vapros
Verified Member
Bit of home-made fiction today. It's not finished yet, but my plan is to put up a chapter every other day.
* * * * * *
Stan Palmer got an early start on game day. He parked at the Super WalMart out on State Road 155 and prepared to take a walk to Honore Duet's new house. With his backpack and Cubs cap and old sneakers, he could almost have been a student. Across the service road behind the store, through a half mile of woods and he was at Duet's back yard. The garage faced the new Merriman Road, so he could not see into it, and he needed to verify that the Crown Victoria backed out and drove away by eleven am. Just as Brunet had promised, he saw the car leave. He waited another thirty minutes, just to be safe.
To avoid leaving footprints in the freshly seeded yard, he approached via the tall grass in the vacant lot next door, breaking out when a dozen steps enabled him to reach the house. There was only one other house in the area, and it was across the street and not yet occupied. This was an ideal spot to commit a crime. He peeked through a window at the back of the house and could see a washer and a dryer. He lifted out the screen and prepared to break the glass, but there was no need. It wasn't locked.
His tour of the house verified the layout he had in his pocket. The game would be in the den, and the round poker table was set up and ready to go. There was a sound system in the middle of one wall, and shelves of books on another. Palmer examined the crown molding that circled the room. In the hall outside the laundry room he could see the pull-down stairs to the attic. There was a hand grip, but no pull cord hanging down. He had to stand on a kitchen chair to reach it. It came down easily, but with a loud screech that troubled him, and he went to his backpack for a can of WD40 and sprayed all the moving parts. That didn't make it silent, but it was a great help. He climbed to the attic.
Up there he found a walkway of plywood laid on the ceiling joists, and he followed it toward the gable at the front. He was surrounded by pink insulation bats, and there were furniture blankets enough for a comfortable pallet. With an a/c duct to guide him he located the den wall and made some measurements with a metal tape. From the backpack he took a small battery-powered drill, with a three-eighths inch bit in the jaws. Pulling the insulation back, he drilled a hole through the ceiling, near a corner. Without moving, he drilled through the metal of the duct, down low on the near side. Now he had to go downstairs to see where the hole was. The disappearing stairs creaked only a little as he descended.
The hole in the ceiling would be fine for his purposes. Fetching the kitchen chair again, he smoothed the edges of any sawdust, and it was near-invisible in the textured paint. On his knees he massaged the carpet fibers, and the few crumbs of sawdust sank out of sight. Satisfied that he was finished on the ground floor, he took the chair back to the kitchen and went up the stairs again, pulling them up after him. He took a small fitting from his pocket – on cars it might have been called a zert, for lubrication – and plugged it into the hole in the duct. Onto the zert he attached the end of a small rubber hose on a quart-size aerosol can. There was a valve on the can, but he left it closed and laid the can beside the duct. The man in Mobile had charged him five hundred dollars for the canister, and had promised it would do the job for him. It damn' well better. He took a small flexible fiber optic instrument from a leather pouch in his pocket and lay on his belly to guide it through the hole in the ceiling. Pushing it slowly until he could see the poker table, it would be almost flush and he could only hope it would not be spotted. The view was distorted badly, but passable. He wondered if he might have thought of a better location for it.
From the slatted window on the gable, he had a good view of the street and most of the front yard and driveway. There was a power ventilator in the roof, but it would be hot anyway in the attic. No help for that. From the backpack, Palmer took a sandwich and a canned drink, a plastic bag of kitty litter to pee in, and a garbage bag. He had tried to think of everything, and he didn't intend to leave anything behind. Twenty minutes later he stretched out on his pallet and closed his eyes.
* * * * * *
Stan Palmer got an early start on game day. He parked at the Super WalMart out on State Road 155 and prepared to take a walk to Honore Duet's new house. With his backpack and Cubs cap and old sneakers, he could almost have been a student. Across the service road behind the store, through a half mile of woods and he was at Duet's back yard. The garage faced the new Merriman Road, so he could not see into it, and he needed to verify that the Crown Victoria backed out and drove away by eleven am. Just as Brunet had promised, he saw the car leave. He waited another thirty minutes, just to be safe.
To avoid leaving footprints in the freshly seeded yard, he approached via the tall grass in the vacant lot next door, breaking out when a dozen steps enabled him to reach the house. There was only one other house in the area, and it was across the street and not yet occupied. This was an ideal spot to commit a crime. He peeked through a window at the back of the house and could see a washer and a dryer. He lifted out the screen and prepared to break the glass, but there was no need. It wasn't locked.
His tour of the house verified the layout he had in his pocket. The game would be in the den, and the round poker table was set up and ready to go. There was a sound system in the middle of one wall, and shelves of books on another. Palmer examined the crown molding that circled the room. In the hall outside the laundry room he could see the pull-down stairs to the attic. There was a hand grip, but no pull cord hanging down. He had to stand on a kitchen chair to reach it. It came down easily, but with a loud screech that troubled him, and he went to his backpack for a can of WD40 and sprayed all the moving parts. That didn't make it silent, but it was a great help. He climbed to the attic.
Up there he found a walkway of plywood laid on the ceiling joists, and he followed it toward the gable at the front. He was surrounded by pink insulation bats, and there were furniture blankets enough for a comfortable pallet. With an a/c duct to guide him he located the den wall and made some measurements with a metal tape. From the backpack he took a small battery-powered drill, with a three-eighths inch bit in the jaws. Pulling the insulation back, he drilled a hole through the ceiling, near a corner. Without moving, he drilled through the metal of the duct, down low on the near side. Now he had to go downstairs to see where the hole was. The disappearing stairs creaked only a little as he descended.
The hole in the ceiling would be fine for his purposes. Fetching the kitchen chair again, he smoothed the edges of any sawdust, and it was near-invisible in the textured paint. On his knees he massaged the carpet fibers, and the few crumbs of sawdust sank out of sight. Satisfied that he was finished on the ground floor, he took the chair back to the kitchen and went up the stairs again, pulling them up after him. He took a small fitting from his pocket – on cars it might have been called a zert, for lubrication – and plugged it into the hole in the duct. Onto the zert he attached the end of a small rubber hose on a quart-size aerosol can. There was a valve on the can, but he left it closed and laid the can beside the duct. The man in Mobile had charged him five hundred dollars for the canister, and had promised it would do the job for him. It damn' well better. He took a small flexible fiber optic instrument from a leather pouch in his pocket and lay on his belly to guide it through the hole in the ceiling. Pushing it slowly until he could see the poker table, it would be almost flush and he could only hope it would not be spotted. The view was distorted badly, but passable. He wondered if he might have thought of a better location for it.
From the slatted window on the gable, he had a good view of the street and most of the front yard and driveway. There was a power ventilator in the roof, but it would be hot anyway in the attic. No help for that. From the backpack, Palmer took a sandwich and a canned drink, a plastic bag of kitty litter to pee in, and a garbage bag. He had tried to think of everything, and he didn't intend to leave anything behind. Twenty minutes later he stretched out on his pallet and closed his eyes.