Dennis Larsen - With Cruel Intent

He lay in a ditch paralleling the main road, waited for a lone pickup truck to roar by before kneeling, then scampering across the road, in a low crouch. The black paint, now covered his face, and his dark clothing helped to hide his location even though there were dim lights from homes and streetlights not far off. The moon was in his favor, with only a sliver emitting light over the expanse before him. Alternating walking hunched over, and crawling, he found the orchard that the homes of the upper end sub division backed onto. The pecan trees rustled very gently in the wind as he moved from trunk to trunk, concealing himself and his movements, the best he could. The Stalker reached the back of the home he had in mind, recognized the area where he’d waited before, in his first attempt. No lights were visible, including the porch light. His watch read 11:45, still earlier than he’d like. Some of the houses down the row had numerous lights on casting beams and shadows into the yards and orchard. ‘Rob’ concluded to wait an hour before proceeding. He needed more of the neighbors to get shut down for the night to reduce his risk.

The minutes sluggishly ticked off, 60 seconds at a time, providing him an opportunity to contemplate his situation and what he must do. “Don’t get overconfident, don’t screw up,” he reminded himself. The job that lay before him had too much uncertainty; the first two had been a breeze; keys, single women, a set of instructions, but not this time. He had done some prep, but that was months ago, and there were variables he had no control over. Something felt wrong but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He expected no 'gimmies' here; only luck would provide an unlocked door or an empty house. His employers would be pissed, if he screwed up this early in the plot, and they were out of an experienced ‘night crawler’. A sudden flash of light from his right brought all of his senses to full alert. He slowly rotated his head in the direction of the random light. Three houses down, someone had turned on the back porch light, he waited, listening, squinting his eyes to make out any movement, and then as quickly as it was switched on it was extinguished.

“Must have put the dog out to crap,” he postulated. The watch on his wrist now read 12:39, there had been no lights or any change in the house in front of him. “It’s go time,” he whispered.

He crept to the fence, keeping a low profile, lifted the backpack over the fence and hung it from the top, dangling on the other side. Carefully and quietly, he overcame his first obstacle, pulled the backpack from the fence and moved to a black, shadowed area of the yard. He waited and listened; his best defense now would be his keen senses. Nothing. He moved to the back door. No screen, but a dead bolt. A decorative glass inset occupied the top one third of the door; he brought his eye as close as he could to the glass, finding a place where the inside could be viewed with the least amount of distortion. No movement, no lights, no people, so far so good. He sat for a moment on the raised cement landing, adjacent to the door, removed his newly altered Nike’s and opened a zippered compartment in his backpack that held the glass cutter.

Returning to the door, he began etching the glass in a small rectangle that would be big enough for his hand and arm to pass through. He ran the diamond bit over the same spot repeatedly, until he felt he was almost there, took a small suction cup from his pocket and applied it to the center of the rectangle. The pro continued to cut, holding the suction device with his left and etching the glass with his right. He suddenly felt the slightest degree of give with his left hand. He stopped cutting, and gently, very gently, moved the suction cup right and left, back and forth, seeing the tiny slivers of glass give way as the opening was created. Finally, the piece lifted out and he sat it aside on the concrete far enough away that he wouldn’t step on it if he were in a hurry to get out. He returned the cup and cutter to the backpack but did not immediately extend his hand into the freshly cut opening. He waited for any indication of sound or movement, just in case he’d been wrong about the alarm.

Relieved that nothing happened, he cautiously inserted his gloved hand through the small opening until his elbow was at the door, bent his hand down and quietly spun the dead bolt. Once done, he reached to the handle and unlocked it as well.

“Obstacle two breached,” he thought.

The thief was in. It appeared the only light on in the entire two-story structure was the small hood lamp over the stove. His entry from the back door had placed him in the kitchen, with a sunken media room to his right. He removed a small LED light from his pocket and turned it onto the lowest setting. Light filled the room, much more than he’d expected, and he wrapped his hand around the end of the small device to mute the display. He held it in this fashion as he moved throughout the lower level. There was nothing unusual, only living space, with no bedrooms. Before he ventured up the stairs, he returned to the pack sitting near the back door and removed the pepper spray and hunting blade, snapping the latter to his belt just in case.

Flicking the light on again, this time his hand already in place, he moved to the stairs. His new socks slid quietly on the tiled kitchen floor, the carpet on the stairs was plush and would mask any noise from his steps. He moved a stair at a time, waiting a few seconds between each step; this was painstaking work and required the utmost patience. Finally, he stood at the top of the staircase, a long hallway before him, with doors on either side, none of them were closed, but one. He crouched low, keeping the light from the LED showing the way, but just barely. The first room to his right was what his mother would have called a craft room, pieces of fabric covered tables, with a sewing machine and ironing board taking up space, nothing of interest to him there. He stepped to the other side of the hallway, another open door, a computer room with a large desk, leather chair and bookshelves lining the walls.

“Possibly worth a look,” he thought, but moved on.

Each room of the upper floor was investigated and evaluated for possible objects of value. Ultimately, he came to the room he was looking for, the last room at the end of the hallway. The door was shut and no light could be seen underneath. He held his ear close to the door for any telltale signs of breathing, snoring, sex or the like. ‘Rob’ was pleased to hear nothing, but this brought some degree of concern. Had he been lucky enough to hit a night when the owners were away, or were they expected home at any minute? A small degree of panic set in and he looked at his watch.

“Hold it together, stay cool, stay cool!” Ran through his mind.

He turned off the light and placed the small device in his pocket, took the pepper spray in his left hand and slowly turned the doorknob with his right. The sound of the latch moving against the metal of the jam made him stop and listen; he could hear nothing, so he forged on. A moment later the two disengaged and the door pivoted inward, an inch, then two, as he applied enough force to soundlessly open the door. Again, he paused, before entering the darkened space. Still nothing. Making him as thin as possible he moved through the opening. Ghostly shadows danced on the walls as large windows allowed moonlight into the bedroom, slipping through angular tree branches swaying easily in the wind. The bed appeared to be unoccupied and no other sign of life, with greater confidence; he took the light in hand and turned it on.

“Yes!” he said, making a fist and pumping it forward in a crouched position like he’d just scored the winning goal of the Stanley Cup Final. “Nobody here but us would be millionaires.”