FOLLOW THE LEADER - Chapter 54

 Chapter 54



Terry took out his set of picks and worked on the spring bolt lock on the back door. Francis had told him to get in and get out as fast as he could, but rushing was anathema to “second story men.”

A minute later he opened the door and stepped into a utility room.

Reggie began to bark at him from somewhere upstairs. 

Immediately Terry fished out a bit of dog biscuit and knelt.

Reggie skidded around the corner, his tiny paws sliding on the linoleum floor.

“Hey, Reggie,” he said, his voice soft. He held out the treat, but Reggie kept barking. He tossed the tidbit gently, underhanded. He knew the dog had smelled it immediately and recognized the scent. Another nice man with the same treat! But he had to keep barking. 

“It’s okay, boy,” Terry whispered.

A soft growl, then one last yip as Reggie snatched the treat and gobbled it up.

“I’m going upstairs now,” said Terry. Still in his quiet voice, but moving very slowly. He dropped another tidbit off to the side so he could get by the dog. Reggie went for it and ignored him and Terry left the room.

He had to smile as he climbed the stairs. Here he was again, breaking into a house. But this time he was not doing it for drug money. It was his job. Francis had never asked him to burglarize a residence.  He assigned him. But there had been a prior verbal agreement:  If Terry were to get caught, Francis would do his best to spring him. He would ask his brother to seek legal help. Since he and Francis were pursuing a monster like Jason Powers, there was a good chance that Colin would help him. But the darker side of his pact with Francis was this: He must not in any way implicate him in a felony crime or misdemeanor. That would send Francis back to prison in a heartbeat.

He reached the landing without incident and immediately started opening and closing doors until he found the one that was locked.

A deadbolt.

A spring lock sat a few inches below it. 

Terry got to work on the spring lock.  It was newer. No rust. The spring-loaded pins that kept the cylinder from turning should be in excellent shape.

This will be slower than the back door’s, he thought.

That morning Francis had dragged him out of bed to tell him that Dorothy Latham and her caregiver had left the house with shopping bags and driven away in the caregiver’s car.

Francis had all but shoved him out the door and whisked him away in his old Honda.

He had parked his car across the street from the Latham house.

“You hear two honks in quick secessions, get the hell out.”

That was thirty minutes ago.

When would they be coming back? 

Click. Click. The bottom lock was open.

On to the dead bolt lock. 

This one would not yield easily. He took out a different pick and a tiny tension wrench, with its ninety-degree turn.  It was a delicate process. The time it took would depend on how steady his hands were that morning. He was thankful now that he had not drunk his usual two cups of coffee.

Five minutes later the deadbolt clicked. He opened the door.


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