Lineage(59)

The downstairs looked darker than it had the night before, and without the light of the moon, harmless everyday objects became attackers. Lance crossed the living area and went out into the entry, fearlessly flipping on lights as he went. His rage boiled and frothed within him as he stalked from room to room, now looking for someone to unleash his pent-up wrath upon.

Once again, the doors and windows were locked and not a soul could be found. Lance stood sweating and panting in the middle of the living room. His eyes scanned the walls, as if they would suddenly reveal a clue as to what was happening in the house.

The fat ring of keys lying on the shelf near the entry caught his attention. His head turned in the direction of the black door and stopped.

“If you’re hiding in there, you’d better come out now,” he yelled. “If I have to come in after you, it will not end well.” He wondered if his voice sounded steady, since he felt it waver, in spite of his seething anger. He waited, listening for movement from the room behind the door. He imagined it flying open and a downtrodden squatter exiting the hiding space like a child who’s been told the game is finally over.

The door remained closed. Nothing moved.

Lance walked to the shelf and snatched the keys from their resting place. He fumbled through them as he walked across the room, flipping the familiar ones aside, leaving three that were unknown to him.

He reached the door and jammed the first key into the keyhole. It stuck halfway in and wouldn’t budge any farther. Grunting with frustration, he retracted the key and pushed the next in line into the lock. The end was too large and wouldn’t even begin to slide into the opening. He held up the last key closer to his face and examined it in the dim light of the chandelier. It was old and ornate-looking, with a spiraled grip and teeth like an Appalachian senior citizen.

This is it, he thought, and felt his heart accelerate as he brought the key down and began to fit it below the iron doorknob. The key slid in seamlessly and stopped halfway, just as it should. He breathed in and out once, preparing himself for a fight, but his curiosity must have overridden his fear and anger, because as he twisted the key he only felt the snagging pull of anticipation.

The key refused to move.

He twisted harder, trying to keep a hold on the small grip within his sweat-slicked hand. Just like the handle above it, there was no give to the old-fashioned key, no matter how hard he turned it.

His irritation came rushing back, and without thinking, he stepped back and kicked out at the door, releasing his fury in one movement. He heard the flat smack of his foot meeting the cool surface of the door, but instead of the satisfying sensation of wood buckling and flying away from him, he felt himself hurtling backward.

He landed on his ass in the middle of the room, his kick having propelled him farther than he expected. He scrambled to his feet and stared at the door. It mocked him, the dark grain pattern curling into grins of smugness, the knots becoming eerily mirthful eyes.

Lance turned and looked at the horizon through the bay windows—the sky was graying in the east. The rational portion of his mind told him to call the authorities, let them in on the fact that one of their local fools was committing a felony. He could almost hear them now, asking if he could ID someone or if he could describe them. He could see himself struggling to make the invasion sound credible and the disbelief on their faces. Instead, he made his way up the stairs, pausing only to throw a look at the door as he passed. After he had dressed, he went back through the house turning off lights.

As he locked the door behind him and strode to the dark smudge of the Land Rover in the drive, he repeatedly flipped the keys over in his hand. The name of the man he was going to see reverberated in his head while he started the SUV and tore away from the watching house.



John Hanrahan’s home wasn’t hard to find. Lance recalled Carrie saying something about the caretaker living just a mile south on the right-hand side when he had gone to her office for the closing.

His headlights shone across a hand-painted silver mailbox, the dark letters of J. Hanrahan just visible beneath a layer of dirt and sun damage. The drive ran straight away from the highway and, after a quarter mile, opened up into a small clearing. A tidy-looking one-story house stood at the back of the yard. Its clapboard siding appeared to be dingy white, and in some places the paint had yielded to the elements by tearing loose and curling like dry blisters. A small one-stall garage sat at an angle off to the right. The windows of the house were dark, save one in what Lance assumed was the kitchen near the front door. He couldn’t see any figures moving in the dim light, but he felt sure that someone watched him arrive.