Page 5 of Double Bucked

The temperature drops once I get downstairs. That’s mostly because it’s a wine cellar, host to bottles of wine that are more money than I’ll ever see in my lifetime. Take a turn through the shelves of wine, and there’s a gun safe, which—again—should be locked but is wide open.

Mr. Preacher wasn’t much of a hunter, even when he had all his marbles, but that didn’t stop him from pretending. He’s got a pretty assortment of hunting rifles and shotguns here. I replace the shotgun on the empty hooks and tuck the ammo away in a thin drawer underneath.

I punch in the code to lock the safe. 0-6-1-4-9-5. The mechanism locks into place and beeps, accepting the code.

Just then, I hear footsteps move swiftly across the floorboards over my head.

Sounds like someone’s run out the door.

The hell?

I race upstairs to catch Mr. Preacher, but?—

When I get upstairs, the front door is wide open.

Worse: the string-trap has been triggered.

The hammer swings back and forth on its rope, making the chandelier cast a swaying shadow on the walls. I touch the bottom of the hammer to stop the momentum. There’s a spot of blood on the end.

I step out onto the porch, but there’s no one in sight. Nothing but nighttime and night birds.

A bad feeling climbs up the back of my neck.

Something ain’t right.

Those footsteps…they sounded too light and too fast to be Mr. Preacher’s.

Quick as I can, I run upstairs.

“Mr. Preacher?”

His door’s ajar.

Now, my heart is really banging in my chest.

I knock my knuckles against the door. “Mr. Preacher?”

Dead silence.

I press my fingers against the door and push it open.

The sight is so unnerving it takes my eyes a minute to register what I’m seeing.

The bedroom is dark, lit only by the moonlight creeping in through the blinds. Mr. Preacher is unmoving in his bed, the sheets tucked up to his chest, his purple robe cozy around his throat.

The only problem is that what’s above his throat looks like a damn sunrise.

His head has been splattered apart. Red and pink bits of Mr. Preacher cover the pillows. The wall. They seep through the mattress and drip onto his nice white rug.

That’s gonna leave a stain.

Mr. Preacher hates stains.

The ground underneath me tilts, lurches, and spins like a carnival ride with a loose screw.

I stumble down the hall. Down the stairs. Through the foyer. Out the door. I barely make it over the porch before I’m on my hands and knees, puking in the manicured grass.

Chaucer nuzzles the top of my head. He lets out a soft huff, as though to comfort me, and then the idiot gently starts to graze on my hair.

---