Chancho shuffled toward the only window in the study and found it closed like the rest of them. He drew the curtains shut after staring into the empty street for over a minute. The abandoned houses felt like props in a film. He pondered his role in the story.
Conscious of being the lone actor on stage, he placed the battery-powered lamp under an overturned wicker wastebasket before switching it on. A subdued glow swelled within the room, creating shadows and pushing darkness into the corners. His breath shone like crystalline clouds in the dim light.
He rubbed his arms beneath his serape and shivered. The room was too tidy. Who cleans their study before an emergency evacuation? Nothing had been in the wastebasket either.
He lowered his gaze to the surface of the desk. It was covered with a thin layer of dust, save a ragged swath sweeping from one side to the other. On the far end of the desktop, a rectangular shape devoid of dust had been disrupted by the irregular path—possibly a hand brushing across the surface.
Chancho closed his eyes. He imagined groping for an object, looking for something in the dark. But what had the person found? What had been resting on the edge of the desk? A book? He scanned the bookshelf for a gap in the neatly arranged spines, but didn’t find any clear evidence. What would that prove anyway?
He swiveled the chair from side to side before taking a seat. Another thought occurred to him, and he bent to inspect the floor beside the desk. Coming up empty at first, his eyes finally seized on a small object—an ink pen. He picked it up, tapped it on the surface of the desk. A journal.
Before his mind could carry the thought further, a faint scratching pricked his ears. He held his breath. The sound seemed omnipresent—so slight it could be drifting on the wind from miles away. Or it could be coming from directly beneath his feet. He peered at the floorboards and strained his ears. It came again, like teeth or fingernails scraping a wooden surface.
It has to be mice. He clutched the thought like a drowning man would cling to a lifesaver. But his body continued to act of its own volition. He scooted the chair back and sank noiselessly to his knees. For a long moment the sound stopped. Then again, a muffled scratching—from beneath the floor—accompanied by tiny vibrations in the wood. Each shudder was no bigger than the pulse of his heart. Digging?
As he lowered his ear all the way to the floor gunfire erupted from outside. Jolting upwards, he slammed his head into the underside of the desk and toppled backwards into the chair. He clutched his pistol. Bounding from the chair, he pressed himself against the wall and threw back the curtain.
Two more shots thundered from across the street. A handful of human shapes scattered from the porch—one in his direction. He bolted for the front door, stumbling over the sofa on the way. He caught the knob enough to release the latch and burst through the doorway with his pistol drawn.
A shadow crouching at the base of the porch spun in his direction. A dull glint appeared at the end of an extended arm. Chancho squeezed the trigger. Dual explosions battered the porch as a pinch gripped Chancho’s left shoulder. The shadow beyond his barrel pitched forward, smacked its head on the porch, and disappeared.
He edged toward where he’d last seen it.
“What de devil is going on out here?” Angelo braced himself against the door jam, his pistol aimed at nothing but the darkness beyond.
Chancho snatched a quick peek over the front edge of the porch. The human shadow lay motionless. “I don’t know, mi amigo, but—”
Brick fragments ricocheted over their heads as the echo of two more gunshots rolled across the blanket of night.
Starr and Angelo lunged forward, each offering Chancho a hand. Together they yanked him inside and slammed the door. Each taking a different window, they watched for signs of movement—anything to gain a clue as to what was carrying on.
“Chloe, watch the back!”
“On it.”
She disappeared into the kitchen and the house fell silent, save their heavy breathing. Chancho watched the porch and the small section of road he could see from his vantage. Nothing moved. After he began to stiffen and chill from drying sweat, he broke the silence, “Anything, mis amigos?”
“Nothing.”
Chloe returned from the back door. “Not a peep.”
Starr stretched his leg tenderly. “What do you reckon that was all about?”
“Vezzoni, the bastard.” Angelo turned toward Chancho. “I hope you gave him a brain window.”
Chancho shook his head. “I don’t think so. Someone’s at the base of the porch, but I don’t think it’s Vezzoni.”
Chloe sat on the sofa. “How did it start?”
“No sé.”
“You weren’t awake?”
“I was awake, but the shooting…” Chancho remembered the men scattering from across the street. “It wasn’t at us.”
“I beg to differ,” Angelo interrupted.
“Not at first. By the time I got to the window I saw men scattering from gunfire,” he brushed the curtain out of the way, “coming from that house.”
Chloe exclaimed, “Someone’s still living there?”
Chancho shrugged and then winced at the wound to his shoulder. “Is everyone alright? I mean, was anyone shot? Because, I think I might have been.”
“Might? You Mexicans must be a tough sort.” Angelo attempted to inspect the wound in the dark. “I cannot say for sure, but it looks like just a scratch.”
“Yeah,” Starr sat stiffly. “I think I have a bullet in my leg.”
“This is a fine bunch.” Chloe stood. “For goodness sake, let’s get some light in here before someone bleeds to death from an ‘I think so.’ Where’s the lamp?”
“Ah, I left it in the study.”
“The study?” Starr tried to stand, but Chloe shoved him back into his chair.
“I’ll get it.” She moved carefully toward the darkened doorway.
Chancho met her at the entrance. “I couldn’t sleep. Here,” he held her by the shoulders as he entered in front of her. “I left it on the floor, but it should still be on.” The handheld lamp was in fact not on.
Chloe tutted. “Upscale neighborhoods ain’t what they used to be.”
“Not much of a first date, eh señorita.” Crouched at the base of the desk, he remembered the scratching from before the shootout. He flipped over the wastebasket, found the lamp, and slapped it lightly in the palm of his hand. He tried the switch in both directions. Nothing. “Lo siento, but I’m afraid it’s dead.”
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