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“No way out of here in a car,” Sampson said.
“Do you have eyes overhead?” I barked into the radio.
“Negative, Dr. Cross,” Rodriguez said. “It’s refueling. Two minutes to takeoff. Six minutes to you.”
That made us run faster.
“I need two uniforms in the trees watching the back of the Allisons’ house. Have them come in through the woods from the far side of the loop.”
“Roger that.”
We were less than two hundred yards from the Allisons’ home by then, a big gray Colonial set back among pines and oaks. Even in the moonlight, it was one of the bigger structures in the neighborhood. The lights were off outside and in.
I slowed and stopped at the bottom of the driveway, gasping. “He’s in there, John. He may have found the family already.”
“How would he get into a safe room?” Sampson said, drawing his weapon.
“We’re about to find out,” I said, drawing mine as well, and we started to move forward, only to stop again.
A middle-aged man came jogging around the corner ahead of us on the opposite side of the street. He wore running pants, a white windbreaker, a headlamp, and a bright green reflective vest over a small knapsack with a water hose coming out of the top. A small red light blinked at his waist. A little dog on a leash ran at his side.
We went at him, guns drawn. The Jack Russell terrier growled.
Seeing us, he stopped and threw up his hands, frightened. “What is this?”
“Metropolitan Police,” Sampson said. “Who are you? Why are you here?”
“Tim Boulter. I’m out for a run?”
“At three in the morning?”
“I own a bakery,” Boulter said. “This is my six a.m.”
“How did you get by the police cruiser blocking the road?” I demanded.
“I didn’t see a cruiser. I came on the trail that comes into the far side of Dockser Terrace from closer to the lake. What’s happening?”
“Where do you live?”
“Arcadia Road. Two miles from here.”
I said, “Go straight to the cruiser behind us and give your contact information to the officer there. Sorry to have interrupted your run.”
He nodded uncertainly. The terrier was still growling. “Thank you. What’s going on?”
“Just checking a suspicious person seen in the area.”
Boulter looked at our guns, nodded again, and turned.
“Hey,” Sampson said. “What’s the name of your bakery?”
“Sunrise,” he said. “We’re in the book.”
“Go home, Mr. Boulter,” I said and turned back toward the Allisons’ house.
Boulter broke into a jog. As we started up the driveway, I glanced back, saw the silhouette of him and his dog stopping to talk to the officer blocking the road.
“I say we go inside before the uniforms,” Sampson said.
