Pride
Page 95
Twenty-Four
We wound up taking two cars—Jace’s and Feldman’s—because Jace and I did not know Feldman well enough to close ourselves into such a small space with him, and he felt the same way about us. Which was perfectly understandable, considering his general distrust of Pride cats. And the fact that he’d probably already heard what we’d—okay, I’d—done to Pete Yarnell by then.
So I rode with Jace in his Pathfinder, following Dan and Feldman in a white, late-nineties-model Camry across two small, neighboring towns. It was ten-thirty by the time we pulled onto Kevin’s street, and for the most part, his neighborhood already seemed to be sleeping.
Dan called from his cell when we turned onto Kevin’s street, to give us the address, and both vehicles made a slow, quiet first pass, taking everything in.
Except for the house number flaking off the curb on the right side of his short, cracked driveway, Kevin’s house was virtually indistinguishable from its neighbors. White clapboard with black shutters. Four foot square concrete porch, with no rail and no plants. Small windows, tiny lawn, neat but bare. There was no garage, and the carport was empty. Two cars were parked on the street across from the house, but neither was the car I’d last seen Kevin driving four months earlier.
“I don’t think he’s home,” Feldman said over Dan’s open phone line, flicking his right blinker on as he came to a four-way stop a block past the house. “Wanna get a closer look?”
“Absolutely.” We drove around until we found a neighborhood playground two streets over, where we parked both vehicles side by side beneath the lone streetlight. Then we headed down the walking trail in the direction of Kevin’s street. If anyone stopped us—and that wasn’t looking likely; the whole town seemed to be sleeping peacefully—we’d say we were out for a little late-night exercise.
We snuck between two houses, then crossed the road quickly, as far as possible from the nearest streetlight. After tiptoeing past a sleeping cat in a fenced-in rear lawn, we could see the back of Kevin’s house, two lots down. Trees provided excellent cover in the dark, and we stepped carefully into Kevin’s backyard less than ten minutes after we’d parked at the playground.
All manner of normal family racket came from the house to the east: television violence, loud country music, the soft hum of a dishwasher. Kevin’s house was silent—a very good sign—but we went carefully anyway.
Jace and I went right and Dan and Feldman went left, checking each window. Most of them were covered by miniblinds, but all of those blinds were at least a decade old and had gaps through which we could easily see. There were two bedrooms, a living/dining combo, and a kitchen. I assumed there was also a bathroom, but that one had no window.
“Well?” I whispered when we met again beneath a tree in the backyard.
“Nothing.” Feldman shrugged, and when he stopped moving and talking, he faded so thoroughly into the shadows I could easily have overlooked him. “He’s not here.”
I agreed. “Let’s go in.”
“Will the lock be a problem?” Dan asked, and I shook my head. It was just a knob twist-lock—typical security for werecats. We had little reason to fear intruders, because even if the potential thief had a gun, chances were good that a werecat could disarm him before it went off. Humans are slow and noisy.
Of course, in Marc’s case, that theory had backfired….
I hesitated briefly, well aware that if we were caught, we’d get arrested. It was the possible consequence that gave me pause, not the moral dilemma of the act itself. I was sure Kevin was working with his father—and possibly Calvin Malone—on the microchip conspiracy, which was more than enough to justify a little breaking and entering. “Okay, let’s do it.”
Jace popped the lock on the back door with one quick twist of the knob. The screen door wasn’t even locked. We were inside in under two seconds. While most werecat characteristics carry over in human form to some extent, on two feet, our eyesight is our weakest sense. Fortunately, Kevin had left several lights on, so we could see pretty well without having to flip any more switches.
Obviously, Kevin would know we’d been there the moment he got home, from the broken doorknob and our scents lingering on everything we touched. Though by the time he got home, a little B and E would be the least of his worries. But at least this way no curious neighbors would cut our little snoop-fest short. Or call the police.
“What a slob!” Jace whispered, eyeing the sticky countertop and sink full of dishes.
“Like you’re one to talk.” The guys could sterilize an entire house from carpet to ceiling in less than an hour. But they rarely put forth so much effort unless it was truly necessary. Not that I could blame them.
We snooped quickly, opening drawers and reading mail, pawing through Kevin’s fridge, his trash, and his one file cabinet as carefully and as quietly as possible.
The first bedroom held a bed, dresser, and a chest of drawers with a twenty-four-inch television on top. The bathroom was…too gross for words. But the room off the hall, the one that should have been the extra bedroom, held a computer desk and chair, with all the usual complements: printer/scanner/fax combo, telephone, external hard drive, etc….
But there on the desk, in front of the flat-screen monitor and to the left of the optical mouse, sat a palm-size device with a short, thick antenna and a two-and-a-half-inch display. My heart began to gallop as I sank into Kevin’s desk chair, and it bobbed briefly beneath my weight. Could we really be so close to locating Marc?
We wound up taking two cars—Jace’s and Feldman’s—because Jace and I did not know Feldman well enough to close ourselves into such a small space with him, and he felt the same way about us. Which was perfectly understandable, considering his general distrust of Pride cats. And the fact that he’d probably already heard what we’d—okay, I’d—done to Pete Yarnell by then.
So I rode with Jace in his Pathfinder, following Dan and Feldman in a white, late-nineties-model Camry across two small, neighboring towns. It was ten-thirty by the time we pulled onto Kevin’s street, and for the most part, his neighborhood already seemed to be sleeping.
Dan called from his cell when we turned onto Kevin’s street, to give us the address, and both vehicles made a slow, quiet first pass, taking everything in.
Except for the house number flaking off the curb on the right side of his short, cracked driveway, Kevin’s house was virtually indistinguishable from its neighbors. White clapboard with black shutters. Four foot square concrete porch, with no rail and no plants. Small windows, tiny lawn, neat but bare. There was no garage, and the carport was empty. Two cars were parked on the street across from the house, but neither was the car I’d last seen Kevin driving four months earlier.
“I don’t think he’s home,” Feldman said over Dan’s open phone line, flicking his right blinker on as he came to a four-way stop a block past the house. “Wanna get a closer look?”
“Absolutely.” We drove around until we found a neighborhood playground two streets over, where we parked both vehicles side by side beneath the lone streetlight. Then we headed down the walking trail in the direction of Kevin’s street. If anyone stopped us—and that wasn’t looking likely; the whole town seemed to be sleeping peacefully—we’d say we were out for a little late-night exercise.
We snuck between two houses, then crossed the road quickly, as far as possible from the nearest streetlight. After tiptoeing past a sleeping cat in a fenced-in rear lawn, we could see the back of Kevin’s house, two lots down. Trees provided excellent cover in the dark, and we stepped carefully into Kevin’s backyard less than ten minutes after we’d parked at the playground.
All manner of normal family racket came from the house to the east: television violence, loud country music, the soft hum of a dishwasher. Kevin’s house was silent—a very good sign—but we went carefully anyway.
Jace and I went right and Dan and Feldman went left, checking each window. Most of them were covered by miniblinds, but all of those blinds were at least a decade old and had gaps through which we could easily see. There were two bedrooms, a living/dining combo, and a kitchen. I assumed there was also a bathroom, but that one had no window.
“Well?” I whispered when we met again beneath a tree in the backyard.
“Nothing.” Feldman shrugged, and when he stopped moving and talking, he faded so thoroughly into the shadows I could easily have overlooked him. “He’s not here.”
I agreed. “Let’s go in.”
“Will the lock be a problem?” Dan asked, and I shook my head. It was just a knob twist-lock—typical security for werecats. We had little reason to fear intruders, because even if the potential thief had a gun, chances were good that a werecat could disarm him before it went off. Humans are slow and noisy.
Of course, in Marc’s case, that theory had backfired….
I hesitated briefly, well aware that if we were caught, we’d get arrested. It was the possible consequence that gave me pause, not the moral dilemma of the act itself. I was sure Kevin was working with his father—and possibly Calvin Malone—on the microchip conspiracy, which was more than enough to justify a little breaking and entering. “Okay, let’s do it.”
Jace popped the lock on the back door with one quick twist of the knob. The screen door wasn’t even locked. We were inside in under two seconds. While most werecat characteristics carry over in human form to some extent, on two feet, our eyesight is our weakest sense. Fortunately, Kevin had left several lights on, so we could see pretty well without having to flip any more switches.
Obviously, Kevin would know we’d been there the moment he got home, from the broken doorknob and our scents lingering on everything we touched. Though by the time he got home, a little B and E would be the least of his worries. But at least this way no curious neighbors would cut our little snoop-fest short. Or call the police.
“What a slob!” Jace whispered, eyeing the sticky countertop and sink full of dishes.
“Like you’re one to talk.” The guys could sterilize an entire house from carpet to ceiling in less than an hour. But they rarely put forth so much effort unless it was truly necessary. Not that I could blame them.
We snooped quickly, opening drawers and reading mail, pawing through Kevin’s fridge, his trash, and his one file cabinet as carefully and as quietly as possible.
The first bedroom held a bed, dresser, and a chest of drawers with a twenty-four-inch television on top. The bathroom was…too gross for words. But the room off the hall, the one that should have been the extra bedroom, held a computer desk and chair, with all the usual complements: printer/scanner/fax combo, telephone, external hard drive, etc….
But there on the desk, in front of the flat-screen monitor and to the left of the optical mouse, sat a palm-size device with a short, thick antenna and a two-and-a-half-inch display. My heart began to gallop as I sank into Kevin’s desk chair, and it bobbed briefly beneath my weight. Could we really be so close to locating Marc?
