Pray for Silence Read Free

sidewalk. Shoving open the door, I step into a large kitchen.
    Moonlight slants through the window above the sink, but it’s not enough to cut through the shadows. “Skid!” I call out.
    “In here!”
    The stench of blood fills my nostrils as I traverse the kitchen. I go through the doorway into the next room. The first thing I see is the yellow-white slash of Skid’s flashlight beam. We’re standing in a large room backlit by two tall, narrow windows. I make a 360-degree sweep with my flashlight. “What happened?”
    Even as I ask the question, my beam lands on the first body. A middle-aged Amish male lies facedown in the center of the room.
    “We got two more over there.” Skid’s voice seems to come from a great distance.
    My hand threatens to shake as I run my beam along the floor, but I hold it steady as the light reveals two more bodies. My vision tunnels when I realize the victims are children. The first is a teenaged boy. Gangly arms and legs. Bad haircut. Lying prone, he wears a faded work shirt, suspenders and trousers that are slightly too short from a recent growth spurt. His hands are bound behind his back. I see the black shimmer of blood at the back of his head.
    A few feet away, a younger boy lies on his side in an ocean of blood, some of which has soaked into a homemade rug. I guess him to be nine or ten years old. He’s wearing a nightshirt. Like the other boy, his hands are bound. The soles of his feet are dirty, and I know that just scant hours before he’d run barefoot and carefree through this house. From the pale oval of his face, cloudy eyes seem to stare right at me. I see blood on his cheek and realize the bullet exited through his mouth, tearing through his lips, blowing out several teeth.
    It’s a surreal scene and for the span of several heartbeats, I can’t get my mind around it. Shock is like a battering ram, assaulting my brain.
Dead kids,
I think, and a hot bloom of outrage burgeons in my chest. The urge to go to them, perform CPR, try to save them, is powerful. But I know they’re gone. The last thing I want to do is contaminate the scene.
    I shift my beam back to the adult. A hole the size of my fist mars the back of his head. I see bone fragments, flecks of brain matter and blood in his hair.
Exit wound,
I think, and realize he was shot from the front.
    “Did you check for survivors?” I hear myself ask.
    Skid’s silhouette looms against the window. Even in the near darkness, I see him shake his head. “I checked pulses. They’re DOA.”
    I look around, and it strikes me that the son of a bitch who did this could still be in the house. “You clear the place?”
    “Not yet.”
    I hit my radio. “This is 235. Mona, I’m 10-23.”
    “What’s going on out there, Chief?”
    “I need you to call Glock and Pickles at home. Get them out here 10-18.”
    “Roger that,” Mona says.
    “Use your cell, in case some insomniac has his scanner on. Tell Glock we need a generator and some work lights, will you?”
    “Got it, Chief.”
    I look at Skid. “Let’s clear the rest of the house.”
    I start toward the hall. I hear Skid behind me, and I know he’s got my back. Our feet are silent on the oak floor as we move toward the bedrooms. In the back of my mind, I wonder if there are more victims. If anyone survived. I wonder what kind of a monster could kill innocent children. . . .
    I reach the bathroom and shove the door open with my foot. My .38 leading the way, I enter, drop low and sweep the room. I see an old-fashioned claw-foot tub. A single window, closed and locked. A porcelain sink. I check the tub. “Clear.”
    I turn to see Skid start down the hall. I bring up the rear this time, watching his back. He sidles into the first bedroom. I follow close behind, my every sense honed on our surroundings. I see two twin-size beds. Two windows, closed. A chest of drawers. A pair of ice skates tossed in the corner. Skid shifts his weapon, yanks open the closet door. I move