“Shut up.” David stood up, kissed Michael’s cheek, then hurried down the steps to Jackson.
“You know,” Jackson complained wryly, catching David’s hand, “the amount you two kiss each other, I’m almost jealous.”
“Relax, handsome,” Michael drawled. “I’ve never had your honey’s tongue in my mouth.”
David turned back, giving Michael a stern look. “I’d just as soon you didn’t announce that from my porch, thank you.”
Michael grinned. “What? The neighbors don’t know you’re a big old ’mo?”
David glared, but Jackson laughed and pulled on his hand, propelling him toward the driveway.
“Remember what I said about coming outside. Jackson is convinced we’ve got raccoons messing with the cans, but I’d just as soon neither you or Scooter came face-to-face with them either. They can have rabies.”
“I’ll be good, Mom.” Michael waved him off. “For God’s sakes, go the hell away.”
He watched them climb into the cab of Jackson’s large silver pickup, waving as they backed out of the driveway. Scooter followed them as far as the sidewalk, and Michael called her back.
“Come on, sweetheart.” He opened the front door and stood aside, letting her go in before him. “Just you and me tonight. We’ll have a quiet evening watching boring movies and eating crap.” He glanced around the dark, quiet street before he closed the door behind him. “Let’s get you dried off, then I can raid the kitchen.” He led the happy dog into the bathroom.
There was a walk-in pantry in the large kitchen, and Michael pulled on the chain that lit the bare lightbulb in the ceiling. On the shelves to the left, he immediately saw the dog treats.
“Ah-ha!” Michael opened the bag and took out what looked like a cross between jerky and a slice of bacon. Scooter barked once, happily, as if to say “give it to me already,” and Michael laughed, holding it out. She went up onto her back legs and took it, then promptly trotted away toward the living room.
Michael searched the rest of the shelves. There was quinoa and brown rice, jarred sun-dried tomatoes, and cans of gourmet olives. “Good God, what are you feeding the man, David? He can’t be surviving on quinoa.” He turned, and on the other shelves hit pay dirt. Three bags of chips, salsa, and jars of spinach dip. “Now, here’s my kind of food.” There were also a couple of bags of cookies and microwave popcorn. “Excellent!” He grabbed the box of kettle corn.
After putting the envelope inside the microwave, Michael closed the door and set the timer. It began to hum, and he went to the old Philco refrigerator. If David ever bought a new one, Michael had called dibs on this one. He loved it, loved the “loaf of bread” shape and the heavy chrome handle and accents. Inside he found Coke and Diet Coke lined up in neat rows next to milk and a bottle of apple juice, and Michael grabbed a diet pop with a smile. “Thank you, David.” He popped the top, enjoyed the resulting hiss, then went back into the living room. The smell of the popping corn filled the house.
Scooter was happily gnawing on her bacon strip in her little bed, and Michael leaned over the back of the couch for the remote. Searching the channels, he found Guy Ritchie’s Sherlock Holmes and made a small sound of satisfaction. When his popcorn was done, he vaulted over the back of the sofa and settled in. Within minutes he was lost in the movie. The eye candy in the film was excellent. There was no one sexier than Robert Downey Jr. as he played the brilliant Holmes, and Jude Law was hot as hell in Dr. Watson’s turn-of-the-century clothes. The steampunk vibe appealed to Michael’s design sense, and the bromance was fun.
He was thoroughly engrossed in the movie when a sound in the driveway pulled his attention. It wasn’t loud, but it was loud enough that it yanked him out of the film. He muted the television and turned his head, waiting. Scooter, who had been snoozing in her little bed, lifted her head as well, ears perked. Michael waited, but he didn’t hear it again, and he went back to the movie, absently figuring it was probably a neighborhood cat.
The next noise he heard outside was no longer furtive. In fact, it was loud enough that he jumped, his head whipping around. A metallic clang and a muffled thud came from the garage area near the trash cans. Michael’s heart leapt into his throat even as he recalled David mentioning the raccoons. Scooter stood up and took a few tentative steps, looking toward the windows, her head angled first one way, then the other.
If there were raccoons in the cans, the only way to deal with it was to scare them off. Irritated, nerves jangling, Michael slipped into his tennis shoes, grabbed his jacket, and at the last minute picked up the fireplace poker, David’s warning about rabies ringing in his ears. He didn’t want to get any closer to their mouths than he had to. With his luck, he could see having to endure a series of rabies shots because of some damned raccoon. It wasn’t going to happen if he could help it.
He worked the code on the security pad next to the door, then grabbed Scooter’s leash and clipped it to her collar. David had said he didn’t want Scooter going out, but Michael doubted he could keep her inside once he opened the door if she wasn’t wearing her leash. The last thing he needed was to have to chase her down the street in the middle of the night while she hunted raccoons. When she was securely attached, he opened the door.
She was surprisingly strong for such a little dog. She yanked him down the steps and around the side of the house.
“Easy, princess,” he said, half laughing. Huge trees above cast mottled shadows over the driveway, coating the trash bins in an added layer of darkness. It wasn’t so dim that Michael couldn’t see the white garage door, though.
Or the figure standing in front of it.
Michael jerked to a stop, yanking on Scooter’s leash. So it wasn’t raccoons. The man in front of the garage was dressed completely in black, and he was spray-painting dark letters on the white paint of the door.
“What the hell are you doing?” Michael blurted. The man whirled, and for a suspended moment, they stared at one another. The vandal was wearing a black ski mask, making him look like a shadow in the darkness. He threw the can of spray paint aside, sending it rolling into the bushes as he picked up something else from next to the trash can and lifted it over his head. The weak moonlight glinted off the spade of a shovel, and Michael instinctively took a step back.
White noise roared in his ears. The guy was going to come after him with the shovel, and with a jolt of raw clarity, Michael knew it could kill him. He went cold to the soles of his shoes, frozen in place. Then Scooter planted herself between Michael and the man, barking furiously, as if she could somehow protect him. He sensed the attention shift to the little dog, and Michael’s fear went instantly from himself to her.
Michael was finally able to move. He scooped Scooter up in his arms and dashed for the open front door. He moved faster than he ever had in his life, pounding up the stairs and across the porch. Heavy footfalls, shaking the porch boards, followed close, and Michael hit the door just ahead of the man behind him. He rushed through and tried to push it closed, but a heavy, gloved hand slammed into the wood, preventing it. There was a suspended moment of horror as Michael and the man locked eyes. Nearly black pupils were revealed by the holes in his mask, a small liver-colored mark on his right eyelid. A burst of adrenaline surged through Michael, and he used his weight, such as it was, to push the thick door closed. Once it was shut, he threw the dead bolt.
Breathing hard, eyes stinging with tears, he cradled Scooter in his arms while she continued to bark, her whole little body trembling. Michael backed away from the door as heavy blows rattled it in its frame.
He couldn’t believe what was happening, even as his heart beat so hard the reverberations rattled his chest and went all the way into his throat. He remembered David telling him Trevor had worn a ski mask, but those hadn’t been Trevor’s eyes locked with his. He’d never seen anything as devoid of humanity, as full of loathing. The pounding stopped for a moment and Michael went still, waiting. Then a huge bang made him duck, shielding
his face in Scooter’s fur and turning her away from the noise. When he peered up, the man was glaring at him through the large living room window.
Michael backed into the dining room, slipped around the corner, and pressed his back to the wall as the pounding on the front door began again. He leaned against the wall and slid slowly to the floor, clutching Scooter to his chest. Every time the front door rattled, her barking intensified. She was doing her job, trying to protect her home, but he was afraid to let her go.
“Shush, baby, shush,” he muttered against her head, but she just barked and barked, and Michael shuddered, feeling trapped and terrified and very alone. Then something in his hip pocket vibrated, and he hauled in a grateful gasp. Oh God, his phone.
He held on to Scooter with one hand as he yanked the phone free of the tight denim with the other. When he saw who was calling, more tears filled his eyes. He pushed the button with his hand, but it was shaking so hard he wasn’t sure at first he’d connected.
“Gil?” he gasped.
“Hey, handsome.” Gil’s voice was in his ear and Michael felt his composure begin to fragment. “Jesus, what’s wrong with the dog?”
“Gil. Oh God, Gil. I heard something outside and thought it was raccoons trying to get into the trash cans, but it wasn’t raccoons. There was a guy out there, and he was spray-painting something on the garage doors. I asked him what the hell he thought he was doing, and he picked up a shovel and he chased me onto the porch, and I almost couldn’t get the door closed and locked, but I finally did. Now he’s pounding on the door!” He was babbling so fast he didn’t know if Gil even understood him, but he couldn’t help it. The man, that man who wanted to hurt him, was still trying to get in the house.
As if to prove his point, it sounded as if the vandal outside threw his body at the front door, and Michael heard Gil inhale sharply.
“Michael, listen to me, baby. Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Hang up the phone and call 911. Do it now. Yell that you’re calling the cops. You hear me, Michael?”
“Yes, I hear you.”
“Good. Do it now. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
Gil hung up, and Michael followed his instructions. With wildly shaking hands, still gripping Scooter to his chest, he managed to dial 911.
“I’m calling the police,” he yelled as loudly as he could, as near hysterical as he’d ever been in his life. “You’d better get the hell out of here. I’m dialing 911, and then this place is going to be crawling with cops!”
“911, what is your emergency?” a pleasant woman’s voice asked.
Michael hauled in a shuddering breath. “I’m house-sitting for a friend, and someone is trying to break in.”
“Right now?”
“Yes, he’s trying to get in. Please send someone quickly. Please.”
“Give me the address, sir.”
Michael rattled off the address, cradling Scooter the whole time. She’d stopped barking, and Michael could only hope his threats had scared the bastard away. The dog tucked her head beneath his chin, shuddering against his chest, her sides heaving. He ran his hand over her fur, petting her, soothing her. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmured as he heard the woman on the phone giving the address out over the police radio. “You did good.”
“Sir, what’s your name?”
“Michael. Michael Crane.”
“And it’s not your home?”
“No. I’m house-sitting for a friend.”
“Are you in immediate danger?”
Michael leaned around the edge of the wall, looking toward the front door. The house now seemed almost ominously silent.
“I don’t know. I yelled at him I was calling 911. I don’t hear him now. It might have scared him off.”
“I’ll stay on the phone with you until the officers arrive.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Of course.”
A loud crash came from outside, and Michael’s car alarm went off. He grimaced. “Shit, I think he just hit my car.”
“Hit it with another vehicle?” she asked, sounding completely calm.
“I don’t know. Maybe he hit it with the shovel. The alarm is blaring.”
“Shovel?”
“He threatened me with a shovel before I was able to lock him outside.”
“Oh dear. Well, I can hear your alarm. Go ahead and just let it sound off. It might work to frighten him away.”
Scooter began to whimper softly, and Michael tightened his hold around her. “It’s okay, baby.”
“Is the animal with you injured?”
“No, I think she’s just scared. Shit, I’m scared.”
He heard a soft chuckle come through the phone. “Well, you’re doing very well.”
“I think it’s a win that I didn’t piss my pants, pardon my language.”
“I think I’d be trying out some Depends myself, given the situation.”
Michael relaxed enough to chuckle weakly.
He heard vehicles jerking to an abrupt halt out front, and he leaned around the wall to look. Red and blue lights cast shadows on the walls.
“The police are here.”
“Just stay with me until they knock, okay?”
“Okay.”
It only took a few moments for them to reach the door.
“They’re here.” Michael pushed to his feet, still holding Scooter in his arms. She was starting to get heavy, but he couldn’t seem to convince his arms to put her down.
“Can you see the officers through a peephole?”
A uniformed officer looked in through the large window, raising his hand. “I can see one through the window.”
“Do you feel safe now?”
Michael could see at least one more uniformed officer standing on the porch, studying him as he approached. “I’m okay now. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Michael. You did good too.”
He wasn’t so sure about that, but it was nice of her to say so. He shoved the phone back into his pocket, then juggled Scooter as he unlocked and opened the front door.
“Sir, you called about a prowler?”
Michael nodded, suddenly weak-kneed with relief. He leaned, shaking, against the doorframe.
“Are you all right, sir?”
Michael looked up at him. Tall and square-jawed, the officer studied him with keen blue eyes. His nameplate read Slater.
“I don’t know,” Michael answered honestly.
“Do you need to sit down?”
“Might be a good idea.”
When Slater went to take Michael’s arm, his hand covered in a black leather glove, Scooter snarled at him.
“Oh no, girl, no.” Michael tried to gentle her with a stroke down her spine. “He’s a good guy.”
“Well, thank you for that.” Slater gave him a wry smile. The officer behind him stepped forward. He was shorter, with a friendly expression. His name was Preston.
“Can I take her?” he asked.
“She’s scared. I’m afraid she might bite you.”
“Naw, I’m good with dogs.” Preston stepped around his fellow officer, reaching out. “Easy, girl. Aren’t you a pretty little thing? I love corgis.”
Michael was surprised when Scooter let the police officer take her.
“Can I put her in the other room?”
“Um, yeah. Just through there.” He pointed to the hall door. As Officer Preston walked across the room with Scooter, Michael turned back to the imposing man in front of him.
“Are you injured?” Slater asked.
“No. Just rattled.”
“I think you should sit down anyway.”
“Okay.”
Michael crossed to the sofa and sat, rubbing at his forehead with trembling fingers. His body felt like one large raw nerve.
Two more officers came to the open door, and Slater turned.
“There’s vandalism,” one of them said. “Spray paint on the garage door and a sh
ovel through a windshield, but no suspect.”
Michael thought of the last crash he’d heard, the one that had triggered the alarm. He groaned. Shit. His car.
“Do you have keys to the Subaru handy, sir?” Slater asked. “It would be good if we could cut that alarm. We’ve already got neighbors sticking their heads out, and your assailant is lurking somewhere.”
“Oh, right.” Michael dug his keys out of his pocket and handed them over. Moments after the other officer disappeared, the alarm abruptly cut off.
The remaining policeman touched Slater’s shoulder. “I think we need to call Mitchell in hate crimes.”
“Secure the scene first, then call it in.”
The man nodded and left the house. Preston came back after closing Scooter in the hallway. She whined pitifully, and Michael looked over his shoulder at the door.
“She’s okay,” Preston assured him.
Michael pushed his glasses up on his nose. His hands were still shaking.
A raised voice came from out front and his head lifted, his heart urging him to his feet. Without pausing to think, he moved across the room.
“Sir?” Slater said. “Sir, we need your statement.”
“I’ll be right back,” Michael muttered. He left the house, then ran across the porch and down the steps, searching the faces gathered at a line of yellow tape that had been strung from tree to tree.
“Michael!”
Michael heard the shout, and turned in time to see a large, shadowy figure lift the tape and straighten on the other side. Before Gil could approach, an officer was there, one hand outstretched and the other on his gun.
“Stop right there.”
Michael’s heart stuttered and his gut clenched. “No!” he shouted, approaching. “He’s here for me. He’s with me! Please.” The officer looked at him. “Please!”
There was a weighted silence.
“Let him through.”
Michael looked over his shoulder to see Slater standing on the porch.
“Michael.” Michael turned back and Gil was there, an arm’s length away, his voice rough as he reached out.
The next thing he knew he was in Gil’s arms, pressing his face into the massive chest, clutching the wall of muscle. Gil surrounded him, holding him, his chin on the top of his head. The scent of him, the feel of him, provided Michael the ability to take his first full breath since he’d seen the prowler. Gil’s warmth went into Michael’s muscles and tendons and his knees gave up the ghost. Gil caught him before he could collapse.
Michael, Reinvented Page 7
