With Cruel Intent (38 page)

backpack was ready to go, with one new

item, thanks to the most recent couple and

their lack of security. A .38 Special was

added to the pack, the thief telling himself

it would only be used in self-defense and

not as an offensive weapon.

Lester wore a long sleeved plaid

shirt, his trademark black jeans, and a new

pair of Nike's with the bottom of each

shoe altered as before. He exited the back

of his country home, a helmet with dark

visor on his head, the backpack secured

over his shoulders and clipped at his

midsection. From the barn he pulled a

Yamaha 350 cc dirt bike that he'd used as

a youth, racing the MX circuit, to the thrill

of his father. He'd kept the bike in good

running order and licensed for just such

occasions, besides he still loved the

feeling of the wind rushing by and the

sense of power that could be unleashed

with a simple twist of his wrist. He

avoided the main routes, taking as many

back roads as possible, working his way

around to access the house from the rear.

As he hugged the corners, laying the bike

almost to the ground, he remembered why

he loved the sport so much and he couldn't

help but smile. A couple of miles from the

house he went off road, following the train

tracks, riding just along the base where the

brush had been cleared away. It was not

unusual to see motorcycles traversing the

sub-grade, so he felt safe in the decision

to close the distance in this manner. When

he was sure there was only a few hundred

yards left he cut the power to the bike and

coasted to a stop. From this location he

could see the back of three homes, with

fences dividing their property from the

unoccupied beltway, but no obvious

traffic in sight in any direction.

"Perfect," he thought.

He pushed the Yamaha until he

found a suitable low spot in the ground

that would provide an adequate hiding

place and he laid the bike on its side.

Kneeling in the fine powdered dirt he had

just enough height to see over the brush

and weeds. The back fence was wooden,

with alternating slats that would provide

footholds as he climbed the minimal

obstacle. He debated taking the pack but

needed too many of the items to leave it

behind.

The

helmet

sat

atop

the

motorcycle hidden in the foliage.

Lester had no idea what to expect.

What little research he could do showed a

Mr. and Mrs. in the online phone book, but

nothing further. He pressed his eye to a

slit in the fence looking for a swing set or

toys left lying on the grass, neither - good.

If a dog was present it would already be

going nuts and no barking was coming

from the house. The home sat on a large

lot with the next neighbor a good 80 yards

away and only scrub brush between them.

He pulled himself part way up the fence

and looked into the windows in an effort

to assess if the owners were home.

Confident that he could get to the back

door without being seen, he lifted himself

to the crown of the fence, then rolled over

landing on his feet, the backpack still in

place. A large picture window dominated

the back of the house, allowing him a

perfect view into the kitchen and beyond,

no movement and no people. From his

pocket, he extracted a pair of latex gloves,

and swapped those with the riding gloves

he'd worn until now. The backdoor was

dead bolted and the handle was locked.

To the left of the large window, a cement

slab dominated the yard, a portable fire

pit in the center and lounge chairs

surrounding it. A doorway led from this

patio to what he suspected would be the

garage. The handle of the door turned

easily to the right and allowed him easy

access.

Light

from

the

open

door

illuminated a portion of the interior and

cast shadows on the rest. A cream colored

Mercedes Sedan sat on the parking pad

with a low-rise speedboat taking up the

other half of the provided space. Life

vests hung from the wood rafters of the

unfinished garage and fishing poles

extended between the 2x4’s that supported

the roof. He quickly pulled the small light

from his pack that now sat at his feet and

shined it around the garage hoping to find

something of enough value to preclude a

break into the home. He had no such luck

but instead could see how the wealthy

lived and played. Lots of expensive toys

and outdoor gear but nothing he could

easily remove or sell. He thought about

taking the car, but reconsidered, knowing

that a police pursuit would almost be

impossible to elude, the motorcycle would

be much safer. Nothing else in the garage

looked of interest to the burglar. He turned

off the LED and reached for the doorknob.

It was locked but no deadbolt in place.

Within the quiet and safety of the garage

he was not hesitant to use brute force to

gain access. He considered trying to kick

the door in, but the possibility of an injury

was too great, something heavy would be

more practical. Lester scanned the walls

of the congested garage for a workable

instrument.

Mounted on the wall between the

door and a set of shelves, stocked with

beer and assorted soft drinks, a red fire

extinguisher hung, its black hose securely

strapped to the round cylinder shaped

body. Once he busted through the door

there would be no turning back, whether

there was someone home or not. He had

still not heard anything coming from

inside, but that didn't mean a homeowner

was not taking a nap or just watching

television somewhere in the house. After

the experience of the last home, he opted

to leave the Nike's on in case a quick

getaway was needed. He lifted the

extinguisher from the wall and held it in

his hands. It was much heavier than he

expected.

"Should do nicely on the door," he

thought.

He cupped the bottom, cylindrical

portion of the extinguisher in his left hand,

leaving the flat striking surface free and

clear to slam against the door, his right

held the top to provide the direction and

thrust needed to break through the

obstacle. He tested it a couple of times,

getting a feel for the weight as he rocked it

back and forth in his grip.

"Here goes nothing!" he said, as he

let the weight do the work. The bottom of

the cylinder crashed against the wooden

door just above the handle. Thwack!

There was the faintest sound of wood

cracking, but entrance was denied. He

swung the extinguisher back again into its

cradled position and rocketed it forward

with even greater force. A degree of give

was evident as a small gap appeared

around the seam of the door where it had

been snug. Before, what he thought would

be the final thrust; he waited to see if

anything stirred, nothing did. The thief

was correct, on the third and final assault

wood splintered and the door swung free

from the jam, leaving wood bits from the

frame scattered on the kitchen floor and

counters. He placed the extinguisher back

on the support and entered the home. The

kitchen was very modern with stainless

steel appliances, granite counter tops and

an immaculate hardwood floor, which

gleamed and reflected the other polished

surfaces that were all around. A small

kitchen table occupied a nook area, a

stack of letters sat atop it with a cereal

bowl and empty juice glass nearby. Milk

sat stagnant in the bottom of the bowl, an

indication that someone had been home

not that long ago.

Lester unlocked the back door and

sat the backpack just outside after

removing the pepper spray, paint can, and

.38 that he put in his pocket. He took a few

minutes to clean up the evidence of the

explosive entry, taking the splintered

wood chips and tossing them into the

garage. He closed the damaged door as

best he could, allowing it to snug

somewhat back into the door jam. On a

quick cursory look perhaps someone

would overlook the damage unless they

examined it more closely. Stepping

outside, he closed the back door and stood

on the stoop, pointed the paint nozzle at

the lower section of the door, and painted

the words in bold strokes, R I C H P I G

S, the paint thick enough that gravity

stretched the letters downward.

Inside the home he surveyed the

layout looking for items of value,

eventually finding his way to the bedroom.

There he found the usual items lying about

on dresser tops and in the drawers.

Nothing really surprised him anymore.

Over the years he’d found just about

everything imaginable hidden away in the

personal hiding places of unsuspecting

people. Today was no different. In what

he believed to be the husband’s side of the

bed, a small night table with drawer, gave

up an adult novel, “The Lusty Librarian.”

It looked pretty tame by today’s standards,

but he placed it in the pillowcase anyway.

Lester pictured the couple in their mid to

late 50’s based on the clothing and items

he was finding. He tried to leave the room

as he found it, returning useless items to

their original state and throwing the items

of value into a stolen pillowcase as he’d

done on previous occasions.

Somewhat disappointed in what

he’d found he decided it was time to

create some controversy. He returned to

the back porch, deposited the half full

pillowcase alongside his backpack, and

walked through the house looking for an

ideal wall to paint more graffiti. The

house was a split with a main floor, a half

flight of stairs going both up and down.

He’d explored everywhere but the lower

level that appeared to be only partially

finished. The thought of a gun case pushed

him lower into the home, thinking that

some more handguns would be easy to sell

or keep for his own amusement. A laundry

area had been somewhat finished as he

descended the stairs, located on the right

hand side, with bi-fold doors hiding the

washer and dryer that were in a stacked

configuration. Another matching bi-fold

covered an empty space to the right, with

a couple of shelves upon which detergent

and fabric softener sat, bits of clothing cut

into squares filled a bucket, apparently to

be used as rags. Some dirty clothing

littered the bare floor, but no gun cabinet

or safe. The intruder determined that there

was nothing of significance in the

basement and was about to return to the

main floor when he heard a key in the

front door deadbolt.

He considered running up the

stairs and out the back door but the front

entrance was so close to the stairs that a

confrontation was bound to happen. Lester

pulled the gun from his right pocket and

the pepper spray from his left and armed

each hand with a means of escape, if

necessary. His stomach was doing flip-

flops. In all the years of robbing people he

had never had to deal with a victim face to

face and he didn’t want to start now.

Retreating to the laundry area, he opened

the bi-fold quietly, hearing the key now

enter the locked door handle. He stepped

into the empty space below the shelves,

and pulled the bi-folds closed, hiding

himself and the washer and dryer. He

knelt and waited, being able to see through

the horizontal slats that made up the