Alright, Eddie Cochran, where the hell are you?
Five minutes late herself, Jane had considered shooting him a text on the way over, but coaxed the accelerator even closer to the floorboard instead. She was relieved to find that she had beaten him to the property. Now that ten minutes had elapsed since she eased the Land Rover alongside the curb, however, that relief was quickly becoming annoyance. She barely had enough time to squeeze this showing in as it was. Plucking the Treo from her purse, the phone vibrated furiously in her hand before her thumb could even find the first digit. A moment later, a tinny rendition of "When the Saints Go Marching In" blared from the tiny speaker. She glanced at the display.
Private Name, Private Number.
“This is Jane,” she said upon answering. “Hello, this is Jane,” she offered again when there was no reply. “Hello?”
She hung up and stepped out of the vehicle and into the crisp autumn day. The phone jumped in her hand again. This time, though, it wasn’t followed by song, but the telltale tone indicating that she had just received a text message.
that was me. bad reception. on my way - traffic. sorry!
Jane sighed heavily, knowing that her day was verging on blowing up, and it was only a quarter to ten. After calling to push back the client she was scheduled to meet on the other side of town in half an hour, she strode confidently to the front door. With the lockbox nowhere in sight, she took a 50/50 shot and headed to the left side of the house. Not there either. Naturally. Retracing her steps, she continued to the other side of the house, where she found the lockbox on the water spigot. Over the river and through the woods, she thought humorlessly as she fought through the bushes and heel-snagging gravel en route to the front door.
Upon unlocking the stubborn deadbolt and crossing the threshold, she was assaulted by the dank, oppressive stench of stagnant air. As so many homes do without a regular caretaker, it felt like stepping into a cask. She offhandedly wondered if the listing agent had ever set foot in the place. Not likely, she surmised. Determined to put the dead time to productive use, Jane scurried about the empty house, groping for light switches. Not believing what those in the front entry told her, she checked the dead connections in the kitchen and living room as well. No power. She didn’t really expect otherwise in a bank-owned property, but she always held out hope that there was an asset manager somewhere on this planet that got it.
She vainly tried to cast off some of the stuffiness by opening a couple of windows, all the while knowing that an entire potpourri factory could not mask the lingering regret and despair in the little Craftsman. Retrieving the dreams and promises that the home once held was not as simple as cracking a door to let them back in.
Another quick glance at her watch, and her annoyance was now verging on anger. Just another flakey internet lead who had no respect for her time. As she forcefully punched out a reply to his last text, it struck her that she had never even spoken with Eddie the Eagle (as she had immediately dubbed him after his initial registration on her website's MLS search). Welcome to the land of digital milk and honey. Without thinking about it, she depressed “Send” on the phone. A moment later, she was flooded with regret. Very professional, she mused.
Not a moment later, the phone buzzed in response. With considerable trepidation, she retrieved the new message. Above her previous message, which inquired, You coming, or what, was the terse reply.
I’m here.
Looking out the front plate glass window, Jane felt the first icy fingers of fear lightly trace a path along her spine. Despite the Eagle’s assertion that he had landed, the Rover was the only car parked out front. He had simply gone to the wrong address. Nothing sinister about a faulty Google map. So why did she suddenly feel vulnerable?
The phone shuddered again.
You are even prettier in person :)
Unable to draw the breath needed to scream, she backed away from the window in wide-eyed terror. From somewhere in the back bedrooms, the muffled, but deliberate sound of footsteps made its way to her.
She wasn’t alone in the house.
