Chapter 3 - 42 Elm Street
The drive to Elm Street took exactly three minutes, but to Daniel, it felt like crawling through wet cement.
He drove with the headlights off for the final block, the tires of his cruiser hissing softly against the flooded asphalt. Rain lashed against the windshield, blurring the streetlights into smeared halos of orange and yellow.
Beside him in the passenger seat, his partner, Miller, was loading a less-lethal shotgun with quiet, rhythmic clicks. Miller was a veteran, a man with graying temples and a demeanor carved from stone. He didn't need to ask questions. Marla's dispatch notes on the computer screen between them told the whole ugly story.
Suspect: Marcus Vance. Prior convictions: Assault, aggravated battery. Armed. Two children in the home. One secured at the station. One trapped inside.
"Blue door. Broken porch light," Miller muttered, peering through the rain-streaked glass. "There it is. Left side."
Daniel pulled the cruiser flush against the curb two houses down. He didn't slam the door when he got out; he pushed it shut until the latch clicked. The rain instantly soaked through his uniform shirt, but the adrenaline rushing through his veins kept the cold at bay.
Two other patrol cars had parked at the opposite end of the street, their officers moving like shadows through the downpour, setting up a perimeter around the back of the house.
Daniel and Miller approached the front yard. The house looked like a rotting tooth in a row of otherwise decent homes. The grass was knee-high, choked with weeds and discarded trash. The front window was cracked, taped over with duct tape that was peeling in the humidity.
And the porch light, just as Emily had said, was dead.
They stepped onto the wooden porch. The boards groaned under their boots, a sound masked only by the heavy drumming of the rain. Daniel stood to the left of the blue door, Miller to the right.
Daniel pressed his ear to the wet wood.
At first, there was nothing but the storm. Then, filtering through the cheap hollow-core door, came the heavy, muffled thud of footsteps. Someone pacing. Following the footsteps was the sound of something glass shattering against a wall, followed by a string of slurred, furious cursing.
“Where did you go, you little rat?!” a man’s voice bellowed from inside. “Get out here!”
He wasn't looking for the dog anymore. He realized Emily was gone. And he was looking for a new target.
Daniel caught Miller's eye. Miller nodded, shifting the grip on his weapon. There was no time to wait for a warrant. There was no time to knock and announce nicely. Exigent circumstances. A child's life was in immediate danger.
Daniel stepped back, raised his right leg, and drove the heel of his heavy tactical boot squarely into the center of the door, right next to the deadbolt.
The wood splintered with a deafening CRACK. The door flew open, slamming against the interior wall, raining chipped paint and splinters onto the linoleum floor inside.
"Police! Don't move!" Daniel roared, his weapon drawn, sweeping the threshold as he stepped into the dim, foul-smelling hallway.
The house smelled of stale cigarette smoke, sour beer, and urine. Garbage littered the floor.
In the center of the living room stood Marcus.
He was a massive man, wearing a stained white tank top and torn jeans. His eyes were bloodshot, wild, and unfocused. In his right hand, he held a shattered beer bottle by the neck.
He froze, blinking against the sudden intrusion, the rain blowing in through the broken doorway behind the officers.
"Put it down! Now!" Miller shouted, advancing a step, the barrel of the shotgun leveled at Marcus’s chest.
For a split second, Marcus looked like he was going to fight. His knuckles tightened around the glass. He glanced toward the kitchen—where Emily had said the gun was kept.
Daniel saw the calculation in the man’s eyes. He saw the twitch of muscle.
"Look at my eyes, Marcus," Daniel said, his voice dropping into a deadly, quiet register that cut through the shouting. "If you take one step toward that kitchen, you will not take another step for the rest of your life. Drop the glass."
Marcus hesitated. The alcohol in his system waged war with his instinct for self-preservation. He looked at Daniel's unwavering stance, at the black muzzle of the Glock pointed directly at him.
Slowly, his fingers uncurled. The broken bottle hit the floor, joining the mess already there.
"Hands on your head. Turn around. Do it now!" Miller barked.
As Miller moved in to cuff the giant, Daniel didn't wait. He holstered his weapon and bypassed the living room entirely, sprinting down the narrow, dark hallway toward the back bedrooms.
The closet, Emily had said.
He kicked open the first door. A master bedroom, empty and trashed.
He moved to the second door. It was slightly ajar. He pushed it open.
It was a child's room, though it barely looked like one. There was a mattress on the floor with no sheets. A broken toy chest. And a closet door, shut tight, with a heavy wooden chair wedged under the handle to keep it closed from the outside.
Daniel’s heart stopped. Marcus hadn't just been looking for Tommy. He had trapped him.
Daniel grabbed the chair and hurled it aside. He yanked the closet door open.
"Tommy?" he called out softly, dropping to his knees.
Inside the dark, cramped space, buried under a pile of dirty laundry and winter coats, a tiny, shivering lump slowly stopped moving.
Daniel reached out, pulling a heavy coat back.
A five-year-old boy looked up at him. He had his knees pulled tight to his chest, his hands clamped over his ears. He was so pale he looked like a ghost, his wide eyes reflecting the beam of Daniel's flashlight.
"Hey, buddy," Daniel whispered, his throat tightening. "I'm a police officer. Your sister sent me."
At the word sister, Tommy let out a ragged, gasping breath. He didn't speak. He just uncurled his small arms, reaching out into the dark.
May you like
Daniel scooped the boy up, pressing the child's face into his shoulder. Tommy was terrifyingly light, his small hands instantly gripping the fabric of Daniel's uniform shirt with a desperate, iron-clad strength.
"I got you," Daniel murmured, carrying him out of the closet, out of the room, away from the nightmare. "I got you. We're going to see Emily now."
