Read Online The Night Crew by John Sandford - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Sandford
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just groaned or moaned. At three in the morning, she woke up, looked at the clock, felt herself sweating into the sheets.
At three-fifteen, she heard a noise, and was instantly awake. The noise had a solid reality to it.
Not a dream noise.
Anna slept in a pair of Jockey underpants. She slipped out of bed, groped around for a t-shirt that she’d tossed at a chair, but hadn’t found it when she heard the noise again. She moved silently to the head of the stairs, listened.
Tik-tik . . . scrape.
Back door , she thought. Definitely real. She was getting oriented now, stepped to the nightstand, found the phone. When she picked up the receiver, the dial lighted and she pushed a speed-dial button. Two rings and a man answered on the other end: Jim McMillan, from next door, groggy with sleep. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘Jim, this is Anna. We got one: he’s right outside my back door.’’
‘‘Holy cow.’’ Then she heard him speak to Hobie: ‘‘It’s Anna, she’s got one outside her back door,’’ and Hobie: ‘‘Okay.’’
Jim said to Anna, ‘‘We’ll call the cops and start the web. You lay low.’’ A little excitement in his voice now.
‘‘Yeah. Be careful.’’
Life in Venice was getting better, but there’d been some tough times; still were. Their version of the Neighborhood Watch was a little heavier-duty than most, knowing that the cops would always take a while to get there. Jim would start a calling tree, which would branch out over the surrounding two blocks, and in five minutes there’d be people all over the street.
But she had to get through the five minutes.
Anna had both a handgun and a fish-whacker in the bedroom. There’d be people around, so she went for the whacker, which she kept against the back side of the chest of drawers. On the way, in the dark, she stepped on the t-shirt, picked it up, pulled it over her head. She found the whacker . . . and heard a windowpane break.
Quietly. Like somebody had put pressure against it to crack it, and then tried to pick out the pieces—but at least one piece had fallen onto the kitchen floor.
Damn them . They’d hurt her house.
Anna went to the stairs, began to creep down. The whacker was made of hickory, looked like a dwarf baseball bat, and was meant to put ocean game fish out of their misery. Creek had drilled out the business end, melted a few ounces of lead sinker on his barbeque grill and poured the lead into the bat. If anyone was hit hard with it, surgery would follow. At the bottom of the stairs, Anna heard another piece of glass crack. She moved to the open arch between the living room and the kitchen, risked a quick peek. The obscure figure of a man hovered outside the back window, three feet to the right of the door. He’d done something to the window, and had then broken out a piece. As she watched, a hand came through the broken pane, and a needle-thin ray of light played across the inside of the door. He was trying to see the lock.
Even if the posse arrived in the next couple of minutes, she didn’t want to be trapped inside the house with some crack-smoked goof. She bunched herself in the arch, eight feet from the door. The hand with the light disappeared, and then, in the near darkness, she saw another movement. He was reaching far inside, trying to get to the deadbolt. She waited until the hand was at the door, then launched herself across the room, one big step with the whacker already swinging, and
Whack!
Hit too high, and caught the window frame and the arm at the same time. And as she swung, she screamed, ‘‘Get out!’’ and raised the whacker again, but the man outside groaned and jerked his arm back through the window, tearing out more glass.
She heard him step once heavily on the porch, a running step, and then a heavy-duty spotlight caught him from a neighbor’s yard across the canal, and someone yelled, ‘‘There he is.’’
Anna stepped to the door and flipped on the porch light, and at the same
At three-fifteen, she heard a noise, and was instantly awake. The noise had a solid reality to it.
Not a dream noise.
Anna slept in a pair of Jockey underpants. She slipped out of bed, groped around for a t-shirt that she’d tossed at a chair, but hadn’t found it when she heard the noise again. She moved silently to the head of the stairs, listened.
Tik-tik . . . scrape.
Back door , she thought. Definitely real. She was getting oriented now, stepped to the nightstand, found the phone. When she picked up the receiver, the dial lighted and she pushed a speed-dial button. Two rings and a man answered on the other end: Jim McMillan, from next door, groggy with sleep. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘Jim, this is Anna. We got one: he’s right outside my back door.’’
‘‘Holy cow.’’ Then she heard him speak to Hobie: ‘‘It’s Anna, she’s got one outside her back door,’’ and Hobie: ‘‘Okay.’’
Jim said to Anna, ‘‘We’ll call the cops and start the web. You lay low.’’ A little excitement in his voice now.
‘‘Yeah. Be careful.’’
Life in Venice was getting better, but there’d been some tough times; still were. Their version of the Neighborhood Watch was a little heavier-duty than most, knowing that the cops would always take a while to get there. Jim would start a calling tree, which would branch out over the surrounding two blocks, and in five minutes there’d be people all over the street.
But she had to get through the five minutes.
Anna had both a handgun and a fish-whacker in the bedroom. There’d be people around, so she went for the whacker, which she kept against the back side of the chest of drawers. On the way, in the dark, she stepped on the t-shirt, picked it up, pulled it over her head. She found the whacker . . . and heard a windowpane break.
Quietly. Like somebody had put pressure against it to crack it, and then tried to pick out the pieces—but at least one piece had fallen onto the kitchen floor.
Damn them . They’d hurt her house.
Anna went to the stairs, began to creep down. The whacker was made of hickory, looked like a dwarf baseball bat, and was meant to put ocean game fish out of their misery. Creek had drilled out the business end, melted a few ounces of lead sinker on his barbeque grill and poured the lead into the bat. If anyone was hit hard with it, surgery would follow. At the bottom of the stairs, Anna heard another piece of glass crack. She moved to the open arch between the living room and the kitchen, risked a quick peek. The obscure figure of a man hovered outside the back window, three feet to the right of the door. He’d done something to the window, and had then broken out a piece. As she watched, a hand came through the broken pane, and a needle-thin ray of light played across the inside of the door. He was trying to see the lock.
Even if the posse arrived in the next couple of minutes, she didn’t want to be trapped inside the house with some crack-smoked goof. She bunched herself in the arch, eight feet from the door. The hand with the light disappeared, and then, in the near darkness, she saw another movement. He was reaching far inside, trying to get to the deadbolt. She waited until the hand was at the door, then launched herself across the room, one big step with the whacker already swinging, and
Whack!
Hit too high, and caught the window frame and the arm at the same time. And as she swung, she screamed, ‘‘Get out!’’ and raised the whacker again, but the man outside groaned and jerked his arm back through the window, tearing out more glass.
She heard him step once heavily on the porch, a running step, and then a heavy-duty spotlight caught him from a neighbor’s yard across the canal, and someone yelled, ‘‘There he is.’’
Anna stepped to the door and flipped on the porch light, and at the same
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