something caught the corner of his eye. The blacktop was broken up in places—probably from the construction—with pockets of rain puddles. Then he saw it. A worn leather strap that looked like it had come off of a pair of binoculars. Suddenly there was a gust of wind, followed by a clang—the sound of metal on metal—coming from the side of the building. With a gloved hand, John carefully pocketed the strap and motioned to Robert. The two took off, quickly discovering the source of the noise: a construction gate slightly ajar with a padlock dangling loosely from a long flat hinge. Access . Fortunately the moon was full, because in contrast to the brightness of the parking lot, the side of the building was pitifully lit by a couple of industrial lights, each temporarily affixed to metal piping along the brick wall.
The two men proceeded cautiously through the gate and along the blacktop. A second construction fence ran parallel to the walkway, dividing it from several old tennis and basketball courts sitting at the bottom of a steep hill. For years, this had been a favorite sledding spot of local kids. Extending well beyond the courts was a vast open space. John remembered it had once hosted grassy fields for baseball, football and soccer. After years of neglect, it was now covered with random patches of dirt and weeds. Several hundred feet away, a row of 40-foot evergreens lined the outermost edge of the field, creating a natural separation of church property from what was once a sprawling private estate, but had more recently been sold and subdivided into ten residential lots— Trinity Lane Estates , the development was formally named; though informally, it was known simply as The Estates . Through some breaks in the trees, John noted that the entire street of homes had lost power. A few candles flickered on windowsills, but the others were pitch black. Now that the worst of the storm was over, most people had probably called it a night and turned in.
The two men continued down the path. Muddied with footprints, it led the way toward a bright red awning, which looked perky and out of place given the austerity of such an old building. Robert reached the door first. As expected, it was locked; but even after a few calculated body slams, it wouldn’t budge. He ran back to the car to retrieve a crowbar from the trunk. In the distance, the sound of approaching sirens filled the air.
“That’s our backup,” he said, jogging up the path. He began working the crowbar into the hinge of the door.
“Even with that thing, it's gonna’ take about ten good kicks,” John said calmly. “Make sure you hit the lock dead center.”
Robert dropped the crowbar and took a few steps back. He turned to his side, brought his leg up and gave a quick snap toward the door.
“Hit it with your heel of your foot—always the heel,” John instructed. “Remember, you want to hit it dead center!”
Robert took a deep breath, pulled his leg back and gave it another kick, this time hitting the lock head on.
“That’s it! Keep at it, just like that.”
By the fifth kick, Robert was drenched in sweat, but the lock was noticeably weakened.
“Now use the bar to pry her open,” John told him. “We’ll be in there in thirty seconds.”
He gripped his pistol with two hands, prepared to meet whatever was beyond the entrance. Robert grabbed the crowbar and wedged it between the door and the lock. He gave it one last kick and the door flew open. He flipped the crowbar to his left hand, and pulled out his gun with his right.
A small gust of wind pushed a pile of dry leaves behind the two men as they bounded into the room, weapons held in outstretched arms.
“Police! Freeze!”
There was no response, but they knew better than to let their guard down as they took a look around. The large open space resembled an upscale medical office and they stood on a white marble floor in what appeared to be the reception area. A circular desk was on