A thump came from downstairs in the direction of the kitchen. The direction it had gone.
Quinn hurried to the stairs and clambered down them, holding the unlit flashlight like a knife. He stopped at the base of the stairway and peered around the entry to the kitchen with one eye. The window over the sink was dark, nothing moving outside its glass. He took two steps to the middle of the living room and the same sound as before came from the rear of the house. Shhhhhhhhhhhhik.
The image of the pistol came to him again and he turned, following the sound. It stopped as lightning flashed, immediately overlaid with a concussive blast of thunder so close it vibrated against his skin. In the brief flare, he spotted the heavy gun safe in the corner of the living room and crept toward it. Foster hunted deer every year, always taking a full two weeks off to stay at his cabin in Pennsylvania. But his guns he kept close to home.
Quinn found the safe’s handle in the dark and turned it, letting out a sigh as the door clunked open. He triggered the light and swept it around the inside of the steel box.
It was empty.
Of course Foster would have taken all his weapons with him. Why had he thought otherwise? Quinn moved back to the front door and looked out into the storm. Rain fell in sheets across the yard, obscuring the road that led to the main drive. The trees swayed and sawed at the sky, their branches bony, reaching hands. A thump came from the rear of the house and he grasped the knob, his muscles trembling like those of a racehorse moments before the horn. With a lunge, he heaved the door open and sped into the rain, its touch cold and instantly soaking through his t-shirt.
He left the door standing open and tore across the yard, not looking back, only running. The rain was a solid curtain that draped the driveway from view, but he ran in its general direction, his hand gripping the flashlight that he left off. The wind sang in his ears, his breath a jagged rhythm. The driveway materialized and his feet splashed through a puddle, the water icy through his pants leg.
A tree snapped behind him.
It wasn’t the creaking break of the storm doing its work on a branch. Something was following him.
He ran harder, pushing himself down the lane, rain filtering into his mouth. Quinn swiped at his eyes, trying to clear them. He gasped, sucking down more rainwater as he pelted on. He was drowning on land.
The lane widened and he almost launched himself across the main drive but managed to make the corner and keep going without breaking his stride. There was another crack somewhere behind him, but it was lost in a rattle of thunder as more lightning flared above the trees, giving him a brief view of the open drive ahead. The gun, he had to get the gun. Get in the house and get the gun. The words became a mantra in time with his steps. The air whistled past him and his feet splashed as he ran, arms pumping at his sides. The road curved, and he leaned into it, running faster than he ever had before.
Lightning flickered, illuminating the massive face of his home through the veils of falling water and a bright burst of warmth surged within him. He was almost there, another hundred yards and he would be inside. The wind shoved the trees into a fury, their tops bowing and snapping back as if trying to uproot themselves and chase after him. His feet hit the soft grass as he sped around the end of the house, and as he tried to make the last turn, his sodden shoes slipped and the world tipped to the side. Quinn fell hard on his shoulder, sliding on the soaking lawn. The air flew from his chest, pumped from his lungs by the impact. He rolled to his stomach and began to push himself up as he looked back the way he’d come.