the bed in the darkness, leveled his gun and fired.
Pop! Pop, pop!
Backing up, he ran into something with his foot.
EEEEEOOOWWW!
The squeal of some ungodly beast echoed through the old house.
For a half-second, he thought it was one of his intended victims, but no, the sound was at his feet, and about the time he realized it, an immense furry beast sprang from the darkness, landing, and clawing at his leg.
“Aaagh!” he cried in surprise and pain. The cat—that’s what it was!—had landed on his bad leg. He kicked, but the animal skidded around, clawing and howling. And then it bit into him like a savage tiger.
He cried out.
Shit. This wasn’t supposed to happen!
Grrrrrwww. He shook his leg and batted at the animal, afraid to shoot it as he’d put a bullet through his foot.
