Thick as Thieves

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Inside the house now, the three of them stand still in the foyer, in the pale oblong of street light that falls through the transom, and Carr hears voices in the walls. A muted cough from the air ducts, a nervous murmur from the drapes, a creaking sigh from the paneling in the center hall-a muffled chorus, singing only to him. Home early. Not the maid’s night off. Tires in the driveway. Carr’s thighs are lead, and a clamp wraps around his chest. Adrenaline, he knows, but knowing doesn’t help. He reminds himself to inhale, to exhale, not too fast. Above his chanting fear he can hear Declan’s voice.

“Nothin’ like a house in the dark, lad.” The brogue that came and went, the rough laughter, the sharper edge of excitement, as if he were talking about a roller coaster. But Carr hates roller coasters, and always has. Inhale, exhale, not too fast.

The odors of the house come to him: lavender, cinnamon, lilac, vanilla, the chemical tang of a disinfectant-like a brothel above a bakery-but Piney Point Village is hardly that kind of Houston neighborhood. He takes another breath and catches a trace of cigars and of dog-an overweight, arthritic Lab that Carr knows is boarded at the vet’s all week. Bobby flicks a penlight and follows its beam to a plastic box on the wall.

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