Breaking Creed

31

The quiet was almost unnerving. O’Dell shut the cruiser door, and the echo it produced made her immediately notice. There were no sounds of traffic or jets overhead. No humming air conditioners or barking dogs.

During the entire trip — what Sheriff Holt claimed was ten minutes but seemed like twenty to O’Dell — they had met up with only one other vehicle on the winding back roads. Rows of huge live oaks flanked both sides of the Bagleys’ long, graveled driveway, and the canopy of branches and leaves overhead made it feel like they were driving through a tunnel. Even the two-story house was tucked back into the woods that surrounded the property.

The quiet and isolation had O’Dell’s mind already working. A man could be tortured on this property and no one would ever hear his screams for help or his cries of pain.

There was no response to the sheriff’s knock on the front door. No shuffling of feet, no shift of curtains. O’Dell walked to the corner of the porch, keeping away from the only window, then turned to get a better look down the driveway. She wondered at what point someone inside would be able to see the black-and-white cruiser.

“Mrs. Bagley,” the sheriff called. “I’m the Covington County sheriff. Sheriff Holt. Just want to talk to you. Nobody’s in trouble.” Then he glanced over his shoulder at O’Dell and shrugged. “I guess she’s not home.”

She did a quick visual search of the pickup that was parked alongside the house on the grass, instead of on the graveled patch in front of the house. She was close enough that she could see through the garage window and the space looked empty. According to the county property records, a Dodge Ram pickup and a Land Rover were registered to the Bagleys.

Sheriff Holt’s cruiser had left tracks where the downpour had washed the gravel thin. But there were no other fresh tire tracks. No one had arrived or left, at least not during or after the thunderstorms.

The two other buildings on the property looked old and worn and unused. O’Dell swept her eyes over both structures, scanning the windows and scrutinizing the rooflines as well as the discarded equipment against the sides, looking for anything out of place or any movement.

She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, and yet something didn’t feel right.

Sheriff Holt raised his fist to knock again but stopped in midair when he noticed O’Dell easing her Glock from the small of her back. His eyes went wide and his ruddy face went pale. She put an index finger to her lips as she came up beside him. He fumbled with his own gun, unsnapping the holster and making too much noise. It wouldn’t matter. O’Dell knew if someone was inside waiting for them, he or she was already in position.

She leaned her shoulder against the frame just to the left of the windowless door and nodded for him to do the same on the other side. He squeezed his bulk awkwardly against the porch rail, giving himself plenty of distance away from the door now that he understood what threat might be waiting for them.

O’Dell listened, cocking her head. Still, there were no sounds coming from inside. She held her weapon in her right hand, and with her left, reached across the door and tried the knob. It turned with no resistance, and that’s when her heart started to race. She glanced up at the sheriff, met his eyes, giving him a chance to tell her “no.” After all, they had no warrant. No reason to enter. Nothing except O’Dell’s gut instinct.

Slow and easy didn’t play well if someone was waiting on the other side. It only gave them more time to aim. She took a deep breath and shoved the door open as she rolled back against the outside of the house and out of the line of fire. The door hit the inside wall, sounding like a gunshot and making Sheriff Holt jump. But nothing followed. They were greeted by more silence.

O’Dell eased around the doorjamb, letting her Glock lead the way inside.

More silence.

The large entrance included plenty of hiding places: an open staircase, a long, narrow hallway beside it, and too many archways leading to other rooms. Sheriff Holt raised his chin toward the staircase, then squeezed past her to start his slow climb. O’Dell noticed a set of keys on the desk in the entryway. Sunglasses, a wallet, and what looked like a grocery or errand list were also on the desk.

She moved slowly. Peeked into rooms, carefully opening doors and trying to keep her back to the wall as much as possible. The old house creaked with almost every step, and she could easily hear the sheriff above her. If someone was inside hiding, they should be able to hear any movement.

Even before she entered the kitchen she could smell bacon and burnt toast, but both were a bit stale in the air, not fresh. It looked as if breakfast had been interrupted and abandoned. On the stovetop a skillet was filled with bacon now congealed in grease. A plate with two slices of burnt toast was left on the countertop, alongside a container of melted butter. The table had two place settings: plates, silverware, water glasses filled to the brim. Coffee mugs waited by the coffeemaker, coffee made but not poured. A carton of cream left open beside it.

The coffeemaker was the closest. O’Dell took several steps and leaned over, but before she put her nose to the cream she could smell that it was spoiled. She took another look around the kitchen. How long ago?

She pulled a paper towel from the roll and used it to pick up the carton of cream. She swirled the contents from side to side and could feel the chunks swish inside. She had no idea how long it took for cream to curdle, but she guessed it might be days, not hours.

“What the hell?” Sheriff Holt came into the kitchen and stared at the macabre scene.

“Looks like they left in a hurry. I take it you didn’t find anyone upstairs?”

“Nope, didn’t find anybody, but I sure as hell found something stranger than this. You’re gonna want to take a look for yourself.”