Whiplash

The alarm system wasn't on. Sherlock was breathing fast and hard, praying for all she was worth. Savich turned the doorknob. It was open.

He swung the door back, smoothly and silently. He went in high, Sherlock low, something they'd done often, both in and out of Quantico, their movements practiced and fast.

Savich started to flip on a light switch then stopped cold when he heard a scratching noise off to his right.

He slipped his penlight out of his jacket pocket. Together they moved silently toward the living room, the beam from the penlight sweeping back and forth in front of them. After six steps, they stopped, listened.

Nothing now, only dead silence. Savich nodded. Sherlock yelled, "Jane Ann! Where are you?"

Nothing. Then they heard a whimper, a human being's whimper, coming from up the stairs.

They ran up the wide staircase, crouched over nearly double.

Someone fired at them from the landing, one shot, then a fusillade from an automatic weapon. Savich slammed Sherlock down onto the stairs and came down on top of her, covering her body as best he could. Bullets riddled the plaster on the wall two feet above his head, broke it apart and splattered it on the back of his head.

A painting fell, one sharp edge striking the stairs as it plunged down. It slammed the bottom stair and struck the tiles, sliding across the entrance hall.

There was another shot, this one from off to the right. He reared back and fired his SIG blindly toward the shooter.

Sherlock managed to get her arm free. When the next shot nicked the lovely mahogany stair railing, both of them fired toward the direction of the sound.

There was a shuffling sound, not like they'd shot someone, but something else, like someone was moving fast. Yes, he was running down the hall.

Savich was up in an instant, grabbed Sherlock's arm, and pulled her up. He fiddled with the penlight and it flickered on again, carving a narrow beam through the inky black. He whispered against her ear, "We've got to take this real slow. We'll be blind up ahead, and whoever it is could be circling back, waiting for us to come up."

They spread out across the stairs, each to one side. Crouching, they made their way to the top.

They stopped and listened. There were no more running footsteps. Whoever it was, was long gone.

"Which way to the master bedroom?"

Sherlock shook her head. "Let's go right."

They didn't know which room was Jane Ann Royal's, which rooms were her children's.

Sherlock nearly froze. Her two boys. What if the killer had murdered the boys? Please no, not the children.

Savich opened each door as they came to it. The first was a small sitting room with a harp sitting next to the window. Jane Ann played the harp?

The next was a bedroom that obviously belonged to a preadolescent boy-two posters on the wall of David Beckham, a soccer ball rolled into the corner, a pair of filthy sneakers on the floor. No occupant, thank God. She opened the closet door and nearly got buried when a pile of clothes poured out. She looked inside the clothes. There was no body. She closed her eyes and offered up a prayer.

Sherlock thought she'd lose it when they eased open the second door, another bedroom, and there was something on or in the bed, something substantial, something that didn't move. Was it was one of the boys, dead? Sherlock ran to the bed and saw to her blessed relief that it was a tangled pile of clothes. A desk filled most of the space along the wall. No soccer theme in this room but an incredible array of computer equipment, and a big stack of comic books. She opened the closet door. There was no child, only a collection of shoes and sneakers and a couple of bats and mitts.

"Jane Ann did send the boys away, thank God."

"Very smart of her," Savich said. "Okay, let's get to her bedroom."

There was another door that opened into a small office with a single closet, and Savich opened it. Copy paper, envelopes, supplies. No bodies.

The room at the end of the hall had white double doors. They were closed. Savich didn't have a good feeling about this. He turned the doorknob, pushed lightly. The door went silently inward.

Sherlock called, "Jane Ann? Are you in here?"

There was dead silence.

"Jane Ann? Everything is all right now. You can come out."

They heard a gulping sound, then a sob. "Is that you, Agent Sherlock?"

"Yes." Sherlock ran toward her voice. The closet door slowly opened. Savich turned on the overhead light.

Jane Ann Royal was sitting on the floor of the closet, a thick winter coat pulled around her, and she was as pale as death. She held a gun in her hand. Her hand was shaking so badly Sherlock quickly took it from her.