Disturbance Read Free Page B

thump.
    I turned the lights on, checked the locks again. Twenty minutes later I was back in bed in the darkness, berating myself for being a spineless wimp and wondering if I could hope to fall back to sleep.
    I did, but a little after two my slumber was disturbed again. This time, the sound was continuous. Not what had roused me earlier but something different. Not unfamiliar but out of place.
    It took me a moment to recognize it—water running through the pipes. Not at high volume but enough to make me certain that was indeed what I was hearing.
    I swore, stumbled out of bed, and went into the bathroom, expecting to discover that the toilet was running. I jiggled the handle, then woke up enough to realize that wasn’t where the sound was coming from. The shower, the sink—those faucets were off.
    Southern California was in the middle of one of its too frequent droughts, and residents of Las Piernas were on mandatory rationing—overusage of water was illegal and expensive. Hell of a time to spring a leak as big as the one I was hearing.
    I pulled on a robe and turned on some lights.
    Kitchen faucet was off, too.
    No problem with the dishwasher.
    I went out into the garage, half expecting to find a flood.
    The sound was louder here, but to my relief, everything was dry. Including the washing machine.
    I stood still and listened. The backyard sprinkler system controls and a faucet were just on the other side of the garage wall. The sprinklers had been off for weeks. But was the sound coming from a hose that had been left on?
    I made my way to the door leading to the backyard, reached for the dead-bolt lock, and hesitated.
    I hadn’t been in the yard at all that day. There was no way on earth that I had been the one to leave the water on. Staying inside, I flipped on all the outdoor lights.
    The water sound stopped.
    I swallowed hard. How strong was the dead bolt?
    I waited, standing still, straining to hear any sound from the yard. I heard nothing.
    I tried to work up enough nerve to open the door, couldn’t. I ran back inside the house and relocked the door between the house and the garage. I stood inside the kitchen, unsure of what to do next. I saw my cell phone on the counter, reached for it, and sent a text message to Ben Sheridan:
    Are you awake?
    The phone rang less than a minute later.
    “Hi,” I answered. “Things are going bump in the night and I’m scared shitless. Would you be willing to bring the dogs over?”
    “Okay if Ethan and his dog come along, too?”
    This is what I love about Ben. Call him after two in the morning and his only question is not “Are you nuts?” but “How about reinforcements?”

FOUR
    I felt better after making the call, better yet when they arrived. At different times, Ben Sheridan and Ethan Shire had each lived in our home. In many ways, they were the brothers I’d never had. Ben, a forensic anthropologist, also handled search dogs. Ethan, currently his roommate, worked at the paper with me.
    I received a warm greeting from their shepherds, Altair and Bingle, and from Bool, the bloodhound. Cody leaped from a counter to the top of the refrigerator and gave me a look that had the accusation “traitor” written all over it.
    The dogs seemed puzzled when they realized our own mutts weren’t present, but the moment Ben and Ethan took out Bingle’s and Altair’s working harnesses, their focus changed and they were all business. Ben gave me the bloodhound’s leash—Bool wasn’t being put to work yet, but there was always the chance they’d need him later. Or maybe Ben knew I’d feel a little better going outside with a big dog next to me. Bool is as friendly and harmless as they come, but whoever was out there wouldn’t know that.
    “Let’s have a look around,” Ben said, unlocking the sliding door that leads to our patio.
    I walked a few yards behind Ethan and Ben. We soon discovered that my garden hose was stretched over to the house next door—not Jack’s house