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display still read “armed” and
the shrieking alarm crescendoed. She hit the buttons again. 7439. No response.
She smothered the panic rising from her gut and tried again. 7439. The alarm
continued its song.
    “Dammit!” She threw her bag down
by the hallway table and started out the front door. She thought about trying
her code one more time, but decided against it since the code didn’t work the
first three times. She’d have to disarm the alarm.
    A computer voice informed her
that the police knew of her intrusion. Rachel froze on her front porch,
consumed by the thought of disarming the alarm. The idea never should have
popped into her mind. Sure, she could take out the alarm, but she wouldn’t. If
the police showed up while she worked on the alarm, she’d have a lot of
explaining to do.
    The phone rang, an uninvited
accompanist to the shrill music of the alarm. Rachel ignored the sounds. She
left the front door open and lowered herself down onto the front porch,
incredulous she would ever consider manually stopping the alarm. But the
disturbing thought brought about a greater terror. She could take out the alarm
faster than she could enter her code, and there were others who could do the
same. People not so forgiving.
    7943. Rachel closed her eyes.
That was the right code. Police sirens added to the symphony behind her. Too
late to enter the right code now.
    A few moments later, a police
car pulled against the curb. Rachel stood up and brushed off the back of her
jeans. Two officers, one male and one female, climbed out of the patrol car and
walked across the lawn toward her.
    Rachel called to them while they
approached. “I punched the wrong code into my alarm by mistake.”
    “What’s your name?” the male
officer asked when he reached her. He held a notepad, clipboard, and pen in his
hands.
    “Rachel Thomas.”
    “You didn’t answer your phone
when the security company called,” he said. “Is everything okay?”
    “When the alarm went off, I came
outside and I didn’t hear the phone ring. Look my code is 7943. Can you verify
with the security company?”
    The male officer didn’t answer,
but wrote in his notepad. Rachel glanced down at their names pinned to their
uniforms. Scrawny and mousy, Officer Duncan’s nameplate was askew on her
disheveled uniform. Scuff marks stood out on her shoes and matched the food
stain on her pants by her right knee.
    Officer Shearn, her male
partner, towered above her with his perfectly pressed uniform. He stared at
Rachel from behind thick glasses. “Do you have some identification, Mrs.
Thomas?” he asked.
    “ Ms. Thomas,” Rachel
said, “and yes. My driver’s license is in the house.” Rachel’s heart sunk with
the words. Her current driver’s license was as fraudulent as it had been in every
state she lived. She had not yet encountered police in her travels, and she
prayed the license would stand up under scrutiny.
    Rachel started for the front
door, but the officers didn’t move. “Did you want to come into the house with
me?” she asked.
    They followed her inside the
house this time, but with vigilant and deliberate movements. Officer Duncan
kept a wary eye on Rachel.
    Rachel reached for her duffel
bag, but Officer Duncan stopped her before she could pick it up. “I’ll get it
for you,” she said.
    She opened Rachel’s bag and
pulled out her purse. She sat the purse down on the hall table and rifled
through its contents. The search seemed to take much longer than it should, and
Rachel wondered if such a lengthy search was normal procedure. She started to
ask, when Officer Duncan extracted a driver’s license, studied it, and handed
the license to her partner.
    “Can I use your phone?” Officer
Shearn asked.
    “Sure. It’s in the kitchen,
through there.” Rachel pointed across the living room toward the kitchen.
Rachel concentrated on controlling her breathing, and her heart rate increased.
Why did he need to use her phone? He had a radio