Waist Deep

45

I stepped inside and shut the door quickly.My heart was pounding in my ears.I dropped low onto my right knee, wincing slightly as I bent the left, and listened.If anyone was home, they’d be on me in second or two.I wrapped my hand around my gun and waited.

All I could hear was the hum of the refrigerator in the next room and the tick of a clock on the wall in the living room.Even so, I waited several minutes before moving.I listened for creaks in the floor and I listened for sirens in the distance.I thought vaguely about the fact that I wasn’t licensed to carry a firearm.That led me to the fact that by bringing a gun along,I’d bumped this little caper up to a first degree burglary.

Stupid.

A trickle of sweat slid down my temple and I wiped it away.

No one was home, I finally decided, and stood up.

I inspected the door first and saw that the damage was light.Jackson’s deadbolt was a stubby half-inch and the mechanism was flimsy.The doorjamb itself was barely damaged.The door rattled a little when I jiggled it, but if Jackson wasn’t looking for it, he might not notice.

Once I finished with the door, I slowly walked through the house.It was a typical rancher-style house, just a box with rooms.I wandered through them, my hand still on the butt of my pistol, my heart racing.I had visions of all the homes and buildings I’d searched when I was a cop.I tried to recall old tactics as I moved through the rooms.

It was definitely a bachelor’s house.There were no signs of a woman’s touch anywhere.But it was neat and clean and surprisingly sparse.The furniture was nice but comfortably middleclass.There was no oak.The television was thirty inches and he had a DVD player and bookshelf stereo, but nothing fancy.

I walked into the bedroom.His bed looked like a queen and it was made.I halfexpected to see a pair of slippers sitting beside the night stand, but there was only a telephone and a digital alarm clock.RogerJackson was definitely a very orderly man.

The kitchen and bathroom were more of the same.I completed my circuit of the small house in less than five minutes and saw nothing out of the ordinary.The place was a little on the sterile side, all tidy and without pictures of family on any of the walls.A framed movie poster for Miller’s Crossing hung in the hallway.

I wondered if I had the wrong house.Maybe Adam was wrong about Jackson entirely and his Internet investigation had been a bust.

A car drove by the house slowly.The windows were tinted black and the sound of bass thumped obscenely, rattling the front windows of RogerJackson’s house.I watched from behind the curtain.The car turned onto Assembly and headed south.

A magazine rack stood next to one of the chairs in the living room and I flipped through the selections.Time and Playboy were the most prominent, but neither one had any copies with an address label.Then I came across a Videomaker magazine and saw a label on it.

RogerJackson.

This was the right house.

I started checking doors, finding several closets.One was full of towels, another was bare except for three coats hanging from the rack.Then, off the kitchen, I found a door that I had taken for a pantry.I opened it and saw a set of stairs that led sharply downward.

To the basement.

I flicked on the light, drew my gun and went down the stairs.