Blindside

the middle of it. At the end of the corridor there was a huge master suite, the bed made, the whole space neat as a pin. He opened a closet to find a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt lying on the floor, and a pair of women’s boots, one lying atop the other. He went into each of the five old-fashioned bathrooms, searched more closets than he cared to count, and finally, he eased into a den of sorts, with a TV in the corner, the walls covered with prints of London and Paris. There was no big media center, just the TV on a stand and what looked like a TV Guide lying precariously on top, a pool table, several easy chairs and one ratty leather sofa that looked like it had been used for at least two generations.
    There was only silence, thick and dead.
    Whatever they had heard, no, whomever they had heard, was gone. Savich felt helpless, something he hated. He wondered if the man who’d made these noises had simply slipped out of one of the upstairs windows. Savich walked slowly back along the corridor, alert, his SIGsteady in his hand. Suddenly he felt something, something that was close, something right behind him. Savich froze for an instant, then quickly, crouching low, he whirled around, his SIG up. No one was there, not even a dust mote, but the odd thing was that there was a heaviness in the air itself, as if something should be there, as if perhaps it was, just invisible to him. He shook his head at himself.
    He had no idea what was really going on. The only one who could clear things up was the woman downstairs, seated on that flowered sofa, staring into the fireplace, wearing a dress more suited to summer than this bone-cold winter night. He could give her tea, calm her down, get her talking, convince her to let him take her to the sheriff.
    He’d nearly reached the stairs when he heard another noise. It was above him.