Rick Mofina - Whirlwind

Looks like it might’ve been a pretty place once, she thought.

Gravel crunched under Kate’s tires as she rolled up to the house. The carport contained a vehicle that appeared to be a pickup truck backed into the spot. A blanket covered the cab and grill so she couldn’t see the plate. Beside it, outside the carport, was another vehicle that seemed to be wrapped with a tarpaulin.

Kate switched off her engine, stared at the house and wrestled with second thoughts about enquiring. She saw no need to alert police because they’d already ignored Hazel. Besides, Kate was unsure what she had here. In her years as a reporter she’d knocked on more doors than she could count. She trusted in her experience and instinct. She’d simply say she was looking for Hazel Hill and would ask if this was the right address while absorbing any details or vibe she could in the moment she might have.

All right, Page, let’s do this .

Kate steeled herself and walked to the door.

The yard was uncared for, the shrubs had run wild, a couple of rusted wheel rims rested against the house beside several deteriorating cardboard boxes overflowing with beer cans and take-out food containers.

The flags of indifference by the people who lived here.

Before knocking, Kate strained to see, hear, or feel any movement. Breezes hissed through the treetops, birds sang, and way off in the distance she heard a dog. She raised her hand, knocked once on the worn wooden door and was ready to knock again when it cracked open slightly with a creaking sound that invited, or dared, her to enter.

“Hello!” Kate called into the house.

Several moments passed in silence before Kate held the door and knocked hard and loud.

“Hello? Is anybody home?”

No response.

What now? Kate thought.

She glanced to the street. No one was around. She glanced at Hazel’s house, then to the empty lot next door before deciding to stick her head inside the house and call again while knocking.

“Hello! Anybody home?”

No response.

There’s nobody here.

She decided to enter. She’d check the place out. Maybe someone’s hurt, she reasoned for her trespass. Her objective was to look for signs of life and leave. The door squeaked as she opened it wider to a small foyer that flowed into a living room. The air was stale and stank of sweat and cigarettes. Aside from the worn duct-taped sofa and big TV, the decor was contemporary I-don’t-give-a-damn.

“Hello! Is anybody home?”

The quiet was eerie, as if the place were holding its breath.

Every step she took was amplified in the stillness.

Kate turned to enter the hall that appeared to lead to the kitchen but stopped. A towel was on the floor, a white one that appeared to be stained.

As she lowered herself to look at it she froze.

Oh, my God!

The letters were frayed, but the embroidery said Tumbleweed Dreams Motel.

The baby was here!

Kate’s heart was pounding.

Using her phone she took a picture then gasped. Ahead, on the floor, she saw running shoes, then a pair of jean-clad legs that became blocked at thigh level by the door frame.

Someone’s on the floor .

“Hello!”

Who splattered all this paint?

That was Kate’s first thought upon rushing to find a man facedown on his stomach, before realizing that the paint was blood and it was oozing from his head.

“God.” She touched his back, then his neck. He was still warm but she felt no pulse. Blood had webbed everywhere. The kitchen floor was littered with garbage, a broken chair, dishes, utensils and huge pieces of used duct tape in the aftermath of a struggle.

“Pleeezzzhelpmee!”

Beyond the kitchen, in the hallway leading to the rear door, Kate found a second man sitting on the floor with his back against the wall and his chest drenched in blood.

Kate called 911 for an ambulance, frantically explaining, repeatedly telling the dispatcher all she knew.

“I think there’s been a shooting, two male victims! The white house next door to 164 Briscoe Street!”

Kate went to the sitting man. “I’ve called an ambulance. Can you hear me? What’s your name?”

“Helpmmee!”

“The ambulance and police are coming. Where’s the baby… Who’s got the baby?”

“Masssoo. Gone to Assfnton-Ficksson farmanchch…”

Straining to understand, Kate got closer to him. “Say it again. Where’s the baby?”

“DOA’s or Assnnfton. Rrraanch. Pleeasehelppmmee- hurtsssbaaadd.”

Kate repeatedly asked the wounded man about Caleb Cooper for more than a full minute. As he continued his struggle to give her information, Kate reached into her pocket, found her pen and someone’s business card. She used the back to scrawl every syllable of his response before his voice weakened, his eyes fluttered and he lost consciousness.

She caught her breath upon hearing a noise nearby.

A baby’s stifled cry?

It came from another room.

She shoved the card into her pocket, and before she turned, the floor creaked, and Kate’s head was swallowed by a blanket as everything went black.

Fate, Texas

A rented blue Chevy sedan eased by the Faulk house unnoticed and parked a few doors away on Briscoe Street.

Pavel Gromov killed the motor.

Before taking any action, he studied the property through powerful binoculars. A small car was parked out front. The carport was empty. Next to it, Gromov saw a large tarp covering a vehicle.

There was no activity. All was quiet.

“I have a bad feeling about this place,” Yanna Petrova said after glancing around the neighborhood. Yanna was still contending with her situation with Gromov, which was becoming more surreal at every turn. Through his near-psychopathic actions he’d become a perversion of Virgil, taking her through the realms of hell. And as their circumstances grew more desperate, she feared she’d be implicated in his crimes and never return to Moscow or see her family again. “I have a very bad feeling about this place, Pavel.”

Gromov was silent.

Yanna had Lamont Faulk’s computer on her lap and continued searching it, relieved to be wearing latex gloves. Not only because they protected her fingerprints but because the laptop’s content was revolting. Faulk was beyond depraved. Still, Gromov had demanded she keep extracting information from it and make notes, because they were running out of time.

After Gromov’s beating of Lamont Faulk in his garage, they’d returned to their hotel where, at Gromov’s insistence, Yanna had mined Faulk’s computer into the night, finding addresses for the house in Fate, for Garza and DOA.

When they’d set out the following morning, they’d discovered the battery in their rented sedan had died. Service took several hours. They’d gone less than three miles when the repaired car broke down on a freeway, causing a number of problems. By the time Gromov could have the car towed, get through to the rental agency and be provided with another vehicle, a green Ford sedan, they’d lost the day.

Throughout it all, Gromov remained deceivingly calm.

For now, watching him examine the property, Yanna saw the veins in his neck and forearms pulsating, betraying the heart of a man who was seething under the surface.

“I believe my grandson is inside that house, Yanna.”

“What is it that convinces you? Did you see a baby inside?”

At that moment, emergency sirens shattered the tranquility as an ambulance, then a marked police car, sped to the house, followed by a second ambulance and two more police units.

“What’s going on?” Yanna asked.