Lewis Cole 10 Storm Cell by Brendan DuBois

Author:Brendan DuBois [DuBois, Brendan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781681772790
Publisher: Pegasus Books
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

It should have taken twenty minutes but I think I did it in just under fifteen. The Moore house was in a sweeping development that was off Winnicut Road, one of three main roads leading from the town proper down to Tyler Beach. I slowly drove by a big two-story colonial, stained brown, with a granite-based lamppost and a mailbox with MOORE painted on the side. I drove past the house, went into a driveway whose mailbox said BARNES. This house was a colonial as well, a twin to its neighbor, but it was painted white with black shutters.

Before I was able to put the Pilot into park, Brianna Moore ran out from behind the garage and threw herself into the front seat. “God,” she said, panting some. “You said you’d be quick, and you were.”

“Are you all right?”

“Scared out of my wits, but yes, I’m all right.”

“Did you call the Tyler police?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It was like I knew you wanted something from Dad’s offices, and if something was going on, I wanted to tell you first.”

“Did he see you?”

“I don’t think so.”

I put the Pilot in park, shut off the engine. “Could he still be inside?”

“I . . . I suppose.”

“Where’s your dad’s office?”

“You go in the front door, it’s off to the right.”

I undid my seatbelt.

“You still have your cell phone?”

“Yeah.”

“If I’m not back in five minutes, call the Tyler police. Don’t wait.”

“Okay.”

I got out, and with my pistol in hand, I ran across the front lawns of both houses, up to the front door of the Moores’. There were wide granite steps leading up, and I took them in a single leap and then slowly pushed the door open. The door was thick and well maintained, with no squeaking noise to announce my presence. Before me was a hardwood floor entrance, to the left, an enormous kitchen, and beyond that, a very well-made-out living area. Off to the side was a curving staircase heading up, and I moved to the right, hugging the wall, going to Fletcher Moore’s office.

The thick, carved wooden door was slid open. The office had a nice wooden desk, wooden filing cabinets and bookcases, and three windows, two looking out to the rear yard, the other looking past the attached garage and to bushes surrounding the Barnes residence.

There was a guy with his back to me, examining paperwork on the desk. He had on black jeans, black sneakers, a black zippered jacket that seemed open, and a watch cap pulled tight over his head. The watch cap was navy blue. I guess the visitor didn’t want to be dull and wear the same color everywhere.

I leaned against the doorjamb, raised my pistol in both hands, and quietly said, “Hey.”

No hesitation on the visitor’s part.

He pushed something against his chest, zippered up the jacket, and ran to the near window.

“Hey!” I called out, and I quickly saw what I had missed: one of the windows overlooking the rear yard was open. The

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