Rob Thy Neighbor

by David Thurlo

  “I’m not going to open the front door either. They may have set a similar trap there,” Charlie speculated. “The garage door leading out back looks fine, and I couldn’t have entered the garage through it anyway because of the barrel lock on the inside. We can go out back through it.”

  A minute later, they found a set of shoe prints below one of the bedroom windows. “This one has been forced open, probably with a big screwdriver,” Charlie said, “and the screen has been removed.” He took a careful look, just in case, then slid it open and pulled himself up, over the windowsill, and onto the bedroom floor. This was the second, unused bedroom and contained only a small desk, chair, and several storage bins. The window screen, damaged from a quick removal, had been leaned against the interior wall.

  Officer Wilson followed him in, taking more time, having to avoid catching the gear attached to his Sam Browne web belt on the window frame. Charlie thought about giving the guy a hand but decided the officer might be too proud to accept help. He was as tall as Charlie, and once inside had no problem dropping down to the carpeted floor.

  Charlie led the way into the living room, then stopped and pointed toward the front entrance. A wire was wrapped around the interior doorknob, passed through a loop screwed into the wooden baseboard, and was attached to the pin of a hand grenade duct-taped to the wooden floor.

  “Shit. Now a grenade?” Officer Wilson exclaimed.

  Charlie laughed. “You recording this on your lapel camera, Officer?”

  Wilson chuckled nervously, then reached up to his camera controls. “Now I am. Watch your step, Mr. Henry.”

  Charlie looked up at the kitchen light fixture; he didn’t see anything else out of place, like a bulb filled with gasoline, so he switched on the light. Across the room a few feet from the door leading into the garage was a big pipe bomb, a lantern battery, and wires leading to, as he’d already guessed, a wooden clothespin glued to the door, with another wired piece of wood inserted between the jaws. It was anchored to the door trim by wire and a screw eye.

  “There it is. Simple and by the book,” Charlie announced. “I can disarm everything with a pair of wire cutters or the scissors I have in a drawer over there, or just remove one of the wires from a battery terminal.”

  “No, let’s wait for the bomb squad. That’s their responsibility. I’ll take photos and send them to the unit.” He brought out a cell phone. “We safe to use a phone in here?” he added, looking around for a possible third bomb.

  “Sure, as long as someone doesn’t try to force one of the doors. Just don’t touch anything.” Charlie was pretty certain there were no more bombs. He was never supposed to survive getting this far into the house.

  Wilson glanced around, clearly not at ease. “I’ll take the photos, then we go back outside—through the bedroom window.”

  Charlie shrugged. After encountering booby-trapped weapons, antitank mines, and IEDs constructed from artillery shells, he wasn’t particularly worried. “No prob.”

  * * *

  Once the bomb squad and their containment vessel arrived—basically a blast-suppressing armored sphere on a trailer towed by a pickup—a tech entered the house through the bedroom window while everyone else watched from a block away. By then there were at least two dozen residents, three camera crews, and several passersby lined up waiting for something to happen—or not. All the houses on the block had been evacuated, and Charlie had joined Margaret, moving the Charger farther down the street but still close enough to watch. In his mind, this was still all connected to the original attack on the Randals, and there seemed to be no end to the drama. He needed to keep her safe.

  Five minutes after he’d entered, the APD tech came out the front door and gingerly placed the grenade into an armored box, then signaled for his partner, who was wearing a heavy protective suit, to enter through the front door and remove the pipe bomb. Once that was done, they carried the armored box holding the two explosives to the containment vessel and placed it inside.

  A K-9 officer and a bomb-sniffing dog then swept the house and garage. The team worked quickly and was out in a few minutes with an all-clear report.

  Charlie stood beside his Dodge while Margaret remained inside, the windows rolled down now and the engine turned off. The temperature was still rising outside, and the crowd was beginning to disperse when a familiar-looking unmarked police car came up the street and pulled alongside him.

  “You okay, Charlie?” Detective DuPree asked, looking out the driver’s window. Then he noticed that it was Margaret in the car. “What’s Mrs. Randal doing here?”

  Charlie quickly explained, then added, “I think the officer in charge of the scene wants me to see if anything is missing from my house or has been added. I’m going to bring Margaret inside with me, okay?”

  “Anything beats sitting inside this car on a hot summer day,” she said. “And I feel safer with Charlie around,” she admitted to the detective. “He did have that young woman across the street watching me when he was inside, so I was never alone.”

  DuPree nodded. “We still want you to keep out of sight, however, Mrs. Randal. Charlie, go ahead and pull into your garage, then close the overhead door. I want you,” he added, turning to Margaret, “to enter the house out of view.”

  Charlie agreed. He’d been the target of a potential sniper here last night, and even if Margaret wasn’t an intended victim at the moment, he wasn’t about to risk putting her into the line of fire. Charlie still didn’t know exactly why Mrs. Randal hadn’t been able to identify Ray Geiger, when she was the one who pulled away his mask. At this point, Charlie was the only person who could, or would, point a finger at Ray as one of the home invaders. Of course, there were two more reasons for him being a target now. He’d killed Anthony Lorenzo and could also identify the man with the spiderweb tattoo.

  DuPree waited with Margaret at the small kitchen table while Charlie took a quick look around the house. Nothing had been disturbed. His backup .380 was still in its hiding place, fastened via Velcro to the bottom of a wastebasket, and his ammo supply and extra clips were in the nightstand. He had very little jewelry, and all of it was still there. The cardboard box in the spare bedroom closet with his computer disks and personal tax papers was closed, rubber band holding the flaps in place. His laptop had apparently remained untouched as well.

  He came back into the kitchen, where his two “guests” were finishing the Cokes he’d offered. “Nothing taken, nothing added that I was able to detect. Madeline Greene, the young woman across the street, said the plumbers were here only a few minutes after she contacted me. Exactly how long they were inside isn’t known because she didn’t really notice them at first. They must have carried the bomb materials in those toolboxes, set up the devices, then climbed out the back window and left through the garage,” Charlie surmised. “They didn’t want my stuff, they wanted to get rid of me, or at least put me in intensive care.”

  “I got that from Officer Wilson and his sergeant, who also interviewed Ms. Greene. She had to leave for a college class, but I have her phone number and she has mine,” DuPree said.

  “I’ve requested an ATL—attempt to locate,” he explained to Margaret, “on the van for all local agencies, and APD officers are checking surveillance cameras in the area,” DuPree continued. “The plates were stolen, and the company listed on the van’s sign insists they don’t own the vehicle. These perps were very careful, even keeping their faces hidden by ball caps and sunglasses. All Ms. Greene could provide was an approximate height and weight. She speculated that there was a third individual, a driver, because she never saw anyone enter or exit from the driver’s side. She never saw him or her, however, and the driver may have entered from the passenger side and been one of the two plumbers.”

  “Any theories on who these fake plumbers were?” Charlie asked. “Someone connected to the other incidents, I suppose. Kill the eyewitness, or revenge for the death of their friend, maybe, like with the crane?”


  “Both? In this case, though, we can again rule out the presence of Ray Geiger and his father. Frank is at the dojo, and Ray’s monitor shows he’s still at his dad’s place. Unfortunately, you’ve made yourself a dangerous enemy, Charlie,” DuPree added. “He’s not giving up, either, that’s my guess. You might want to find another place to stay for a while.”

  “Maybe there are two groups of attackers out there, one who’s trying to kill me, and another just out to hurt Sam Randal. If it was the same guy who tried to run me over, then why didn’t he take a shot at me with that fifty-cal rifle the other day when I was standing beside the fence? Even with the chance that the fence might deflect the projectile a few inches, I still think he had a better chance killing me with an armor-piercing bullet than with that car,” Charlie pointed out.

  “You have a point, but you can’t afford to take any chances,” DuPree warned. “Today, two people tried to blow you up.”

  “Nobody is going to run me off,” Charlie argued. “Gordon and I are taking turns protecting Margaret and Sam—when he’s at home—but I’ll take my chances. I know how to look out for myself.”

  “Are you sure, Charlie?” Margaret asked. “We can pay for other accommodations as long as this lasts.”

  “Thanks, but I prefer to handle things my own way. Right now, though, Margaret, I think you might want to go back home, where it’s safe and a lot more comfortable. Sam will be coming home from work in a while,” Charlie added, “and Gina and Nancy will be right next door.”

  Charlie turned to DuPree. “Are we done here?”

  * * *

  The rest of the day was easy. Charlie had been relieved by Gina when she got off work, so he’d gone back to work at the shop and sent Jake and Ruth home. He and Gordon had handled the customers, completed the remaining paperwork of the day, and swept the floors, then closed up. After that, they’d stopped at a WisePies for pizza and iced tea while Charlie described today’s potentially deadly incident.

  Still in limbo, waiting for news, the name of the guy with the tattoo, or any other evidence they could actually pursue, they’d decided to call it a day. Gordon had elected to protect the Randals again, wanting to give Charlie a little more rest and the chance to unwind.

  It had been a long twenty-four hours with little sleep, and Charlie’s system had reverted to civilian time, so he was already drowsy by the ten o’clock news on Channel 7. He was reaching for the remote when he discovered that the lead stories concerned the Albuquerque residential bomb threat and an armed stalker in the same neighborhood. These acts were increasing police patrols in his area of the city.

  He sat back on the sofa, wondering just how much of his privacy was going up in smoke tonight—if there was any left at all.

  Fortunately, both stories were sketchy on details. First, there was a short, vague report of an armed stalker in a stolen sedan watching a resident’s home, including generic shots of the neighborhood. According to the reporter, police were asking that the teenaged eyewitnesses who’d left the scene step up, contact the authorities, and assist in providing evidence. A possible motive and the name of the intended victim were being withheld from the public in order to project the individual’s safety, according to the reporter.

  The bomb threat coverage provided more visuals and shots of the bomb squad in action, but at least no cameras had been directed at him, only at the police, and he had avoided an interview. Charlie’s name wasn’t given, but mention was made that he was a decorated veteran from a prominent Navajo family. The conclusion by the reporter was that this was an apparent follow-up attempt on the same individual.

  “The same individual is sleepy,” Charlie mumbled to the screen, but by then, the news reader had already moved to the summer drought story. He touched the remote, turning off the TV, and stood up from the couch, looking over at his half-full plastic water bottle. He’d just cap the thing and put it back in the fridge. Passing back through the living room after shutting off the kitchen light, he picked up his Beretta from the sofa arm and walked down the hall into the back of the house.

  It was still hot outside but down to seventy-five in the house, so he decided not to turn on the swamp cooler. A quick shower would help, though.

  He continued into the bedroom, flipped on the lamp atop the nightstand, and then placed the handgun on the bed. Three minutes later, stripped down, he stepped into the shower. The warm water was soothing on his aching muscles and the various cuts and bruises.

  Ten minutes later, Charlie sat on the bed. Yawning, he realized just how much his years in the military still shaped his habits. Even though he’d stayed in the shower longer than usual, he still bathed in a hurry. He quickly added triple-antibiotic salve and a stick-on bandage to the biggest gouge. He was healing well.

  At least in those locations where it was actually safe to sleep undressed, he usually slept in lightweight pajama bottoms and sometimes, in cooler weather, an old T-shirt. He’d also learned to have a pair of moccasins or boots within reach.

  The shower had bumped up the humidity in the bedroom, and it felt a little swampy at the moment, an uncomfortable environment for a child of the desert. Maybe he should open the window to let in some fresh air, then read a little.

  Moccasins on, he walked around the foot of the bed to the window, parted the curtains in the center, and unlatched the catch. As he slid open the window, he heard what sounded like a car engine. What was a vehicle doing coming up the alley this time of night?

  Charlie took a quick look and spotted a pickup just beyond the low chain-link fence. Realizing he was in a vulnerable position, he moved away from the window and stretched across the bed, reaching to turn off the lamp on the nightstand. No time to present a silhouette.

  “Hey, Charlie!” an unfamiliar male voice called out as he strained to touch the switch.

  The booming crack of gunshots erupted, and the window exploded with flying glass as bullets dug into the wall across the room and above the foot of the bed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Flat on the bed now and with his night vision still impaired, Charlie groped for his pistol, found it, and then rolled off the mattress onto the floor. The wall thudded from the impact of slugs on the stucco—so many coming at once that there had to be at least two shooters. Most were hitting waist high or lower now. No time to hang around.

  Staying as low as possible, Charlie crawled out into the hall mostly on his belly, more snake than human, while considering his options. There was no way he was going to be able to slip out the back door of the house to take these people head-on; he’d be in full view—with no cover. Firing out another back window was also too risky.

  There was a brief pause, then more shooting. Clearly this was no gangbanger drive-by. Unlike last night, this time there was more than one shooter, and they had reloaded. Their attempt to blow him up had failed, so this time they were sticking around long enough to finally take him out.

  Wary of a secondary ambush, a tactic he would have employed with enough troopers, he reached the front door, threw it open, then ducked low, looking around the doorjamb for a shooter in case they had the balls to send a third guy to assault the house from the opposite direction. The front yard was clear and the street empty, so he raced to the corner of the house opposite the garage, noting that the shooting had stopped. If they had run out of ammo, they would have fled, so he deduced that they were reloading with a third or fourth magazine, or watching, trying to decide what to do next.

  He inched along the wall, flattened, then saw the pickup idling there, headlights still off. The glow from the moon and nearby interior lights revealed a shooter in the back bed, rifle or carbine up, probably waiting to see if he was still alive and able to fight back. The driver was holding a pistol—there was no long barrel visible. Clearly they weren’t motivated enough to assault the house, or they would have done it already.

  Only a few more seconds went by before both shooters began firing again, slowly and methodically this time, aim
ing low, selecting the back door and the bathroom and second-bedroom windows.

  Charlie took careful aim and fired four shots at the figure crouched in the back bed, then shifted aim quickly and placed two rounds into the driver’s door. The driver yelled, more of a scream, actually, and the vehicle lurched forward. Charlie hugged the wall and fired three more rounds into the pickup cab as it accelerated to his left, weaving back and forth, churning up gravel and dust from the unpaved alley. He tracked the vehicle, knowing he still had several rounds, but decided to hold off because the field of fire now included two houses and a neighbor’s garage.

  He jumped to his feet and ran into the backyard. “Call the police!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Men with guns in a pickup!” he added, reaching the four-foot-high wire fence at the alley. The pickup was now at the end of the block, and chasing after it on foot was pointless. He hurried over to the back door, which was full of holes. It was locked. Dumb. Without the key, he had to race around front. Entering the house, he stumbled around in the dark, trying to grab the house phone with shaking hands.

  He took a deep breath, then dialed Gordon’s number. His buddy might also be a target; it had happened before. Then he realized the phone was dead.

  The telephone line and switches were mounted on the back wall of the house and had probably been put out of action by a bullet strike. Charlie walked into the bedroom, his moccasins crunching broken window glass, and flipped on the light switch. The overhead light came on, and he looked down at the nightstand. The lamp had been shattered, but his cell phone was still there, thankfully intact.

  He stepped out into the hall, touching the screen for Gordon’s number. Once it started to ring, he surveyed the hall. No bullet strikes here—no, just one, but it was nowhere near close enough to have damaged the gas heater or the pipes. He couldn’t smell gas either, which was a good sign.