Free Knockdown: A Home Repair Is Homicide Mystery by Sarah Graves

what he wanted. Turning, she dashed into the refuge of Eagle Street.
    After a moment, the dark man-shape followed.
    JUST BEFORE DAWN, STEVEN SLIPPED THROUGH THE FOG BACK to the old house he was camped in, feeling transformed.
    A few hours ago he’d been scared by his own recklessness and furious with himself for giving in to it. But now he was starting to think he might be able to get away with anything.
    On the streets nothing moved, not even the squad car he’d spied a few times earlier. Everyone had gone home, the food tents and trinket tables on Water Street zip-fronted and tarp-covered.
    He crept into the musty-smelling wreck of the old kitchen and stripped off his clothes. He removed the flakes of dried glue from behind his ears and scrubbed all over with more of the wet towelettes from his pack.
    A car went by outside; a foghorn hooted. Someone downtown turned on a boom box tinnily playing “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
    Gunshots rang out.
    Towelette clutched in hand, he froze in mid-scrub, his heart nearly leaping out of his chest. But then …
    More gunshots, a measured barrage of them. Down at the foot of the street near the breakwater, he realized, relieved.
    Of course; it was a sunrise Fourth of July ceremony, with an artillery salute. He’d seen notices of it posted on telephone poles. He’d been lucky to get inside before it began.
    He spied his laptop on the floor and thought about hunting around the neighborhood for an outdoor electrical outlet, to recharge its batteries. That way, he could save the new ones he’d bought.
    But it wasn’t worth the risk. Most of his computer work was done now, his messages and images all uploaded and scheduled for sending. They’d already begun reaching her, and the next one was due to arrive soon.
    He did have one last prank to play before the main action of his plan began, but between his own gear and the local library’s facilities, he was already well equipped for it.
    Rinsing his mouth with one of the juices from his pack, he spat the liquid into the old sink, then jumped as, behind the wall, something moved with a faint scratching of tiny claws.
    Rat
, he thought, and glanced around for something to hit it with, should it emerge.
There—
    On the floor lay a chunk of firewood left over from when there’d been a woodstove in here. He snatched it up and hefted it: just right for clubbing with.
    He washed some crackers down with the rest of the juice, noting with surprise that somehow, the last few hours had erased his need to be compulsive about counting the bites.
    I’m a new man
, he thought with a shock of wonder.
Everything is different
.
    After dressing in fresh clothes from the pack, he put the soiled ones on the floor, well away from his little campsite laid out on the tarp he’d spread.
    Not far from the clothes heap, one of the kitchen’s doors led to what had once been a cellar stairway. Now it opened onto a pitch-darkdrop, the steps fallen away long ago and the darkness breathing out a rank smell of ancient dampness.
    Never mind, though; he wouldn’t have to be here for very much longer. Outside, it was growing lighter. More cars moved in the street, and soon what lay motionless on the path by the cove would be found.
    It was a good time, he thought, to try getting some sleep. Glancing around a final time, he saw that all was in readiness for the events to come.
    An unbroken chair that he’d found in an upstairs bedroom, check.
    Electrical cord, check. Blindfold, handcuffs, duct tape, scissors, check.
    And a digital camera with a card reader, double check. With luck he would fill its memory card many times, uploading it to the laptop whenever it reached capacity. Later, the laptop would serve as a scrap-book he could revisit anytime he liked.
    Satisfied, he settled to sleep. But soon a sound woke him. The rat from the wall had emerged, creeping boldly onto the tarp.
    It was probably smelling the crackers in his pack, Steven thought. Slowly, not