The Killing House

8

Fletcher had caught the palpable relief on Theresa Herrera’s face when he removed his sidearm — a SIG SAUER P226, the same reliable and powerful 9-mm weapon used by the Navy’s SEAL Team Six. She was staring at it as he placed one foot on the threshold, about to throw the door open, grab the Herrera woman and pull her out when the gunshot erupted from inside the house.

Part of Theresa Herrera’s head disappeared, and she slumped to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

The front door swung inward. Inside the foyer of dim light and crouching behind the door was an older woman dressed in a fur coat. He caught a glimpse of her face, the odd, horse-like grin looking at him from across a 9-mm handgun.

The first shot, fired from less than a foot away, hit him dead centre in the chest.

Fletcher staggered backwards from the sudden impact. He spun awkwardly, tumbling back against the wrought-iron railing. The woman fired again. The round hit him in the abdomen, and he slipped on the snowcovered landing and tumbled down the short set of brick steps.

Fletcher landed face first against the walkway. He immediately rolled on to his side, hissing back the pain, snow stinging his face.

The woman fired again. The shot kicked up a clump of dirt and dead grass dangerously close to his head. Fletcher moved to his back and brought up his weapon, about to fire when the shooter threw the front door shut.

Theresa Herrera’s limp arm hung over the threshold. The door hit it and bounced back. Fletcher caught a flash of the dark fur coat retreating down the foyer.

Fletcher staggered to his feet. The lightweight ceramic armour plating woven inside the bulletproof vest had prevented the two rounds from piercing his body, but the impact had cracked at least one rib, sending his muscles into spasms.

The bullet had removed most of Theresa Herrera’s head, killing her instantly.

A spent shell caught his attention. Well studied in ballistics, he immediately registered what it was.

A door slammed open from the back of the house. Struggling to breathe, the cold air sharp with the odour of cordite, he stumbled across the front lawn towards the left side of the house — a task made more difficult in his shoes, as they offered no traction in the snow.

One shot. All he needed was one clear shot to take the woman down.

Fletcher stuck close to the side of the house. When it ended, he turned the corner, bringing up his SIG.

The garden, wide and long, was partially lit by the light shining through the back windows. A back door hung open; it led to a deck of pressure-treated wood. Through the falling snow he saw a clear set of footprints near the deck’s bottom step. He followed them across the garden until they vanished inside a black forest of tall pines. In the far distance and glowing like eyes in the night were the windows of a half-dozen homes.

He saw no sign of the woman. Had no idea if she was running or hiding somewhere, waiting for him.

Fletcher might have given pursuit if she didn’t already have a good lead on him. In his current physical condition, there was no way he could bridge the gap.

A more practical and urgent consideration, however, made him immediately turn and move back to the front: the police. One or more nearby neighbours had no doubt heard the multiple

gunshots and called 911.

The front door hung wide open. Fletcher clutched the railing as he moved up the front steps. Snow blew inside the house, coating the foyer and Theresa Herrera’s small, still body in a fine layer of white. She lay face down in a twisted heap on the brown tile. Blood had pooled around her and dripped over the threshold, staining the snow a bright red.

Fletcher dropped to his knees, his ribs screaming in protest, and looked at the entry wound. It was tattooed with black powder. The size of the wound and amount of gunpowder confirmed the gun had been fired from a close distance — a few feet away from the door, to his right. The shooter had stood there, but she couldn’t have seen him — couldn’t have seen him drawing his weapon. There were no windows installed around the door, no nearby windows that looked on to the front landing. So why had she suddenly panicked and shot Theresa?

Wary of destroying potential latent fingerprints, he used a pen to pick up the casing from the floor. Fletcher dropped it inside one of the small evidence bags he kept tucked inside his back pocket, sealing it shut on his way back to the car.