18
1
The barking of her dog dragged Callie Vanetta from a deep sleep.
Rifle, the German shepherd her parents had given her for Christmas, was only two years old, but he was the smartest animal she’d ever known, certainly savvy enough not to make a racket in the middle of the night without reason. Despite all the critters that scurried around the place after dark, he hadn’t awakened her like this once in the three months since she’d moved to the farm.
So if he thought she had something to worry about, there was a good chance she did.
Despite the warm June night, chills rolled through Callie’s body as she lay on her back, blinking against the darkness. She’d always felt so safe in her grandparents’ home. They’d passed away five years ago, but the comfort of their love and the memories created here lingered on. Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she could almost feel their presence.
But not tonight. Fear eclipsed all other emotions, and she wondered what she’d been thinking when she gave up the small apartment above her photography studio downtown. She was out in the middle of nowhere, her closest neighbor over a mile down the road, with her dog sounding an alarm and scratching at the front door as if some menace lay beyond it.
“Rifle?” She whispered his name as loudly as she dared. “Hey!” she added, making kissing sounds.
He charged into her room, but he wasn’t about to settle down. He circled in place, whining to let her know he didn’t like something he heard outside. Then he darted back to the front door, singularly determined to show her where the trouble was.
She thought he might try to rouse her again. He obviously hoped to get her out of bed. But she was so frightened and undecided about what to do she couldn’t move. Especially when he quit barking and emitted a deep, threatening growl—one that told her he’d laid back his ears and bared his teeth.
The hair rose on Callie’s arms. Her dog meant business. She’d never seen him like this. What had him so upset? And what should she do about it? She’d watched too many true-crime shows not to realize what could happen. But, given her health, getting murdered would be too ironic. Surely, this couldn’t be leading there.
She’d just decided to call the police when a heavy knock sounded and a male voice carried into the house.
“Hello? Anyone home? Sorry to wake you, but...could a man come out here, please? I need some help.”
A man? Whoever was at her door wasn’t from Whiskey Creek. Her family had lived in the area for generations. Everyone knew that this was the Vanetta farm, that the aging Theona and Herbert had died within months of each other and she was living here alone.
“Hello?” the man called again. “Please, someone answer me!”
Should she respond? Letting him hear her voice would tell him she was a woman, which didn’t seem smart. But she had her dog to defend her. And she had a pellet gun she used to scare off skunks and raccoons and any other animals that might have rabies or get aggressive.
Problem was she couldn’t remember where she’d put it. The screened-in porch that overlooked the outbuildings in back? The mudroom off the kitchen? She might even have left it in the barn. Until now, she hadn’t felt any need for self-defense. All the wildlife she’d encountered seemed more afraid of her.
Still, she should’ve kept that gun close. What good was it otherwise? She wasn’t going to scare anyone away with her camera.
“Open up!” Bang, bang, bang.
Drawing a shaky breath, she called 9-1-1 on her cell phone, which had been charging on the nightstand, and, speaking as low as she could and still be heard, told the operator that she had a stranger at her door. The operator advised her to sit tight, a squad car was on its way, but she slid out of bed and groped through the darkness for some clothes. Summer had come early this year. With the weather so mild, she hadn’t worn anything to bed except a pair of panties. In case her visitor tried to break in before the police arrived, she wanted to get dressed.
“Can someone help me?” the man hollered.
Wearing a T-shirt and blue jeans, and armed with the knowledge that someone from Whiskey Creek’s four-man police force would soon arrive, she crept toward the door. What was wrong?
Despite the ruckus her dog was making, her visitor didn’t seem to be giving up. His determination lent him a degree of credibility, even though she knew her reasoning was flawed. His persistence didn’t necessarily mean he was telling the truth. If he had a gun and was capable of using it, he wouldn’t have to worry about getting bitten.
So...was he really hurt? If the answer was yes, how’d he get that way? And how did he come across her property, tucked away as it was in the Sierra Nevada foothills? She couldn’t imagine some random individual driving these back roads at one in the morning, especially midweek. She encountered plenty of strangers during tourist season, which was upon them, but always in town. Not out here.
“Shit,” he grumbled when he got no response. Then something hit the door harder than a knock, as if he’d crumpled against the wooden panel and was sliding to the porch floor.
A flicker of concern warred with Callie’s fear. Maybe he really was hurt. Maybe he’d run his car into a ditch or a tree and injured himself so badly he was about to die....
She snapped on the porch light. Although it went against her better judgment to let him know she was home, he’d managed to convince her that he might really
need help. Some of the TV programs depicting real home-invasion robberies also showed innocent victims who were unable to get help because of other people’s fear.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
A swiping sound suggested he was using the door to steady himself as he clambered to his feet. She peered through the peephole, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, but even with the porch light on she couldn’t see much—just a man’s head covered in a hooded sweatshirt.
“Thank God,” he said.
She might’ve thought it was one of the Amos brothers.
Although they’d calmed down in recent years, a couple of the younger ones still caused problems, from drunken-and-disorderly conduct to selling crystal meth to fighting. But they lived down by the river on the other side of town, they’d never bothered her before and she would’ve recognized the voice.
“Who are you and what do you want?” she called out over Rifle’s barking. The dog was even more excited now that he had the support of his master in taking on this interloper.
“Name is Levi, Levi McCloud. I need a first-aid kit, some water and rags.”