Stolen Souls

53

HERKUS STEPPED BACK onto the road and looked up at the house. In the orange glow of a streetlight, the place next door looked derelict, but this one was well kept. The windows looked odd, though. An old house like this should have sash windows with wooden frames, but instead it had modern PVC frames and double glazing.

He looked around.

A strange place, two houses standing together away from all the others, at the apex of a bend. They faced no other buildings, front or back. Probably very few people ever came this way.

A cold feeling swamped Herkus’s gut to match the icy wind that blew snowflakes all around him. He knew many things that no man should know. Things that can’t be forgotten, no matter how much you might want to.

And Herkus knew this was a killing place.

So he would be careful. He went back to the Mercedes and fetched the Glock 17. Its weight in his pocket reassured him.

A lane cut along one side of the house, leading to the back. Herkus followed it, noting the snowed-over tire tracks, and came to the rear of a walled yard.

The tracks formed two sides of a triangle where the vehicle had turned and reversed through the wooden gates that now stood closed. They would be locked, of course, but he tried them anyway.

He crouched down and put his eyes to the opening through which the padlock and chain were visible. Like the front, the back of the house showed no sign of life. A van stood parked in the yard, however. Its owner was in there somewhere, Herkus was certain of that.

If he stretched, he could just reach the top of the gate. He grabbed hold. The toe of his boot barely fit in the opening, but enough to get some purchase. He hauled himself upward, his arms straining to lift his bulk.

Balancing there for a moment, he caught his breath while taking in the whole of the yard. It was dark, but he could make out the vague shapes of things under the snow. A wheelbarrow, what looked like a cement mixer, and other white-covered forms.

He pulled once more, threw his leg over the top of the gate, and let his body follow. Herkus was not a graceful man, and he landed heavily, jarring his ankles and knees. He steadied himself against the gate for a moment before crossing the yard to the van.

He placed his hand against its hood. Cool. He looked at the ground. Footprints led to and from the gate, then back to the house, all covered with a fresh layer of snow. No new tracks except his own.

Herkus walked to the back door. He tried the handle, found it locked solid, then went to the window.

Cupping his hands around his eyes, he could make out a kitchen beyond the glass, and deeper inside, a hint of light. He scoured the yard until he found a pile of bricks submerged in snow, neatly stacked to form a cube. He tested the heft of one, then returned to the window.

Putting his weight behind it, he threw the brick at the center of the window. He had to make a hurried sidestep to avoid being struck as it bounced back. A scuff on the glass was all the evidence of the blow.

Tempered glass, he thought. Whoever lived here wanted to keep those on the outside where they were, and perhaps those on the inside, too. But Herkus knew how to break tempered glass. He could use the Glock to do it, certainly, but the sound of the shot would carry across the streets and draw attention.

All he needed was a stout screwdriver, the point of which he would place at the very corner of the pane, and something substantial to strike the other end with. The brick would do, and he had a screwdriver back in the car.

“One minute,” he said to the glass.