Read Online Night Eyes (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 2) by Claire Stibbe - Free Book Online
Authors: Claire Stibbe
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stand of trees. Huge wood framed windows and a pitched roof that slanted down towards a chimney, the house likely sat on twelve acres of private land with a barn about twenty feet away.
Temeke estimated about forty-five hundred square feet and at least a thousand of that included the wraparound deck. Like the other four, it overlooked a small lake. Unlike the other four, there were no lights on inside.
He half expected to see the barrel of a shot gun breaking through the trees, although he would have had a face full of metal to prove it. Nothing moved except a slight bend in a nearby branch to indicate a stiff wind and there was an essence about the place, a feeling of déjà vu.
Malin reversed a few feet up that bumpy track which petered out before a large white boulder. She radioed Hackett, told him they were in position, and then turned to Temeke with a scowl. “Don’t think he’s run off, changed his mind?”
“He’s not going anywhere. Not without the money.”
Temeke wasn’t sure about the money, wasn’t sure about the motive. He waited until four fifty-six, hoping the other cars would soon be in position with a few snipers lying about in the brush. Malin pushed the dog’s nose back into the car as she got out, eyes scanning the skies and ponytail bobbing against a dark sweater. She reached into the back seat for a ballistic vest and a thick woolen scarf. “Air’s thin up here,” she said.
“Probably about eight thousand feet.”
“We could take the dog, you know.”
“Nah. He’d need an oxygen mask.”
“I’m serious. He could find Adam.”
“Not until we’ve had a good look around. Don’t want the bugger running off after a squirrel.”
Temeke shrugged on a ski jacket over his vest, heard Malin mutter something about thunder.
“It’s the chopper,” he said, handing her some latex gloves.
He checked his gun and racked the slide. Keeping to the tree line, they sprinted towards the house, stopping occasionally to listen to the wind. “You take the front,” he said, pointing to where the deck jutted over a steep slope. “I’ll cover the back.”
He ducked beneath a low hanging branch, snow trickling down his wrist, and he was conscious of the silence. Something crunched underfoot and made him stop, made him crouch right there in the darkness and run his hands through the grass. He recognized the feel of it, a scattering of tile and some type of roofing felt, and he looked up at a small casement window that swung on a latch.
He had a flash in his mind of when he was young, when his dad came home from Vietnam. Said he captured a Viet Cong activist near Da Nang Airbase during a search and clear operation. Paid for it with half his arm. It was Kukri knife he said. When he came home there were good times and there were bad. It was the drinking Temeke couldn’t stand, the quarrels, the beatings. That was before his old man tied a rope around the mullion bar of an upper storey window and hanged himself.
Bloody miracle with only one hand , Temeke thought. He never breathed a word of it at school, never wanted to damage his father’s reputation. If indeed his poor old man had ever been to Vietnam in the first place. War destroyed people. They never came back the same.
He looked up at that roof, sensed the residue of what might have been… where Adam might have been. A warning shot fired in his head, that age-old trickle of dread. What if Adam had been in that upstairs room, crawled out of the window and broke his neck. There’d be a body around here somewhere or a freshly dug grave, which in a few days would smell like a year-old carton of milk.
Creeping on the balls of his feet, he listened to every sound. He was at the back of the house now, half way up the steps to the porch and positioned to cut off the kidnapper’s retreat. A lantern cast an eerie beam on a set of dumbbells on the deck, neatly stacked and ranging from five to twenty-five pounds. It was the two twenty pounders
Temeke estimated about forty-five hundred square feet and at least a thousand of that included the wraparound deck. Like the other four, it overlooked a small lake. Unlike the other four, there were no lights on inside.
He half expected to see the barrel of a shot gun breaking through the trees, although he would have had a face full of metal to prove it. Nothing moved except a slight bend in a nearby branch to indicate a stiff wind and there was an essence about the place, a feeling of déjà vu.
Malin reversed a few feet up that bumpy track which petered out before a large white boulder. She radioed Hackett, told him they were in position, and then turned to Temeke with a scowl. “Don’t think he’s run off, changed his mind?”
“He’s not going anywhere. Not without the money.”
Temeke wasn’t sure about the money, wasn’t sure about the motive. He waited until four fifty-six, hoping the other cars would soon be in position with a few snipers lying about in the brush. Malin pushed the dog’s nose back into the car as she got out, eyes scanning the skies and ponytail bobbing against a dark sweater. She reached into the back seat for a ballistic vest and a thick woolen scarf. “Air’s thin up here,” she said.
“Probably about eight thousand feet.”
“We could take the dog, you know.”
“Nah. He’d need an oxygen mask.”
“I’m serious. He could find Adam.”
“Not until we’ve had a good look around. Don’t want the bugger running off after a squirrel.”
Temeke shrugged on a ski jacket over his vest, heard Malin mutter something about thunder.
“It’s the chopper,” he said, handing her some latex gloves.
He checked his gun and racked the slide. Keeping to the tree line, they sprinted towards the house, stopping occasionally to listen to the wind. “You take the front,” he said, pointing to where the deck jutted over a steep slope. “I’ll cover the back.”
He ducked beneath a low hanging branch, snow trickling down his wrist, and he was conscious of the silence. Something crunched underfoot and made him stop, made him crouch right there in the darkness and run his hands through the grass. He recognized the feel of it, a scattering of tile and some type of roofing felt, and he looked up at a small casement window that swung on a latch.
He had a flash in his mind of when he was young, when his dad came home from Vietnam. Said he captured a Viet Cong activist near Da Nang Airbase during a search and clear operation. Paid for it with half his arm. It was Kukri knife he said. When he came home there were good times and there were bad. It was the drinking Temeke couldn’t stand, the quarrels, the beatings. That was before his old man tied a rope around the mullion bar of an upper storey window and hanged himself.
Bloody miracle with only one hand , Temeke thought. He never breathed a word of it at school, never wanted to damage his father’s reputation. If indeed his poor old man had ever been to Vietnam in the first place. War destroyed people. They never came back the same.
He looked up at that roof, sensed the residue of what might have been… where Adam might have been. A warning shot fired in his head, that age-old trickle of dread. What if Adam had been in that upstairs room, crawled out of the window and broke his neck. There’d be a body around here somewhere or a freshly dug grave, which in a few days would smell like a year-old carton of milk.
Creeping on the balls of his feet, he listened to every sound. He was at the back of the house now, half way up the steps to the porch and positioned to cut off the kidnapper’s retreat. A lantern cast an eerie beam on a set of dumbbells on the deck, neatly stacked and ranging from five to twenty-five pounds. It was the two twenty pounders
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