Chris slipped his phone in his back pocket and pulled his gun from his shoulder holster, entering as quietly as possible. He found himself in a small living room and though the lights were off, he could see a dark figure lying motionless on the floor.
“Evan!” Chris rushed to the figure’s side, kneeling and holstering his weapon. But the figure wasn’t Evan. It was Courtney’s husband, Doug, lying on his back. Blood soaked his T-shirt and the rug around his body, filling the air with its characteristic metallic odor.
“Doug!” Chris palpated under Doug’s chin to feel for a pulse, but there wasn’t any. The man’s flesh felt cool, and his body remained still.
Chris began CPR, pressing down on Doug’s chest, but there was no hope. The vast darkening stain on the rug showed that Doug had sustained a catastrophic loss of blood.
Chris kept compressing Doug’s chest, but it practically caved in from the pressure. He could feel that Doug’s sternum had been shattered and his ribs splintered, so there must have been two or three gunshots. Blood squeezed between Chris’s fingers as he pressed down, and he glanced around to assess whether someone else was in the house, either dead or alive. He was taking a chance that he could be ambushed but he sensed he was alone and he had to give Doug every chance to survive.
“Come on, Doug,” Chris said, trying to massage the man’s heart back to life, but it wasn’t happening. He finally stopped the compressions, feeling as if he were abusing a corpse.
Chris rose, wiped his hands quickly on his jacket, reached for his weapon, and began his walk-through. Courtney could be lying dead somewhere in the house, and so could Evan. He crossed the living room to the kitchen and scanned the room, but it was empty, its red pinpoint lights from the dishwasher, coffeemaker, and microwave clock glowing like a suburban constellation.
Chris hustled back into the living room and spotted a stairwell at the far left, so he went to it and climbed upstairs, looking around. There was a bathroom at the head of the stair, but it was empty, then he advanced down the hallway, ducking into the first room on his left, a master bedroom. Moonlight spilled through its two windows, and he could see there was no one else in the bedroom, which looked in order, not showing signs of struggle or ransacking, as if from a burglary.
Chris ducked out of the first bedroom and went to the second, evidently a spare bedroom with a single bed in the corner, and there was no activity or disturbance in there either.
So far, so good, Chris thought, relieved to see that Evan wasn’t dead and neither was Courtney, at least not at this location. He left the bedroom, hurried back down the hall, and descended the stairwell. He spotted a side door, so he hurried inside, and down a set of stairs. He found himself in a finished basement with a bar, big-screen TV, and framed football jerseys on the wall. It was undisturbed, and there was no exit.
Chris ran upstairs and returned to the living room, where he saw Doug’s body, and he looked down at the fallen man with a stab of anguish. Now two men had been murdered, and there would be more lives lost if he didn’t succeed. He couldn’t bring himself to even think the word, fail. Suddenly he heard the sound of sirens a few blocks away. The local police were en route.
Chris walked to the front door and switched on the light switch with his elbow, illuminating the room to signal that he was inside. The locals must have reached the block because the sirens became earsplitting, and he spotted another light switch next to the door, for the exterior fixture. He flicked it on with his elbow too, casting a yellowish cone around the front door.
Flashing red-and-white lights chased each other around the walls of the living room, accompanied by the blare of sirens, and Chris realized his hands were covered with Doug’s blood. He raised his hands palms up, standard procedure in case the locals hadn’t gotten the message that he was on the scene, an occupational hazard for undercover agents. He knew of a case where two undercover agents almost killed each other, each believing the other was the criminal.
Chris positioned himself in full view as three police cruisers, with their distinctive brown-and-yellow Central Valley emblems, pulled up in front of the house and braked, their car doors opening immediately. Uniformed police officers jogged toward the house.
“I’m Special Agent Curt Abbott, ATF,” Chris shouted, as loudly as possible to be heard over the sirens.
“Copy that! Everybody, stand down!” shouted the police officer who took the lead, and none of the locals drew their weapons, so Chris opened the front door and stepped outside, meeting the lead cop at the front step. He seemed stocky in his brown uniform, in his fifties.
“Hello. Special Agent Curt Abbott, ATF,” Chris said, in case they hadn’t heard him. “I’d shake your hand, but mine are bloody.”
“Officer Mike Dunleavy,” said the lead cop, his expression grim under the patent bill of his cap.
“We have a gunshot victim dead in the living room, name Doug Wheeler. I believe this is his residence. I performed CPR but it’s too late and—”
“A murder?” Officer Dunleavy interrupted, shocked. “I don’t think we have two murders in Central Valley in a year.”
“I also did a cursory walk-through and found no other bodies, dead or alive. Your guys may want to double-check. I didn’t have time to check the backyard.”
“We’ll follow up. But a murder. What’s this about, do you know?”
“Sorry, Officer Dunleavy, I can’t share that with you.”
“You got any suspects?”
“I can’t share that with you, either.”
“Jeez, was it a bomb, guns, or something like that? I figure, since you’re ATF—”
“Sorry, I can’t explain further.”
“I get it, if you tell me you have to kill me.” Office Dunleavy chuckled, without mirth. Behind him, cops were shutting off the sirens, setting up a perimeter with yellow caution tape, and putting on gloves and booties. Lights went on in the other houses on the street, and heads appeared at windows.
“Officer Dunleavy, have your boss call my boss and they’ll fill you in. They’ll complete whatever reports you need.” Chris motioned to Evan’s car. “Before I go, I need to check inside the BMW’s trunk.”
“Let me go back to my cruiser, I got a crowbar.” Officer Dunleavy jogged off, while neighbors began to file out of their houses to watch, their coats draped over their bathrobes and pajamas on the chilly night.
Chris kept his face down and walked over to Evan’s car. He prayed Evan wasn’t dead in the trunk and he bent over and checked underneath to see if anything was dripping, just in case the trunk’s seal wasn’t perfect. The driveway underneath the BMW remained dry.