With Cruel Intent (29 page)

could be viewed with the least amount of

distortion. No movement, no lights, no

people, so far so good. He sat for a

moment on the raised cement landing,

adjacent to the door, removed his newly

altered Nike’s and opened a zippered

compartment in his backpack that held the

glass cutter.

Returning to the door, he began

etching the glass in a small rectangle that

would be big enough for his hand and arm

to pass through. He ran the diamond bit

over the same spot repeatedly, until he felt

he was almost there, took a small suction

cup from his pocket and applied it to the

center of the rectangle. The pro continued

to cut, holding the suction device with his

left and etching the glass with his right. He

suddenly felt the slightest degree of give

with his left hand. He stopped cutting, and

gently, very gently, moved the suction cup

right and left, back and forth, seeing the

tiny slivers of glass give way as the

opening was created. Finally, the piece

lifted out and he sat it aside on the

concrete far enough away that he wouldn’t

step on it if he were in a hurry to get out.

He returned the cup and cutter to the

backpack but did not immediately extend

his hand into the freshly cut opening. He

waited for any indication of sound or

movement, just in case he’d been wrong

about the alarm.

Relieved that nothing happened, he

cautiously inserted his gloved hand

through the small opening until his elbow

was at the door, bent his hand down and

quietly spun the dead bolt. Once done, he

reached to the handle and unlocked it as

well.

“Obstacle two breached,” he

thought.

The thief was in. It appeared the

only light on in the entire two-story

structure was the small hood lamp over

the stove. His entry from the back door

had placed him in the kitchen, with a

sunken media room to his right. He

removed a small LED light from his

pocket and turned it onto the lowest

setting. Light filled the room, much more

than he’d expected, and he wrapped his

hand around the end of the small device to

mute the display. He held it in this fashion

as he moved throughout the lower level.

There was nothing unusual, only living

space, with no bedrooms. Before he

ventured up the stairs, he returned to the

pack sitting near the back door and

removed the pepper spray and hunting

blade, snapping the latter to his belt just in

case.

Flicking the light on again, this

time his hand already in place, he moved

to the stairs. His new socks slid quietly on

the tiled kitchen floor, the carpet on the

stairs was plush and would mask any

noise from his steps. He moved a stair at a

time, waiting a few seconds between each

step; this was painstaking work and

required the utmost patience. Finally, he

stood at the top of the staircase, a long

hallway before him, with doors on either

side, none of them were closed, but one.

He crouched low, keeping the light from

the LED showing the way, but just barely.

The first room to his right was what his

mother would have called a craft room,

pieces of fabric covered tables, with a

sewing machine and ironing board taking

up space, nothing of interest to him there.

He stepped to the other side of the

hallway, another open door, a computer

room with a large desk, leather chair and

bookshelves lining the walls.

“Possibly worth a look,” he

thought, but moved on.

Each room of the upper floor was

investigated and evaluated for possible

objects of value. Ultimately, he came to

the room he was looking for, the last room

at the end of the hallway. The door was

shut and no light could be seen underneath.

He held his ear close to the door for any

telltale signs of breathing, snoring, sex or

the like. ‘Rob’ was pleased to hear

nothing, but this brought some degree of

concern. Had he been lucky enough to hit a

night when the owners were away, or

were they expected home at any minute? A

small degree of panic set in and he looked

at his watch.

“Hold it together, stay cool, stay

cool!” Ran through his mind.

He turned off the light and placed

the small device in his pocket, took the

pepper spray in his left hand and slowly

turned the doorknob with his right. The

sound of the latch moving against the

metal of the jam made him stop and listen;

he could hear nothing, so he forged on. A

moment later the two disengaged and the

door pivoted inward, an inch, then two, as

he applied enough force to soundlessly

open the door. Again, he paused, before

entering the darkened space. Still nothing.

Making him as thin as possible he moved

through the opening. Ghostly shadows

danced on the walls as large windows

allowed moonlight into the bedroom,

slipping through angular tree branches

swaying easily in the wind. The bed

appeared to be unoccupied and no other

sign of life, with greater confidence; he

took the light in hand and turned it on.

“Yes!” he said, making a fist and

pumping it forward in a crouched position

like he’d just scored the winning goal of

the Stanley Cup Final. “Nobody here but

us would be millionaires.”

He wasted no time, knowing

exactly where most people kept their most

valuable possessions. He scoured the

room looking for gold, silver, anything

that he could sell easily. Pulling the casing

from one of the bed pillows he collected

his bounty, quite happy with what he was

finding. The woman obviously had

remarkable taste in only the finest of

jewelry, which pleased him, as he stuffed

her items into the bag. Satisfied that

everything he wanted or needed was

cleared from the bedroom, he trotted

down the hall to the office. Again, he

looked through the drawers, cupboards,

closet, until he found a .38 caliber

handgun hidden in the bottom drawer of

the desk, sitting atop a strongbox,

designed to be screwed-down to a

concrete floor, but this one was free

floating.

“Either new, or the jerk is too lazy

to take care of his shit,” ‘Rob’ thought.

“His loss is my gain.”

Unfortunately, it was locked, but

not so heavy that he couldn’t just take the

whole thing, which he did. He was

surprised that the owner had not foreseen

this. He also included the gun, tossing it in

with the other items collected from the

bedroom.

"Now to the business of scaring

the shit out of the neighborhood."

The intruder returned to the

kitchen, with his booty in tow, placed the

pillowcase on the table before stuffing the

lockbox into the backpack for later

discovery. He surveyed the kitchen

looking for two important items, a large

butcher knife and a carving fork. Finding

both, he removed a can of spray paint

from another pocket in the pack, the same

red that was used to write, ‘We’re Back’,

in the Criddle home. Then he bounded up

the stairs, two at a time, to finish his work.

In the bedroom he had previously noted a

picture of the loving couple standing at the

back of a chartered fishing vessel, a large

fish, most likely a tuna or halibut, hanging

from the rear fin and the couple smiling

broadly, standing on either side, fishing

poles in hand. Next to this picture was a

14x11” studio styled portrait of the man of

the house, and on the other side of the

fishing picture, a similar sized photo of

the wife. Taking both pictures he smashed

the frames on the side of the end table and

removed the picture of the man first. He

looked it over carefully before positioning

it above the headboard of the bed, and

drove the carving fork through his face,

embedding the tongs in the drywall. With

the man symbolically murdered, he turned

his twisted attention to the female portrait.

Positioning the picture symmetrically

above the headboard, he drove the knife a

good 6 inches through her face and into the

wall. He stood back at the end of the bed

and studied his work.

“Perfect! Time for the artwork,”

he thought. He shook the paint can,

listening to the ball bearing moving

throughout the can, mixing the paint.

Aiming the nozzle at the wall he began to

spray. Large ten-inch letters began to fill

the space on the wall between the

pictures, “DEATH TO RICH PIGS”,

again he examined his handiwork and was

pleased with the results.

A moment later he was standing at

the kitchen table collecting his thoughts

and his things, when he heard the sound of

a garage door opening. He looked toward

the front door to see headlights fill the

large windows and scan the walls moving

from right to left. Sheer panic gripped

him. No time, no time! He slung the

backpack over his shoulders, took the

pillowcase in hand, just as he heard car

doors slam. ‘Rob’ swung the back door

open, exited quickly, but took the time to

close the door behind him. He ran for his

freedom, with the pillowcase in the right

and shoes in his left. Reaching the fence

he tossed both over, sensing lights being

turned on behind him. Climbing the

obstacle was much tougher without shoes

on but he managed just as the kitchen light

came on, then the back porch light. He

found his shoes, slipped them on without

tying the laces, and at a dead run weaved

his way through the pecan trees, headed

back towards the church. He’d covered

about 50 feet when he heard the first

blood-curdling scream from the bedroom,

followed by another, and another.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Thursday morning Beverly Davis

sat at her kitchen table enjoying a cup of

her favorite coffee, she’d had another

sleepless night. The loss of her husband

eight years ago and the ongoing battle with

his stepson, Jeremy, was adding pounds

and wrinkles to the middle-aged woman.

Her Day-Timer was open before her,

nothing too pressing, needed to talk with

Blanche Delaney about a couple of condos

that just went on the market in the new

area south of the base, also needed to

check the status of the estate sale. She was

anxious to get her hands on the money

after so many years of legal battles but she

was certain the war was not over. The

coffee was just what she needed to get

going this morning. Taking another drink

she let it swirl around in her mouth before

swallowing it down.

“Wish I had a donut to dunk in

this,” she thought.

Her cell phone rang and ‘Dixie’

played, she flipped it open, “Good

mornin’, this is Bev,” in her sweetest,

what the hell do you want already this

morning, accent.

“Morning Beverly, this is Earl

Tidball, I’m calling on behalf of the Okala

Development Group.”

Her ears perked up. This was the

group that had been in negotiations in

regards to a large tract of land, that she

had the realty rights to, a few miles from

Moody Air Force Base. She was sure it

was a done deal and was waiting for the

finalization of some paperwork, title

searches and such.

“Yes, Mr. Tidball, I’m well aware

of who you are. How are you this

morning? I was hoping we might wind

things up this week and get that property

transferred to your group.” She always

tried to put a positive spin on every deal,

even if it wasn’t a firm offer yet.

“Yes, well, that’s why I’m calling.

We, or shall I say, the purchasing