Shadow People
C.L. Bevill
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Smashwords Edition
Published by C.L. Bevill
Copyright 2010 Caren L. Bevill
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Thanks to Mary E. Bates, freelance proofreader of ebooks, printed material, and websites. Contact her at [email protected].
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Epilogue
About the Author
Other Novels by C.L. Bevill
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Shadow People - In some Native American mythology, the shadow people are spirits that slip away from the underworld to curse the living, causing illness, confusion, and pain. Sometimes the shadow people take on the form of the living, and only evil can befall those unfortunate ones who tread in their paths.
Chapter One
Friday, July 4th - Dallas, Texas
Creeper (slang, origin unknown, probably American) - a sneak thief who specializes in entrances that go undetected by owner and police officers alike
Each time Penelope Quick went on a job, she covered a mental checklist. Drive past if the police were about. Don’t look at the cop. Don’t blink. If there wasn’t a cop around, then make sure the neighbors weren’t lounging on their porches with lemonade in one hand and binoculars in the other. Don’t look conspicuous. Park the car at least two blocks away, and for God’s sake, don’t pull a Son of Sam and leave it in front of a fire hydrant so the cops could come back and check all the tickets given during the time of the heist.
Other items were common sense but also learned from Penelope’s mentors and from years of not getting caught. Wear gloves. Wear dark clothing. Go at night. Memorize the house’s floor plan. Leave your identification at home. Turn the cell phone off, a cell phone that was purchased for its anonymity. Make sure your pockets are empty except for mission-essential items.
Dad always called it creeping, Penelope thought wistfully. Jacob Quick would have laughed and said he was going to pull a creep. Then he would look around and make sure his wife, Jessica, Penelope’s mother, wasn’t around to overhear.
Creeping was an old term for cat burglary. Penelope frequently heard it from some of her father’s old crew. Those were the days before the cops had thermal imaging and before the marks had security systems that would hear a mouse farting at a thousand paces. They called what they did an art form, a rapidly dying skill that had its heyday decades before.
Penelope could have told them the house she was watching didn’t have a security system. It didn’t have a Rottweiler out back. It didn’t have flood lights on the darkest corners of the house. It didn’t have bars on the lower windows. And the yard boys weren’t cutting the hedges back around the most accessible points, so when Penelope went in, she would be all but invisible. It was, as Jeremy had told her, too good to be true.
Jeremy Collins was one of Penelope’s closest friends. Her only friend, if truth were to be told. She had met the slender black youth when they both targeted the same Highland Park house five years before. He had been eighteen years old and she had been twenty. They had met in the back bedroom of the Tudor style mansion that had been appraised at over a million dollars. Her hand had been on the false panel where the safe was hidden, and he had barked out an outraged cry of disapproval. In the dim light of a distant autumn moon, Penelope’s first memory of Jeremy was that she thought he was far too young. He was thin and wiry and his angelic face filled with dismay at her unwanted presence. He immediately knew what she was, and she had known what he was, although her instinct was to play the part of a victim. But Jeremy wasn’t having any of it, and ultimately, they had split the proceeds of the safe that belonged to the medical doctor who owned the house.
Penelope had known about the doctor’s proclivity to order over 60% of the narcotics prescribed in the entire state of Texas and that he was being investigated by a dozen governmental agencies. It made him an accessible mark, a crook with a white collar. Jeremy hadn’t known that. But he’d quickly discovered that pursuing individuals who walked on the shady side of the law had a whole set of benefits he hadn’t previously considered. They didn’t like the police department any more than Penelope or Jeremy did, and they were less likely to report the crimes perpetrated against them.
Instant friends; the pair had bonded that night. Their friendship had continued for years. Often they worked together. Specifically, Jeremy had told her months ago about this particular house in downtown Dallas. “My security buddy, Jobe, says it’s got two safes. One for the scruds. One for the best. But there ain’t a lick of protective security. Ain’t no laser beams. Ain’t nothing but a fake safe with a few gimmees. And the real one.”
Even Penelope had known there was a “but” coming. “Yes,” she’d prompted him with wry humor, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“It’s haunted,” Jeremy had cackled amusedly. “Part of the appeal, girl. I know a dozen homeboys that won’t even drive past the place after the sun goes down. A bunch of peeps got done in about fifty years ago. Guy killed his entire family with a shotgun. Got his wife, his mother, his six kids, and the milkman who stuck his head in the back door to see what the dealio was.”
Penelope had given him a steady look that portrayed her complete and utter skepticism of his story. However, she later determined from a historical research of the house that Jeremy had gotten it mostly correct. The owner, a minor Texas oil baron and millionaire in the 1940s, had killed everyone in the house, including a six-month-old infant in a crib. Then he shot his two prized Irish Setters and culminated his murderous rampage by placing the end of the shotgun in his mouth and pulling the trigger with his big toe. The story had made Penelope cringe.
“And Jobe says he saw the owner crack the safe. A wad of cash. Lots of jewels in there, too. Native American stuff. Old stuff. Real collectable stuff. We can hock it before the sun goes up, and it’ll be in New York City before the sun sets again.” They had both known what the absence of security meant. The present owners had something to hide; they were bent in some form or fashion. That was the equivalent
of an engraved invitation to Jeremy and Penelope. She had her rules and Jeremy accepted them, even if he didn’t always follow them himself. No little old ladies. No one who couldn’t afford the loss. And the preferred marks were usually more crooked than themselves. She was a thief who liked to rob other thieves. But not only thieves, drug dealers, murderers, and people who weren’t on the straight and narrow. It made her life easier. It also made her able to sleep when she closed her eyes at night.
“Thieves don’t have ethics,” Jeremy had teased Penelope on more than one occasion. “It ain’t gonna pay your mama’s bills.”
“If I didn’t have ethics,” Penelope, stung, had launched immediately back, “then I wouldn’t be paying any of mama’s bills.”
Jeremy, who had been abandoned by his mother at twelve, didn’t feel the same familial obligation. But he liked Jessica Quick almost as much as he liked Penelope, so he didn’t argue with her. He respected his friend’s wishes, even if he didn’t follow the same conventions.
They had planned their strategy starting with the architectural layout and ending with points of entry/exits. The house was a hideous Victorian Gothic construct from the late 19th century, and replete with leering gargoyles perched on the corners of the roof. It loomed over the desolate side street like a gargantuan monster intent on frightening the bejesus out of the next passerby. Penelope had thought on more than one occasion that it was the ugliest house she’d ever seen, and she had seen many houses on her various creeps.
But that had been two months before, and Jessica had come down with a nasty case of pneumonia. Caught up with her mother’s illness, Penelope hadn’t been doing anything since then, and Jeremy, as he frequently did, had dropped from sight. Penelope had called him on his cell phone and left messages, but she had a good idea what had happened. He had hit a big mark and scored. So he’d taken off for the Caribbean. He had a honey on St. Thomas that he visited every chance he could. When his money ran out, he’d be back, and they would take up on the plan where they’d left off. But Penelope had found out she couldn’t wait. She needed an influx of cash, and she needed it desperately. She couldn’t wait for Jeremy to return. If he got mad that she hadn’t waited for him, then she would cut him a finder’s fee. He’d get over it.
Standing behind a clump of thick, pink-bloomed oleanders, Penelope quietly surveyed the house on 26 Durfrene Row. Behind her was another ugly house, but the lights were out, and she had personally witnessed a family carry out three picnic chairs and a small cooler as they headed south toward a DART station and the Trinity River. It was, after all, the Fourth of July, and any moment the fireworks would start all over the metroplex. The most exciting were those of the Trinity Fest, and they would last a staggering thirty minutes, running through at least $500,000 of the city of Dallas’s budget. Because it was Independence Day and because it was a Friday, people were massing at the festival in droves. It was a party night, and no one could reasonably expect a thief to be hitting their house.
Standing in the deepest shadows of the huge oleander, she went over her mental checklist to ensure that before she ever broke a law, she was prepared in every way. She believed in being prepared.
*
The man was sitting in his car on the far side of Durfrene Row. He was parked as far away as possible from the Victorian Gothic house at number 26 without leaving its direct line of sight. He had night vision goggles, and he was watching Penelope Quick’s figure with keen interest. He didn’t know Penelope was a woman, nor would the fact of her gender have made a difference. But he knew a thief when he saw one.
The house didn’t belong to him. His interest in the property was for a specific reason none would have guessed. He had been watching it for weeks now and was no closer to his objective than he had been on the first day he had arrived in Dallas. Frustration hadn’t set in, but the knowledge that his enemy was getting closer to his goal than the man was getting to his, was disquieting.
Lowering the goggles he doubtfully pursed his lips. It wasn’t in his heart to watch another hapless soul walk, or rather sneak, into the house to meet a fate worse than any they could have imagined. But if he revealed his presence, then he was risking more than the death of a worthless thief. He remained where he was, quietly watching for an opportunity.
The house appeared to be unoccupied at the moment. The lights were extinguished. No noises of activity radiated from the inside that would indicate habitation. It was as silent as the crypt that it had become. It was as dark as sin personified.
Then the thief had appeared, sliding through the shadows like the things of legends. The man had been taken aback for a moment. The thought had slid unwanted through his analytical mind, the product of a thousand stories. Shadow people. But the goggles placed to his face with hands that trembled just a little, showed the thief to be flesh and warm-blooded, dressed in dark clothing that covered the individual from head to toe, with a knit cap that could easily be pulled down over the face.
Not the product of the underworld. Only a thief interested in the very same house.
Fool. The man thought. Damn fool. Only the spirits wait for you there. No riches for your greedy soul. Nothing there but terror and evil to haunt your eternal existence.
*
Penelope noticed the same things that the watching man had noticed. The house was still. It was noiseless. It seemed devoid of people. She hadn’t been around long enough to see if the owners were out with the rest of the city of Dallas’s population at various July 4th celebrations, but she felt positive they weren’t home. A quick call to the main telephone number of the house from her cell phone ensured its lifelessness. She allowed it to ring ten times for good measure and turned her phone off again.
Shifting from the shadow of the oleander, she melted into the night, making liberal use of every inch of gloominess and each crevice of the houses along the even side of Durfrene Row. When Penelope reached her goal, she went around the back, soundlessly scaling a brick wall with decorative wrought iron curling across its apex. She was as silent as an alley cat.
The yard in back of the Victorian Gothic was dead; the grass crackled like desiccated bugs when she stepped on it. There had once been a rose garden rimming the yard, but the blooms had died on the stem, their darkened shapes still and inert. Penelope studied the shriveled flowers with a wary eye. Prone to imagination she couldn’t envision why anyone would allow such an elaborate garden to die off by simply ignoring its existence.
A kitchen window had been previously selected as the one to enter. Not only was it located near the entrance to the basement where the safes were located, it was more than accessible. It was just above ground level and was positioned at the back of the oversized kitchen. Penelope would have to climb across a secondary sink, but the window was absent of security devices and obscured by the leaves of a large mimosa tree. The mimosa had made the most of the shade of the Victorian Gothic house, managing to survive alone in a dead wilderness.
After peering inside for movement and detecting none, Penelope used a branch to position herself and levered the window open with a special instrument used for older windows. It was like a Slim Jim tool; it slipped down between the casement and the lock and a little twist released the mechanism. Ten seconds later, Penelope was opening the window. It didn’t even creak.
Like the thief she was, Penelope slipped inside with the night.
Chapter Two
Friday, July 4th
Boxman (slang, origin unknown, probably American, circa 1940s) - a safecracker
26 Durfrene Row had an old-fashioned kitchen with outdated appliances and an archaic, well-used, wooden butcher’s block. The kitchen was large enough for a half-dozen servants to work freely within it. The floor was black and white checkerboard tile, and the dripping faucet from one of the oversized sinks sounded like impatient tapping fingers.
Penelope let herself drop to the floor with a catlike movement. Her eyes scanned her horizon and adjusted to the dimness of the ro
om. She wouldn’t be able to use a light in any room that had an exterior window, even if it faced the back of the house, so she blinked her eyes and waited. Her arrival hadn’t been noticed, and she planned to keep it that way.
Stopping by the closed face of an ancient dumbwaiter, Penelope again scrutinized her surroundings. The kitchen appeared to be used irregularly. There were moldering dirty dishes in the sink, and the dust on the floor showed a pattern from the front entrance to the kitchen to the refrigerator. Not very good housekeepers, she surmised. Perhaps this house was merely an investment for them. Then why have a safe in the basement? Why skimp on security?
A discomforting rash of goose bumps scurried down Penelope’s back, and she didn’t like the feeling. Usually pulling a creep was thrilling. She knew what to expect. There were rarely surprises, and when there were, she handled each well. Once she had convinced a wary police officer that she was the owner’s sister visiting from Chicago. Then there was the unexpected meeting with Jeremy in the Highland Park home. Even those incidents hadn’t given her the feeling of disquiet that was plaguing her now.
Leave. Leave now. The voice inside Penelope’s head was as loud as if someone had spoken just beside her, and she jerked with helpless reaction. Don’t go into the basement. Don’t go out of the kitchen.
But what about Mama? The questioning thought shot through her mind. Penelope didn’t generally allow situations to become dire, but Jessica’s sickness had precipitated events. If Penelope didn’t rapidly come up with a certain amount of money, her mother was going to be living in Penelope’s guest bedroom, and she didn’t have a guest bedroom. Penelope had one room. It was kitchen, bedroom, and living room all in one.
The conflicting voices argued in Penelope’s head. Enough, she told herself. It’s just that stupid story Jeremy told me. The house is haunted so I’m freaked. Damn Jeremy.
Penelope frowned. She rubbed her forearms above the light, black material of the long-sleeved shirt she was wearing. She needed the money. There was no disagreeing with that fact. Another golden opportunity like this wasn’t going to present itself overnight. Her mother really needed the money, even if she didn’t know about it. And Penelope would do whatever she had to do to make sure Jessica did NOT know about it.
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