“If I get in trouble, hose the place,” Lucas said.
“This is where I say, ‘Maybe we should wait for the SWAT team,’” Bob said.
Lucas: “Really?”
“Oh, fuck no. You go, we hose. If there’s serious trouble, get down on your belly real quick.”
“And get to that door real quick,” Rae said. “They can’t have seen us yet. If you get to the door in one second, they won’t have time to react, if they’re in there at all.”
* * *
—
WHEN THEY WERE SET, Lucas said, “I’m going,” and he walked fast to the back door, the Walther held down along his leg. There was a one-step back stoop outside the door, and Lucas stepped up and pushed the door with one finger of his free hand and shouted, “Hello?”
Then he smelled them.
* * *
—
RAE SHOUTED, “Lucas. Lucas.”
“Somebody’s dead,” Lucas shouted back.
“Wait there,” Bob shouted.
He waited and Bob and Rae jogged across the yard, and Rae sniffed and said, “Oh, yeah.” She and Bob led the way through the door, their rifles up and tracking.
The light inside was dim, because all the blinds and curtains were closed, and when Bob stepped into the kitchen with Rae at his shoulder, Lucas said, “Stop,” and reached past Rae’s hip to grope for, and find, a light switch. He flipped it on and a dark shape on the floor became a body.
“Clear it, or wait for SWAT?” Bob asked.
“I think we wait for crime scene,” Lucas said. “There’s nobody here. Not alive. I’d feel them.”
“So . . .”
“Keep your muzzles up, I’m going to walk past you . . .” Lucas brought the Walther up to chest height, stepped carefully past the body and peeked into what he thought was a living room. He saw another shape on the floor. Groped for lights again, found the switch and flicked it on. “Got another one in here . . . Let’s back out.”
“Stink would gag a maggot,” Rae said.
“Of which I’m sure we have some,” Bob said. “These people been dead a while.”
“You guys cover the doors, just in case,” Lucas said. Out in the yard, he called Chase: “We entered the house. We’ve got two dead on the floor, we didn’t look in any rooms except the kitchen and the living room. There could be more. They’ve been dead for a while. Maybe a week. If the SWAT team is coming, they can clear the house, but I don’t think there’s anyone inside, not alive. We need a crime scene unit and some local cops to control the road.”
“Locals are on the way, I’m coming with the car,” she said. “SWAT will be here in fifteen minutes or so. I’m coming.”
* * *
—
IN AN HOUR, there were thirty people on the scene, mostly local cops and FBI. The two victims were tentatively identified as Randy Stokes and his sister Rachel Stokes, from a wallet in the man’s pocket and a wallet from a woman’s purse that had been sitting on a sideboard.
One gun was found in the house, an old Smith and Wesson .357, but no long guns. They did find a box of .223 shells scattered on the floor, so guns were apparently missing.
Then came the preliminary paperwork: statements about the discovery and the processing of the scene, that sucked up the rest of the morning and early afternoon, and done in the back of one of the SWAT trucks.
“What’s happening with this Linc guy, the guy that Cop mentioned on Gibson’s tape?” Lucas asked Chase. “We know he was lining up to shoot someone.”
She was shaking her head.
“I checked while I was waiting in your truck,” she said. “We’ve been working it hard, but so far, we’ve come up empty. I mean, there are several dozen possibilities nationwide, six in Maryland and Virginia. We’ve checked all of the local people out, but didn’t get much. Like, two of them are dead—these were old guys, going way back. Two guys are still around, but one of them is black,