4:47 AM - December 25
632 Evergreen Lane
Hulis Township – Northern Missouri
Sheriff Carmichael was correct. His wife did make a good egg salad sandwich. Unfortunately, it was still sitting heavy on Constance's stomach even though she had broken down and eaten almost five hours ago. It wasn't the sandwich's fault, of course. All of the blame had to fall squarely on her anxiety. The lack of sleep certainly wasn't helping either.
She was sitting in the dark, perched on a kitchen counter just as she had been for several hours now. Too long, but she didn't really have any choice.
From this vantage point she could see the back door, the hallway, and the door that opened onto the stairs that led to the basement. The front door was out of her line of sight, but if the killer was bold enough to enter from that direction, he would still need to pass through the hallway to get downstairs.
Sheriff Carmichael and two of his deputies were positioned outside where they could see not only the door entrances but windows as well. They had been checking in on the hour, as planned. Constance had the volume on her radio tweaked to just barely above a whisper, but that shouldn't present an issue. It was so quiet in the house she could hear her own heart beating in her chest, so she doubted she would miss a call.
She slowly rolled her arm, pushed up her coat sleeve with her other hand, then cupped it around her watch and pressed on the side. The illuminated dial glowed back at her, and she watched the digits click from 4:47 to 4:48.
That was when she heard the whimper.
She wasn't certain at first. It had been a single thin peep, barely perceptible, but it sounded as if it was coming from somewhere inside the house. She held her breath and even tried willing her heart to pause so that no other noise could interfere; then she cocked her head and waited.
Nothing.
Still, she waited, listening intently.
When she could no longer hold her breath, she let it out in a slow, quiet stream, then shifted as carefully as she could. Her right butt cheek was starting to go numb from the cold, or maybe from the lack of movement. In truth, probably both.
“You're imagining things...” She thought to herself. “You're sleep deprived... You...”
The rest of the thought was unceremoniously truncated by an obvious male-voiced yelp coming from the basement.
The adrenalin dump was instantaneous. Constance launched herself from the counter, her feet thudding hard against the floor. Stealth had now ceased to be important. Her right hand went to her Sig, fingers fluidly catching the quick release on her belt rig as she filled her hand with the weapon and brought it up. Keying the radio with her free hand, she yelled, “Backup! Backup! There's someone in the house!”
She didn't wait for a reply. She dropped the radio and was already in motion while pulling a small flashlight from her coat pocket. With a flick of her thumb it was on. Although her eyes were already adjusted to the dark, the powerful blue-white LED beam was welcome.
Holding it in her fist, she brought her left forearm up in front of her chest, projecting the swath of light outward as she rested her right wrist atop the other in a stable firing position. Advancing out of the kitchen she paused, checking the front door, fully expecting Sheriff Carmichael or one of his deputies to come bursting through.
No one did. Not from the front, nor from the back.
“Dammit!” she muttered. Maybe in her haste she hadn't fully keyed up the radio, but there was no time to turn around for it and call them again. A weaker, but still audible, gurgling half-scream came up from the floorboards beneath her feet, and it was followed by a sickening, wet thump.
She was wearing her vest, so she prayed that if a deputy or the sheriff came through the door unexpectedly and fired without warning, they'd stick to their training and go for center mass, or preferably miss her entirely.
Taking the chance, she advanced quickly. In a half-dozen long steps, she moved down the hallway toward the basement door, crossed in front of it, then turned and reached for the doorknob with her left hand while keeping her firearm poised in firing position. Grasping it with her fingers while still holding the flashlight, she twisted.
It didn't budge.
She rapidly stuffed the still-illuminated flashlight into her pocket, wrapped her hand tightly back around the doorknob, and tried again to twist it in either direction. It remained frozen and unyielding.
Beyond the door she could hear the dull echoes of the sickly thump continuing at random intervals. To her, it sounded like the last time she had been at the butcher shop, and they had been cutting meat on a block behind the counter.
The screams, however, were now gone.
She shouldered the door, managing to do little more than send a sharp pain running down her arm and across her back. Rocking back with everything she could muster, she tried to pull at the door, but it remained steadfastly in place.
In a last ditch effort, she backed up and brought her sidearm to bear on the jamb where the handset met the frame. Just as she was about to squeeze the trigger, she heard a small shuffle then a quiet thump.
The sounds repeated in tandem.
Then they came again, audibly closer with each repetition.
Constance glanced quickly over her shoulder and took a step back into an empty doorway that was opposite and slightly to the right of the basement door itself. Whenever it finally opened, whoever was coming up the stairs would be directly in her line of fire.
The soft shuffle continued, followed by the light thump, and was occasionally joined by the barest of a creak from the wooden stairs. Each time, the noise sounded closer, until finally it came to a halt on the opposite side of the basement door. She watched as the doorknob began to slowly turn.
“FEDERAL AGENT!” She called out, her voice loud but still hoarse and rough. “STEP OUT SLOWLY WITH YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD! NOW!”
Constance kept her focus straight ahead, both eyes targeting down the barrel of the Sig Sauer as she held it stiff armed before herself and waited. The latch released with a languid pop, and the door itself slowly parted from the jamb.
“STEP OUT SLOWLY WITH YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD!” Constance repeated the instruction.
With a long, low creak, the door pivoted open on the hinges. She sucked in a breath and held it, visualizing in her mind the stairwell as it had been when she and the sheriff had visited the house before. Leveling her arms, she targeted at a point where she estimated an average-sized man's chest would be as he came up and through.
Her aim was far too high.
As the door swung open, she found herself staring at a freckle-faced ten-year-old girl. Her mop of chestnut hair was tangled and matted. What she could see of her bare skin in the darkness was splattered with blood, open wounds, and festering burns. She was clad in the ripped shreds of a plaid school uniform.
Constance stared in disbelief as she slowly lowered her weapon.
“Merrie?” she whispered.
The little girl stared back at her, glassy-eyed. After a moment, she simply said, “I lost one of my shoes.”
Constance looked down and noticed that her left foot was securely buckled into a patent-leather Mary Jane, but the right was bare.
She blinked hard then looked into the little girl's face and whispered once again. “Merrie Callahan?”
The girl turned without another word and shuffled slowly through the house. Mandalay stood dumbfounded for a moment as the shock of what she was seeing seeped in.
Holstering her sidearm she followed after the girl. By now, she had opened the front door and was trudging zombie-like through the snow.
“Merrie!” Constance called to her again, increasing her stride to catch up. As she came upon the girl, she reached out toward her shoulder.
A familiar voice called out, “NO!”
Before she made contact, an arm roughly hooked about her waist, and her balance instantly disappeared. She tumbled to the side with a sharp yelp, falling to
the ground on top of whoever had grabbed her. Instinctively she rolled away and drew her arm back to her weapon.
“IT'S SKIP! IT'S SKIP!” the sheriff's voice rang in her ears as she came up with the pistol in hand.
“DAMMIT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” she shouted, taking square aim at him.
“Put it away!” he shouted back at her while pulling himself to his feet.
“What's going on here?” Constance demanded. She threw a quick glance over her shoulder at the little girl who was slowly but steadily increasing the distance between herself and them. Then she turned back to the sheriff, keeping her sidearm trained on him.
“DROP YOUR WEAPON!” a voice came from her right. “NOW, Special Agent Mandalay.”
Constance slowly turned to see Deputy Broderick with his own weapon trained on her. Apparently, the fact that she was wearing a vest hadn't escaped him as the muzzle of his pistol was pointed at her head.
“You aren't going to shoot a federal agent,” she said, fully cognizant of the fact that the comment sounded like something from a bad movie. But then, so had the past three days.
“Yes, sugar,” Sheriff Carmichael grunted as he carefully brushed the snow from his jacket. “He will if he has to. Just hand over your weapon and we can get on with this.”
“I don't think so,” she barked.
“Dammit, Constance,” he grumbled. “You can have it back in a few minutes. I just need to show you something.”
“That little girl...” she started.
“I know,” he interrupted her. “That's what I need to show you. Now if you aren't gonna hand that thing over, at least holster it, okay?”
Constance glanced between Sheriff Carmichael and Deputy Broderick. She was in a stalemate, but she wasn't about to relinquish her weapon. At least he'd offered the second option. She mulled it over, then slowly and carefully held her arms out and slipped the pistol back into her belt rig.
“That's better,” the sheriff grunted, then started ambling across the yard toward the street. As he passed her he said, “Come on. My car is just around the corner.”