He fell silent and waited for any other sound. The ones that followed—two consecutive creaking noises—got him moving. After years of living in this house, he knew that two stairs going from the first to the second floor were notorious for their loud groans. He and Irina had learned to step on the outer edges of those stairs to avoid them. But a stranger to the home would have no idea. And that was clearly what he was dealing with.
He turned off the closet light, hurried across the master bedroom, and flicked off the switch for that light too. Then he peeked out in the hall and, seeing no one, prepared to dash into the guest bedroom across the way. But just before he did, an idea sprang into his head. He turned the bedroom light back on and left the door half open, then moved across the hall to the guest room.
About ten seconds later he heard another familiar groan, which indicated that his unwelcome visitor had reached the top of the third floor stairs, where he was. He was positive the person wasn’t Irina, who, after years of living here, managed to avoid every creaky spot instinctively.
He heard the soft footsteps of someone who was clearly trying to tiptoe on the carpeted floor. The sound he expected—the squeak as the master bedroom door was pushed open— should be coming soon. Then he’d have to make his choice. Would he hurry along the hall to the stairs and try to escape the house before others, likely an army of police, arrived? Or would he go the other way, toward the intruder?
Just then, the master bedroom door’s hinges howled in protest as the door was opened. Pierce opened his own door. Without even thinking about it, he made his choice.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Jessie and Ryan were already in his car and halfway to the Cunningham residence when the call came in.
They’d considered going on foot, but the house was at the southern end of the Strand, almost half a mile away from the station. Besides, their bullet-proof vests were in the car. They were tearing down Manhattan Avenue, just crossing over 9th Street, when Carrie Shaw’s radio call came in.
Jessie looked over at Ryan and could tell that they were thinking the same thing. Part of her wanted to warn Shaw to hold off on entering alone. But if someone was screaming in distress in the home, every second might be the difference between saving a life and losing one.
Ryan pulled the car over at the corner of Ocean Drive and 3rd Place, the closest that vehicles could get to the Strand on that block, where they both hopped out. Jessie ignored the sting in her back as she pushed herself out of the seat. They strapped on their vests as they ran to the address.
“Should we try to enter through the window she mentioned?” Jessie asked.
“No time to look for it,” Ryan said. “We just have to get in there.”
They arrived at a side door and he kicked it, hoping it would fly open. It didn’t budge.
“Backup plan,” Ryan said, pulling out his gun and taking aim at the knob.
He fired, sending a deafening echo throughout the quiet neighborhood. Then he kicked again. This time the door offered no resistance. He led the way in, gun in one hand, flashlight in the other. Jessie followed close behind, assuming the same posture.
“Shaw said the light was on the third floor,” Jessie reminded Ryan, even as he made his way to the stairs.
They moved up quickly, trying to stay quiet enough to pick up the sound of voices or a physical struggle. To Jessie’s dismay, they heard nothing. Occasionally they stepped on a creaky step and hoped it wasn’t audible upstairs. When they got to the third floor, they inadvertently made even more noise when they reached the top of the landing. Their weight made the floor below them groan softly. They looked down both ends of the hallway but didn’t find any lights on.
“You want to go left?” Ryan whispered. “I’ll check out the rooms on the right.”
Jessie nodded and began moving down the hall. The fact that Officer Shaw was nowhere to be seen or heard was deeply unsettling. She tried to force that concern from her head and just focus on the path in front of her.
She flashed her light into the first bedroom she came to but saw nothing out of order. She was just approaching a second open door when she heard what she thought was a grunt from the last darkened room at the end of the hall. She turned back to alert Ryan by waving her flashlight. But his head was turned away as he stepped into a bedroom, disappearing from sight.
She thought of going after him but a second grunt told her there wasn’t time. Instead, she moved toward the sound as quietly as she could. When she reached the open door, she took a deep breath and slid into the room, shining her flashlight.
Lying on the ground, conscious but clearly in bad shape, was a young woman in a police uniform who Jessie assumed was Officer Shaw. Jessie moved the light around the room, looking for anyone else, but found no one. She moved deliberately over to Shaw, who was looking up at her and seemed to be saying something in a raspy, nearly unintelligible voice.
“Bind doe.”
Jessie kept moving, even as she tried to process the woman’s words. She was almost to her when she figured it out.
Bind doe. Behind door.
She spun around just as the shadow of someone appeared on the wall, swinging something downward toward her. Jessie managed to get her arms up over her head, blocking the worst of the blow as what appeared to be a golf club came crashing down.
Unfortunately, the club did manage to come down forcefully on her right forearm, knocking the gun from her hand. The figure swung at her again. This time she jumped back, avoiding it. But she didn’t avoid Officer Shaw, who was right behind her. Stumbling over her, she fell backward onto the floor.
Jessie scrambled to her feet, anticipating another swing of the club. In the distance, she heard Ryan calling out to her. The man, who she could now more clearly identify as Pierce Cunningham, paused on his upswing and dashed over to the bedroom door, which he locked. Then he turned back around, an expression of twisted rage on his face.
“End of the hall!” Jessie shouted as loud as she could. Her words seemed to jumpstart Cunningham, who ran toward her.
She didn’t hesitate, stepping over Officer Shaw and rushing to meet him. He was just raising the club again when she lifted her small flashlight and shined it in his face. It had at least part of the desired effect as he squinted and turned his head away. But he didn’t stop moving. Before Jessie could dodge him, they collided hard.
Cunningham was shorter than Jessie but had at least fifty pounds on her and she got the worst of the impact. They both toppled over, Jessie backward again, this time with Cunningham on top of her. Shaw was somewhere in the mix as well.
A searing pain cut through Jessie as her raw back landed heavily on the hardwood floor. Through her watery eyes, she saw that Cunningham had apparently lost the golf club in the fall. But that didn’t stop him from wrapping his hands around her throat and squeezing.
At first she was so stunned, she didn’t even process the fact that she couldn’t breathe. But a half-second later, the reality of the situation kicked in. Without making the conscious choice, she swung the small flashlight, still in her left hand, upward.
It connected with Cunningham’s right temple but didn’t seem to do much damage. Her left hand was her non-dominant one and weaker than her right. Still she swung again. This time Cunningham was ready and blocked the blow with his raised right elbow. The light flew out of her hand into the corner of the room.