Deadbolt

By V.K. Scott

Even a dry heat can burn...

After a traumatizing home invasion, Sarah Coleman keeps the outside world at bay. Her house in the Phoenix suburbs becomes her fortress, a stucco barrier between her and all that would harm her. She's thrown the deadbolt shut, she thinks, forever.

But when the thieves return, a dead body and an unlikely companion thrust Sarah into the desert sun she wants so desperately to avoid. With blood on her hands and nowhere to hide, she must venture into the heat for a chance at survival—and maybe even redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: V.K. Scott
• Release date: Oct 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311915757

V.K. Scott

V.K. Scott is a former English teacher and the author of books in the mystery, suspense, and horror genres. He is the author of two full-length novels: Death Before Swine, a small-town murder mystery, and Deadbolt, a down-to-earth suspense novel in the desert Southwest. He has a nearly useless M.A. in English from Northern Arizona University, but he doesn't expect that to impress you, and hopes you don't hold it against him.He lives in Phoenix, AZ, with his loving wife and three children.You can find out more on vkscott.com.

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Deadbolt

by V.K. Scott

Copyright 2014 V.K. Scott

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright Information

Deadbolt

Copyright © 2014 V.K. Scott. All rights reserved.

Cover Design by Humblenations.com

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Couldn’t get enough of the heat?

Acknowledgments

Author Bio

Chapter 1

Sarah Coleman hurried up her driveway, away from the taxi cab. She fumbled in her purse for the garage door opener, digging through wrinkled receipts and dried out lip balm tubes.

Sarah found the device and mashed its button. The door screeched into action and she was about to scramble inside when the cab driver yelled from behind her.

Hey! You forgetting something? He pointed to the meter.

Sarah squinted in the blazing Phoenix sun, trying to read the red numbers. But they were too far away. She walked back down to the curb, threw some bills at the driver, then ran into the garage without waiting for change. She bore down on the door opener’s button again as soon as she was inside.

The morning heat had invaded the garage, filling it completely.

She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, then flicked her wrist. The sweat splattered on the concrete.

At least it was a dry heat, everyone had told her when she first moved here.

Yeah, she thought. Dry as an oven.

She made a note to buy WD-40 for the whining garage door—she couldn’t risk a malfunction. She eyed the rubber lining the bottom of the garage door, making sure no cracks had formed in the seal.

The garage was empty, aside from a droning water softener. Scratches in the white paint on the far wall looked like claw marks, though the only animal in the house was her husband, Nathan, who had a habit of not watching when he opened the car door.

She unlocked the door to the kitchen and was greeted by a silent, dark house. She stepped in and turned the deadbolts—one, two, three—before twisting the final lock into place. Ever since the break-in, Sarah left all the shades in the house drawn, even during the daytime.

She lifted the cordless phone out of its holder by the fridge and dialed her husband’s cell number.

Come on, Nathan, pick up.

The call went to voice mail. She slammed the phone back into its cradle. She folded her arms to stop her hands from shaking.

Sarah scurried down the hallway, past the living room. The curtains were drawn, but she could still discern the outline of her husband’s hunting bow on the wall next to a quiver of arrows. If Nathan came back, she promised herself she’d never complain about it again. Who cared if it clashed with the furniture?

She needed him. She had to apologize, somehow fix the marriage that seemed irreparable.

She hadn’t meant what she said.

Sarah entered her husband’s office and shook the computer’s mouse, summoning the machine to life. Maybe she would find something in his e-mail, a contact number or schedule.

An autographed picture of a basketball player stared down at her from the shelf while she waited for the computer to resume. She normally would never spy on her husband like this. It wasn’t really spying, though, if she did it for a good cause. Nathan would be happy to know her true feelings.

Wouldn’t he?

She scrolled through his inbox. Nothing for the last week besides sales announcements for Men’s Wearhouse and Sports Authority.

Sarah made to click on his calendar, but, in her haste, accidentally clicked on a folder named Archived.

A message at the bottom of the screen caught her eye: SuCkk it, Coleman!!1

Why would Nathan have saved something like that?

She clicked it and waited as a series of pictures loaded on the screen.

The first photograph showed her and Nathan on vacation in Durango. Nathan had drawn a heart in the snow on top of their car. The next picture showed Sarah checking into their hotel room, and the gray garden gnome perched on the concierge counter. As she clicked through more and more of the pictures, Sarah realized why the photographs were special. They were the pictures, the ones on the digital camera that had been stolen three months ago.

Sarah shuddered to think about that day again. To come home, to find a window broken and her laptop, her camera, and her necklaces gone.

She didn’t just miss the things, though. Most of all, Sarah missed the sense of security in her own home. Even with three deadbolts on the door, she still feared that the thieves could come back at any moment.

Sarah scrolled down, the little shards of her life that she had thought lost forever flashing on the screen.

How had Nathan gotten these pictures? Why hadn’t he shown them to her?

Sarah slowed down as she drew closer to the date of the break-in.

A shot of the garden. The tulips had been in bloom. A few shaky photos of Nathan and Sarah kissing, most of them off-center, since Nathan had taken them himself by extending his arm as far as possible.

Another at a restaurant, one of the few times Nathan had taken her out since they moved to Phoenix. The waiter had snapped the photo, a rare record of the pair arm-in-arm. Sarah cringed at how her ears looked (too long) and her nose (too wide), but her prominent eyes twinkled with a happiness that seemed foreign now. Sarah wanted to warn herself, reach through the screen and shake herself by the pale, bony shoulders.

The last picture Sarah remembered taking came onto the screen—Nathan, passed out on the bed after a long drive home. Sarah sighed, and scrolled down where she expected to find the Next button.

Instead, the screen showed a picture of their bedroom with clothes spread out on the bed and on the floor. Maybe Nathan took this one, she thought, though she couldn’t imagine why. She scrolled down further and found a photograph of their hallway. She continued through the pictures: an empty kitchen, the living room.

She gasped. The next photo showed a broken window, the same window the intruders had smashed to gain entrance to their home. There was no way she or Nathan had taken that one.

Sarah felt the weight building in her chest as she saw pictures of her jewelry and her laptop. They sat in what looked like the back of a van. She could make out a white metal interior and a bulging trash bag.

The shriek of the garage door brought Sarah out of her daze.

She stood up too quickly, knocking the keyboard to the floor. Sarah scrambled out into the hallway, then tiptoed toward the door connecting the kitchen to the garage. She trembled. She bit at her unpainted nails.

It couldn’t be Nathan.

Sarah listened as the garage door screeched to a halt. She heard footsteps. Hollow, ringing footsteps, like from a man’s boots.

They drew closer.

The door began to rattle.

Sarah whimpered. The snot ran down her face and she wiped it away before it hit her mouth.

Whoever was on the other side of the door stopped forcing the handle.

Slowly, Sarah tread closer to the door. She took a step, and then another, trying not to make any noise on the tile floor. She wished that she had thought to take her shoes off in the computer room.

Sarah stopped. A deathly silence hung in the air. Then noises coming from behind the door—sharp, metallic clicks.

The top deadbolt drew back sharply, leaving only the two below it still locked.

Only two deadbolts and the lock on the door left between Sarah and whoever was in the garage.

Sarah covered her mouth to stifle a scream. She reached for the deadbolt. Her hand hovered over it, about to pinch the metal and turn it back shut.

No. If she threw it back, she would alert the intruder to her presence.

She would lose the element of surprise.

Sarah crept to the kitchen island and slid open the Tupperware drawer.

There. On the underside of the drawer, wrapped in duct tape.

She tore the gun away from the wood, a .38 snubnosed revolver.

The second deadbolt slid open.

Sarah planted herself in front of the door and raised the gun in front of her, shaking. Sweat ran down her spine. The skin above her eyebrow began to itch. There was nothing to do but wait and stare at the door and the dark scuff marks running across its bottom. Too many times Nathan had kicked it closed on his way in from work. He had always promised her he would repaint it when he had the time.

Nathan. A terrible thought occurred to her. What if Nathan had come home early? What if she was about to shoot her own husband?

Sarah moved sideways and picked up the cordless phone. She kept the gun trained on the door and dialed Nathan’s cell number with her free hand.

The dial tone rang.

The third deadbolt opened.

Only the handle remained.

The phone rang again. Come on, come on, pick up, Nathan. The handle rattled. Metal scraped inside the lock, like dental tools against an incisor.

Another ring.

The scraping stopped. The handle turned.

On the phone, Sarah heard Nathan’s voice. Hello?

She let the phone go. It clattered and echoed on the tile. She brought her left hand up to steady the gun.

The door swung open.

Sarah closed her eyes tightly and squeezed the trigger. The gun bucked in her hands as she fired again and again until every chamber was empty.

Chapter 2

Three months earlier…

Sarah Coleman dug her nails into her husband’s hand. Is it over yet? she said.

Nathan pulled a crinkled napkin out of his black dinner jacket. He squinted at it, then at the large door in front of them.

Sarah snatched the napkin from his hand and stuffed it in her purse. Yes, hon, she said. "This is the right apartment. But if you’re so concerned, we could go home and double check the invite. She batted her eyes and squeezed his hand again. Please?"

Nathan let go of her and brought a hand up to his tie, a silk with brown and gray stripes.

Let me, said Sarah, shaking her head. She reached up to the collar of his white button-down and straightened it. Nathan was only a few inches taller than her, which made the job easy. She took a hold of the tie and pulled it back and forth until it lay straight under her husband’s Adam’s apple.

There, she said, patting the shoulders of Nathan’s stiff jacket. I don’t know why you need to impress these people. She put her index finger in the air and curled it towards her face, beckoning. He was slow to lean in. She whispered in his ear, as if sharing a terrible secret. They already gave you the job.

Nathan swooped to kiss his wife on the lips, but she turned at the last second so he landed on her cheek. That was the third time tonight he’d forgotten she was wearing lipstick.

Be nice, Nathan said.

Fine. But I don’t have to like sharing you. Sarah smoothed out her dress, a conservative black with a knot in the front. She looked up and down the corridor of the high-rise apartment complex. The interior designers had spent a fortune on carpet and chandelier lighting, but there wasn’t a mirror in sight. How does my face look? You didn’t smear anything?

Looks fine, Nathan said, adjusting his cufflinks.

What about my hair?

Nathan eyeballed her. Brown and straight. You ready? he said, poking a finger towards the imposing door in front of them.

You owe me opera tickets.

Nathan balled his hand into a fat fist and rapped on the door.

Just as it opened, Sarah reached around her husband and pinched his butt. He winced and coughed in the face of the girl who appeared in the doorway.

Nathan! Wonderful, wonderful to see you, she said, craning her head up at Nathan. Her raven black hair seemed to flow down the sides of her face and onto her shoulders like the waves of a turbulent ocean. She extended an orange-tinted hand—the obvious victim of tanning spray. Nathan took it.

Sarah waited for an introduction. But Nathan was silent, and she guessed it wasn’t the girl’s upturned nose he was staring at. Sarah imagined she could make a whole curtain out of the fabric cut from the dress’s neckline. The cut was so low and wide, Sarah wondered how the girl managed to stay suspended.

She realized the tan probably wasn’t the girl’s only fake asset.

As the seconds passed, Sarah hoped she wouldn’t have to close her husband’s jaw, hanging open like a Looney Toon’s. Instead, she stretched out her hand. I’m Sarah. Nathan’s wife.

Oh, yes, yes, Nathan’s told me so much about you. So much. I’m Nikki Zurcher. Wonderful, wonderful to meet you. Nikki’s voice had a nasally quality that reminded Sarah of a drunken chipmunk.

Nathan, woken out of his stupor, shook his head and stuttered. Uh, thank you, Mrs. Zurcher…

Miss, she said.

Thank you, Miss Zurcher, Nathan continued, for inviting us.

Absolutely, absolutely. Come in.

Sarah and Nathan weaved behind two men arguing about the next mayoral race and arrived at the living area, where half a dozen middle-aged men schmoozed around neatly arranged contemporary furniture.

Sarah caught her husband drooling over the picture window consuming the back wall. The apartment overlooked the twinkling lights of downtown Phoenix. He pulled Sarah closer. This is Arizona’s tallest residential tower, he said to her, the low tones of his voice blending with the soft jazz playing from a hidden stereo.

Nathan already told her this three times in the car. Sarah ignored the comment and said, "That was your boss?"

Nathan shrugged. Yeah.

Nikki Zurcher had rushed ahead of them to a mini-bar, and from behind, Sarah could see her minidress had a cut-out back with criss-cross back straps. Miss Zurcher grabbed a drink, something blue in a martini glass, and clinked a mixing spoon on the side of it for attention.

Everyone, everyone, she said, I’m pleased to introduce to you the new manager of Zurcher Tax’s West Valley branch, Nathan Coleman.

Nathan was met with a round of applause. He rubbed the point of his cleft chin, as if thinking, and took a short bow. He reminded Sarah of a trained circus bear, and she covered her mouth to keep from laughing.

A small man with glasses approached Nathan and shook his hand. Bill Braxney, nice to meet you. Bill broke the handshake, and his bulky flesh continued to wiggle beneath his blue jacket and marigold yellow tie. You have any experience working tax prep, accounting?

Well, no, Nathan said, reaching to his scalp. Sarah caught his hand and brought it back down. Nathan had a nasty habit of mussing up his hair after it had been gelled back. But I’ve got experience. Managed an air conditioning outfit in Colorado.

Bill Braxney shook Sarah’s hand and held on a few too many seconds than Sarah was comfortable with. "Bill Braxney, nice to meet you. You’re new to the Valley? You’ll love it, just remind yourself: it’s a dry heat."

Sarah had barely noticed Nikki Zurcher sneak up to her husband and grab him by the arm. Do you mind? Nikki said to Sarah. I hope you don’t mind, we just have some quick business to discuss.

Business, Sarah thought. She hid her contempt behind a smile and smooched Nathan on a patch of cheek stubble he must have missed in his morning shave. Come back soon, she whispered.

She watched as Nikki led her husband out past the mini-bar to a balcony and closed the door behind them.

Like I was saying, Bill said to Sarah, right now, in March, it’s heaven, absolutely heaven. But once May rolls around, and then June, whew! Just keeping telling yourself, it’s—

A dry heat, Sarah said. I gotcha.

*

Have a drink, Nikki said, putting a glass in Nathan’s hand after he had sat down on a loveseat. She took the armchair opposite him.

Thanks, he said, admiring the view. The nearby high-rises shimmered with light and energy. The rest of the world spread out in miniature below him: parks, theaters, office buildings all set in a perfect grid that stretched flat, all the way out to the mountain foothills, where he could make out pin-pricks of light dotting the rocks.

Man. Even if he worked for a thousand years, he couldn’t imagine living like Zurcher. He had lucked out on a spacious foreclosure in the northwest Valley, a gated community, no less. But the view from their back porch was nothing like this.

I need to bring something to your attention, Nikki said, crossing her legs. She was petite, tanned. Like some of the girls he’d had in college. I’ll bring something to your attention, he thought.

Out of all the applicants for our little tax franchise, you were our top choice, the legs said.

Nathan squinted, confused. He had been told Zurcher Tax was the largest tax prep company in the state. Maybe she was making a joke.

Nikki continued. "I’m not sorry, not sorry at all, that we chose you. I am, however, regretful that we had to choose you in the first place. One of the reasons we let our last manager go was… well, the branch you’re taking over has had financial difficulties."

Nathan sat up and thrust his chest forward. I can fix that. It’s what I do.

Nikki smiled and rolled her head onto her shoulder. "I know. And I’m sure you can. But it’s bad, Nathan. The branch is hemorrhaging money.